Author’s Note: While I don’t condone giving alcohol to cats, the occasional sniff of catnip is considered quite acceptable.
Somewhere through the haze, I heard her heels clack across the tile floor. The outer door opened and closed. Suddenly, blinding light flooded the room. I squinted at her through eyes as mucky as a Maine mud season. Arms crossed Cookie O’Brian, our leggy redheaded secretary, scanned the room. Her eyes stopped on me.
“Have you been letting Rusty Nails drink again?” I’m an orange tabby named after Murph’s medication of choice, which I suppose is better than a Fuzzy Navel.
Patrick ‘Murph’ Murphy lifted his head from his desk; a yellow sticky note with a phone number was stuck to his temple.
Shielding his eyes from the light, he said, “You know I hate to drink alone.”
“Just because you want to drown your life in booze is no reason to drag your cat down with you.”
Women, always on you about something, I growled. Leaving the light on, she turned and went to her desk. I rolled over and covered my eyes with a paw, knocking an empty Styrofoam cup on the floor.