are mixed in with the beans and placed them on a saucer. Tracker paced at her feet expectantly, and as she bent to place the daily treat down for him he squealed a long meow of pleasure. Margaret grinned and stroked him as he began to gobble his snack. She then set her own beans to cooking and looked in the fridge for something to accompany them. “Let’s see,” she thought, “I have meat in my hot-dogs, so I need something sustaining.” She closed the fridge, and opted for a large piece of French bread. Just the ticket!
Having finished lunch Margaret needed a nap. “People just don’t take naps as much as they used to,” she said to Tracker as they both lay down. Tracker climbed up her side and settled heavily on her stomach in his “sphinx” pose. His eyes seem to say, “I’m lord of all I survey.” Margaret scratched him and said, “You are one fat cat!” To this he closed his eyes and purred loudly. She marveled that a cat could get so big. Just the other day she had commented with pride on her tiger sized pet. She smiled softly as she drifted off to sleep.
Margaret awoke as Tracker huffed his way down off her and out of the room. She lay quietly listening, expecting and then hearing the crunch of hard cat food as Tracker began to munch. She lolled over and got up, glancing out the window into the back yard at her over-run gardens. She had had the idea once of growing fresh food, but had only gotten as far as the first year. Truth be told, she had not even harvested all the produce. She had found that weeding and hoeing and what-not was not to her taste. It was Vicky next door who had interested her in the project. She had a very large garden herself. Frankly, it had looked more inviting when Vicky was grubbing around on her hands and knees! Well, you can’t accomplish everything in life. You must pick and choose what to fill your time with and there were many other activities Margaret would rather pursue. She dismissed the garden and went into the living room to watch TV. It was near four o’clock by now, and having turned the volume up a little she went in to the kitchen to start dinner. As she passed the table she snagged a few mints.
Tracker was lying on his side by the door wheezing himself back to sleep. Margaret smiled at him, enjoying his color, thinking how happy she was to take care of him—especially with his breathing problems and all. Deep down she suspected he just ate too much, but he was, after all, just a cat and animals couldn’t be expected to have self-control like people. She’d watch out for him.
Margaret pulled the ham from the fridge and set the oven. She then prepared it and put it in to cook. She loved a good ham, the kind with the spicy rind. It gave a zesty flavor to dinner that she liked. She then put the cabbage and potatoes into a pot to boil a little later when the meat was near done. Then, she pulled a box of ho-hos out from the cupboard, and began to unwrap them. She knew some folks would say she was nuts, but she liked to arrange even boxed deserts on a plate. She put them down in a star pattern on a plate, nibbling down the extra two (and of course dropping a few pieces into Tracker’s bowl). She then went back to watch TV until dinner.
TV was dull. Mostly it was just frivolous pap that wasted one’s day. She tolerated it for the two hours it took for the ham to cook and then switched it off with distaste when the timer rang. She prepared the veggies, removed the meat from the oven, cut it into thin strips, and set the whole lot out on the table. She spread her napkin smoothly on her immense lap and enjoyed the fruits of her labor. It was well worth the effort to have a good meal at least once a week, and Margaret always tried on Saturday or Sunday to do just that. The ham was flavorful and tasty, the veggies were just the right consistency, and the dessert was the perfect topper. She sighed with pleasure as she pushed the last piece of ho-ho into her mouth, and sat back to watch Tracker watch her. He always expected something from the table. But he should know that nothing was forthcoming. Margaret knew it was not good to overstuff him. And by now he should know that table scraps were not part of his diet. He ate at set times, with one snack a day. That was set in stone. And no amount of begging would change that. After watching her chew and swallow the last piece of ho-ho, Tracker circled a couple more times and resigned himself to waiting till later.
Margaret cleaned up, and went out to the sofa to sit and watch TV until dinner settled. She relaxed, comfy, occasionally downing a few mints and nuts as she listened. Finally, a few hours later, she headed for bed. On the way she took the box of cat food down from the shelf, and letting Tracker out the back door, she filled his patio bowl to the brim. He meowed thankfully and dove in with gusto. Margaret closed the door, turned the locks, and went off to sleep, leaving Tracker to roam the neighborhood until tomorrow when she would again find him waiting for her.
Squirrel
Meeting. Meeting. Meeting. Meeting. Gotta make the Meeting. Gotta make the Meeting. Gotta make the Meeting. Meeting. Meeting Man. Meeting Man. Fourth and Lane. Fourth and Lane. Fourth and Lane. Fourth Lane. NO! NO! NO! That’s not right. Not right! Fourth AND Lane, Lane, Lane,Lane,LaneLaneLane. The alley. The alley. The alley. AND,AND,ANDANDANDANDLANE! Meeting at Fourth AND Lane! At THE alley. They may try to stop me, but I gotta make the meeting. National Security. Make the Meeting.
Bart bends lower in the booth. Why was that woman looking at me? She’s looking. Looking at me! “Who are you?! Who are you?! Who are YOU?!” She’s looking again. “It’s FBI business lady! Just watch it! F-B-I. They know. They make it their business to know!” Looker, looker, she’s a looker. Look at me! Stop looking. CIA!
Check the toast. Check the toast. Check it. Bugs. She’s looking. CIA bugs. Check the toast. “I know what you did lady. I know the CIA. I know you. F-B-I business is what it’s all about. You know it. I know it. THEY know it! I’ll eat this, but I know about the bugs. I just want you to know I know.” Spooks.
“Hey friend, is there some way I can help you?”
Who’s that! Whoisthat?! Another Looker! “I don’t need help from the CID. Or the NSA for that matter! I know about the bugs. I know you’d like to get them and follow me around, and know what I’m doing. But the FBI doesn’t.”
“I don’t know what you mean, pal. You just don’t look so good.”
“Uh-huh. The satellites. They take your thoughts. The CID,CIAFBINSA. You know. I know you know. I know who you are, who you work with, what you do.” Spook. He wants the bugs too. I know.
Bart rises to leave. Meeting at Fourth and Lane. Nine o’clock. It’s . . . (looking at the cracked watch on his wrist) . . . it’s . . . 3:07. Time. Meeting time. Time to meet.
“Sir, you owe $3.00.”
A dollar flutters to the table top. “Keep the change. I know they want it.” Bart shoves the remaining toast in his coat pocket. “I’ll keep track of this.”
“Sir, that’s not enough money.”
Enough. Bart advances on the waitress, “I know what the planes cost. The Satellites. I know. That’s dirty money. It’s more than enough for them. They want it. They can have it!!” Operative. She may not know. She looks unsure.
Bart whirls on the man rising from his chair. “You can’t have it! I’m leaving and you’re not taking it!” The man stops. Another is rounding the counter.
“Sir, is there a problem?”
“You know the problem. She’s not the problem, but this guy is!” Bart thumbs toward the man by his chair. “CIA. Or NSA. The big cheese.” Get out while the gettin’s good. Bart moves to the door. Keep your back clear. He turns and leaves. Meeting. This is risky. But the gain. The gain is worth it to keep them at
