The woman might as well be dead for as much time as has she spent taking care of my needs lately. For the last three weeks, all it’s been is Shyster & Shyster this and Shyster & Shyster that. I heard her in the shower this morning talking to Lola Brigida like she is a real person, and I know for a fact she is the alter ego of some gray-haired old biddy with two too many cats. I could take care of the cat issue, and I might, too, if things don’t change soon. First it was Francine’s breakdown at Christmas, and now what I call publishing disease.
Publishing disease is what happens to perfectly intelligent creative types who get it into their heads that someone, if not everyone, should actually read what they have written. She’s even pulled the Shameless Rat Bastards into her madness. They become obsessed with blah, blah this and blah, blah that instead of taking care of what really matters—like cantankerous old gargoyles who like waking up each evening to a warm meal and clean clothes. I even trimmed my claws without being told. She didn’t notice.
It is not that promoting a book is bad, per se. What is bad is when it becomes more important than the creation of a good story or the health and happiness of the household. It is so bad with her that her hair is falling out in clumps as she fights against her natural self to do that social networking thing everyone seems so engrossed in. If you ask me, social networking is nothing more than an excuse to get out of work. Why I’ve seen grown men at urinals tapping away on pocket phones while aiming at the white porcelain. I’ve seen young babes too young to know their times tables ignore real life playmates in deference for computer games with virtual players. And Francine is not a people person. That woman would rather live in a book than start a good conversation with the mailman. How she and I have done so well for so long is a miracle best left unexplained.
If you think about it hard enough, I’m actually the best thing in the woman’s life. If not for me, she would never have met the cat lady, who keeps asking about her missing pets. She would never have met the mayor, who ask her to keep me out of the botanical garden’s lily pond—my favorite afterhours spa treatment. Nothing treats rough skin better than pond scum. She definitely would not have met the stalker reporter who is determined to interview me for The Enquirer. All good things, in my opinion. They bring Francine out of hiding and into the light.
As for now, though, I am an orphaned gargoyle, left to my own devices. I wonder if I scratched up the furniture like a god awful cat if she would once again notice me.