Queen of Wands

From the Tarot.

QUEEN OF WANDS: look at the mysterious cat, the keeper of secrets. You see life through a creative and determined view.

The mail truck pulled away, and Penny ran barefoot down the front porch steps of her two-story Victorian home. She didn’t stop to pick up the penny on the top step. Nothing mattered but the letter she had expected and dreaded. 

When Penny returned to the house, Stinky was seated on the second-floor stairs waiting to learn what Penny’s property taxes would be. Unfortunately, patience was not Stinky’s forte, but she’ll tell it her way.

“So? Open it. It's better to know Penny, and then we figure out what to do from there.” 

It was a suggestion more than a command. I try to be civil. 

Penny winked at me and lamented. 

"Well, it’s more than I expected. Death and taxes, death and taxes. Isn’t that the saying? How could my taxes go up so much in one year? Lord! Oh, look. Mama sent me another penny. I found it on the porch. The tax thing is bizarre and makes me cranky, but I've got to get ready for the reading. Then I can cry in my split milk." 

I watched her put the penny into her pocket. Penny thought the spilled milk comment was funny, but I corrected her.

“I think the phrase is, don’t cry over spilled milk.” 

Penny rolled her eyes. When she gets scattered, Penny treats me like a house cat. 

"Don't be a butt-head," Penny joked on her way to her office.

My name is Stinky, and I've been Penny's beautiful, bonus-sized, orange tabby cat and her protector for many years. There have been times I’ve been her teacher and fashion muse. Her fashion sense is nonsense. Wait till you see some of the get-ups she creates.

Penny had a full day of Tarot card readings with several regular customers. Most of the time, her Tarot cards were cooperative. But there have been occasions when the cards were stubborn, and she had to persuade them. I would’ve slapped the shit out of them, but that's just me. 

Penny's last client of the day was new. She seemed to enjoy having new clients, and I loved staring at people I didn’t know. 

Oh! I almost forgot to tell you about the pennies. They are everywhere in and around the house and seem to materialize on surfaces. When Penny finds one, she always kisses it, then looks up and says, “thank you.” Penny told me her mother sends them to her from the place beyond. It’s the most magical thing about this house, besides me.

Late in the afternoon, after a much-deserved power nap, I loped down the stairs, one carpeted step at a time, sat on the parlor's windowsill and looked outside. I could see my reflection in the tall hall mirror from the corner of my eye. I looked good.

A young, very tall, dark-haired woman came up the steps to the front door. Her clothes were big and loose, especially her olive-green zip-up hoodie. She hesitated and looked around as if to consider going in. Her face appeared tired and strained, with deep circles under her eyes, and her hair was unkempt and loosely braided. She needed a makeover and probably a hot shower. She took the green and gray backpack off her back and held it to her chest when she walked through the front door into the parlor waiting room. 

How bizarre? I mean, it's not airport security, for Pete's sake! The woman appeared rigid as if even slight motions would cause one of her appendages to break off and fall to the ground. 

Without making a sound, I sat in the doorway and watched while she planted her skinny butt and unzipped her backpack. 

After about 5 minutes, Penny breezed in from her office, gliding down the hall. Her long velvet robe flowed behind her; she poked her bright, smiley face into the parlor. 

I'm glad she took my advice and wore the sage green ballet flats instead of those clunky wooden clogs she thinks are attractive. Fashion is important, I’ve told her, especially with first impressions. 

"You must be Brit?" Penny said. 

Brit nodded and gave a half-smile. I know people, and this Brit chick was not a sparkler. Remember the lump reference? Just saying.

"I'm tidying up my office. Give me a few minutes." Penny looked around the room. "Well…I see Stinky has made her presence known. Stinky girl, I thought you'd still be upstairs getting your beauty sleep."

She zoomed back to ready her office for Brit's reading. I tried to ignore the rude reference to my beauty sleep. Beauty was and is a burden.

Brit (is Brit short for Brittle, peanut brittle?) reached into her backpack and pulled out a heavy silver revolver. I about dropped my teeth. 

Brit stood up and tucked the gun into her jeans under her bulky loose-fitting sweater. Then she sat down and waited, but I ran down the hall to Penny's office before she noticed I was gone. 

In desperation, I tried to get Penny's attention. Seeing the Tarot cards neatly stacked on the table, I jumped up and pushed them all to the floor. The move was dramatic in intensity and swiftness, and then I hopped over to Penny's desk and pushed all the paper, books, and pencils off. Even her precious knitting flew to the floor, and two balls of yarn rolled independently in different directions. These were genius moves. 

"Stinky? What are you doing?" Cards and papers flew off the desk like flat pieces of popping corn. 

"Stop this right now. I have work to do. What has gotten into you?" Penny cried out, trying to get me to calm down.

Channeling my inner superhero, I lurched at her with my front legs reaching out like Superman taking off. Stunned, she fell back into her chair, and I jumped across, landed on a table, and shouted at her. 

"The chick in the other room has a gun." Penny stared at me in disbelief. 

"What?" She could hardly breathe. 

Visibly shaken, Penny stood up, turned, then abruptly found herself face to face with Brit, standing in the doorway, holding the gun. 

With a flash of fur, like an incredibly agile, lethal secret agent, I leaped at Brit. I was getting good at this! It startled her, and Brit dropped the gun. 

Penny picked it up, and I booked out of the room and scurried under the breakfast nook table. Brit sat on the floor and started to cry. She kept saying she just wanted to scare Penny but messed it up.

Penny's hands trembled as she held the gun, stumbled in shocked disbelief over to her desk phone, and dialed 911 from her landline. 

"I need someone at 1120 Still St. There’s been an accident." Penny didn't know what else to call it. She was visibly shaken but seemed more alarmed at my behavior than the girl with the gun. 

The police arrived within minutes. I watched from under the table and saw two officers walk through the front door without knocking, asking, "hello?" 

It was Stan and his partner, Dennis Dolittle, or some ridiculous name. Stan lived in the neighborhood, but who knows where what's his name lived? They started looking around. 

"We're in here," Penny called out. 

Sticking to the facts, Penny tried to explain what had happened. Her account was accurate, but she didn't mention my courage, beauty, heroism, or how I saved the day. Her voice wobbled, and she was out of breath.

Penny told the police she didn't want to press charges and joked (not well) that "if a cat can intimate someone, the poor girl is hardly a threat." 

They talked about why the girl was there, and then Stan's partner, Dennis, escorted Brit to the police car. Stan closed his notebook and looked at Penny. 

"It's lucky we were in the area. Can I call anyone to come to stay with you?" 

He sounded concerned, but Penny looked at him with surprise. 

When I think about what happened, I think Penny was more shocked at how short Stan was. Of course, she would never admit it, but I could have told her Stan was a shortie. I mean short, but not circus short. 

Penny stood by the front door with her arms crossed. 

"Oh, for Pete's sake Stan. I'm not 12 years old. I'll be fine. Why is it people assume I'm mentally lacking? Is it because I’m old? It pisses me off. I'll be fine," she proclaimed. 

Perturbed and uncertain, Penny gathered her long silver-blond hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and pulled it tight. Playing with her hair was a nervous tick and her go-to gesture when she was uncomfortable, and she looked uncomfortable. Then, with her hand in her pocket, she felt the copper penny she found earlier in the day on the porch step. I saw a faint smile of relief come across her face.

"OK! Bye, Stan. Tell your partner I appreciate the help, and I'm counting on you to tell me what you find out about why she did this. None of this makes any sense.” 

With those words, she opened the front door and motioned Stan to leave. The behavior cracked me up. It was like the old saying, "Don't let the door hit you in the butt on the way out!" 

Stan left but insisted Penny call him if she got scared. (I wouldn't hold your breath, Hoser Man!)

The police car pulled away, and Penny left on the porch light. She looked tired and appeared physically weakened by the event. 

I would have hidden if I was a weird cat or a prankster, but Penny found me under the breakfast nook table. I walked into her outstretched arms and started to purr. 

Penny sat on the floor, straightened her legs, and held me in her arms. She started to cry and then laughed at herself. 

"Oh, Stinky. Tonight’s drama was weird. I don’t understand any of it. Who would want to scare me? I’m pooped!” Penny whispered in my ear. “Time for bed, my brave warrior kitty," 

This woman is my life.