Mallory Heard a Putty Tat

Putty Tat popped up out of nowhere. Startled, Mallory scowled at him. She was there to babysit Dollar and had counted on the fact that the cat would do what cats do – mind its business. But here he was, in her personal space with a face that portrayed his general disdain for humans. Mallory stroked the cat tentatively. He was temperamental and she didn’t want to get cat scratched and end up with some infection that wouldn’t heal.

“Okay,” she told him. “Nice Kitty.” Go away, she completed the thought silently. Putty Tat remained, however and stared at her with those glowing hazel eyes. Cat’s eyes always made Mallory wonder if she was being cursed. “Are you cursing me?” she asked the cat, chuckling to herself.

“Why would I do that?”

Mallory jumped off the sofa and looked around the room. “Who’s here?” She grabbed her phone in case she needed to call 911 and ran to the nursery where Dollar was sleeping. Relieved that she was still there issuing little infant snorts and farts, Mallory calmed herself with deep breaths and began searching the house. “WHO’S HERE?”

“Relax, it’s just me,” the voice said again. It was coming from below. She looked down and there he was, Putty Tat. “It’s me, P.T. I prefer P.T. because Putty Tat is a ridiculous name. And that’s why I’m breaking the rules. I need someone to tell me why they named me Putty Tat.”

Mallory slowly lowered herself to the floor and looked into the cat’s eyes. “You’re not cursing me?” she wanted to be sure.

“No. I don’t know how to do that. But don’t tell anyone.”

“Well, Putty, uh, I mean, P.T., why don’t you ask the people that named you?”

“Have you met them?”

Putty’s owners were idiots. Mallory knew it and apparently, the cat knew it too. They’d named their daughter Dollar. It was like they purposely got high before making decisions.

“Come with me.”

Mallory grabbed her laptop and located some Tweety Bird videos. She and the cat watched together. A couple of times, Mallory snickered but silenced herself when she glanced at P.T. He was not amused.

“This cat is not representative of my kindred,” he stated.

“Um, yes, of course, you’re right.” Mallory was still thinking about cat scratches.

“And the bird does look quite tasty.” As a fan of fried chicken, Mallory decided not to argue.

“So, that’s where the name comes from. It’s not completely made up. This cartoon was quite beloved,” she told the cat.

“Humph,” he replied.

“Have you always been able to talk, or what?”

“Of course.”

“Just you, or….” Mallory would swear on a stack of Bibles the cat was smirking at her.

“I could use someone like you,” he told her and the fact that he didn’t answer her question did not escape her. Another time, then.

“For what?”

“I need someone to speak for me. I can’t talk to them directly.” P.T. was right. If he spoke to his owners, they would simply think they were on a cannabis induced trip. And if they weren’t, they’d try to monetize the cat’s verbal skills. “I like it here for the most part. They take good care of me. But it could be better. You can make suggestions on my behalf. We’ll chat when you come to monitor the tiny human. I’ll give you a list of requests.”

“Okay, but why would they listen to me making suggestions about their cat? You don’t interact with any of their guests. It wouldn’t make sense.” Mallory was intrigued though. Conversing with at cat wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

“True. I’ll start coming to greet you when you’re here. They’ll think we’ve taken a liking to each other.”

Mallory shrugged. It was worth a shot. She could use something interesting happening in her life.

“Alright. We can try it.”

“Do me a favor, will you? Get them to call me P.T. and I won’t scratch you.” She heard him laugh as he trotted away.