Shallow Graves

couple of times, like a high-spirited horse scratching the ground with a forehoof.
    I extended my index finger to him. He grabbed it with the clawless paw, squeezing it reflexively. The way an infant does.
    I said, “Renfield, if you ever breathe a word of this...“
    At which point he purred once, then again, and slid back into the peace of sleep.

- 22 -

    When I woke up Saturday morning, my back felt as bad as Renfield’s legs looked. Hunched up on his front ones, he did take a little water by dipping a forepaw into the dish and then licking the pads.
    The phone rang as I was munching on some Frosted Flakes. When I put the receiver to my ear, the line was full of static. “Hello?“
    “John, it’s Nancy.“
    “Thought I might get a call last night.“
    “I tried, but there was something wrong with the circuits here. I nearly went crazy until I gave up around one a.m.“
    “How did your talk go?“
    “Fine. How’s my kitty?“
    “Kind of rocky.“
    “Oh, John, don’t torture me long-distance, okay?“
    “Okay. He’s having trouble getting to his feet. Shaky would be a good description. He cried a lot when I got him here, but he’s evened out a bit since then.“
    “You stayed with him all night?“
    “As promised.“
    “Oh, John, thank you.“
    “I do consider it above and beyond.“
    “The call of duty, you mean?“
    “That’s right.“
    “I’ll plan something special for when I get back.“
    “Still tomorrow noon?“
    “Uh-huh. Can you stay with Renfield till I get there?“
    “Yes, but I didn’t bring a change of clothes.“
    “Don’t worry. For what I have planned, you won’t need any clothes.“

    I spent most of Saturday morning in the living room, carrying Renfield in with me and laying a plastic trash bag as an exterior diaper under his towel. He seemed content to stay on the floor, sleeping.
    After I finished the Estleman book, I started a Linda Barnes one that was set in Boston with a female private investigator. Halfway through that, the Game of the Week came on the tube. Jack Buck and Tim Me Carver almost making me forget Vin Scully. Almost.
    The phone rang three times, a couple of hours apart. I let Nancy’s machine do its thing. The first time was just a hangup. The second and third stopped ringing before the tape could cut into the call.
    As the day progressed, so did Renfield. He took more water and even a little dry food, purring whenever I came near him. By nightfall, he was actually up and walking. Rickety, but on all fours.
    Nancy had some thin pork chops in a back corner of the freezer. Shake ‘n Baked, they went down with a bottle of novintage chardonnay, Renfield even getting enthusiastic enough to take some rice-sized scraps from the chops.
    That evening I finished the Barnes book and started to get cabin fever. I turned the television back on, picking up a Best of Nature courtesy of Channel 2. Cheetah, shoulder muscles bristling, stalked baby antelope through high grass. Chameleons with independently roving eyes and sticky tongues slurped butterflies from twigs. Arctic foxes in a lush valley waited with infinite patience as young barnacle geese rappeled without ropes down jagged cliffs. After a week with the Danucci family, I felt for the antelopes, butterflies, and geese of the world.
    Following the PBS show, I watched some network show that was so inane I at first thought Saturday Night Live had started two hours early. I went to bed, again on my couch cushions next to Renfield, thinking I had to stay around pets less or drink more.

    “Oh, my God, John, he looks absurd!“
    It was Sunday, just past noontime. After replacing the cushions on the couch. I’d snuck out for five minutes to get the Sunday papers. I’d just finished a photo ad in Parade magazine for Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute. Finally understanding what Johnny Carson was always railing about, I heard a key turn in the lock.
    Nancy dropped her garment bag to the kitchen floor as Renfield labored to his feet, doing one flop-over that I thought seemed faked for her benefit. She ignored me, rushing over to him and cooing and cuddling the little critter until I thought the thread from his sutures would burst.
    “Nance?“
    Over the shoulder she said, “Yes?“
    “The vet said to be careful around the stitches.“
    “Poor little guy. If I’d had any idea he’d look this bad, John, I’d never have gone to the convention.“
    “He’s going to be fine.“
    Nancy left her cat long enough