Scott MacLeod

Al was a crook. A thief. A small timer. What the old movies would call a cat burglar. And of course, in this world of ours whose creator loves irony, what else would Al’s daughter insist on for a house pet but one of the feline variety. The daughter now was long gone, along with her mother. But the cat remained. Major Tom. Not a good cat by any measure. Although to be fair, Al himself was not setting the world afire among his own species. 

In hindsight it was clear the cat had been drugged when they selected him at Miss Judy’s shelter. Tracie rode home cuddling him the whole way. She never held him again. Once the knock-out drops wore off he adjourned to a narrow space beneath the dining room hutch where he would hiss at any and all comers.  Not that Al’s premises were heavily trafficked. He was a bit of a hisser himself. 

Eventually Major Tom would emerge and even allow himself to be held. By Al. Al only. The relationship evolved from resentment to neglect to détente to affection.  The beast developed a particular affinity for Al’s favorite chair. A well-worn relic. Comfortable as an old slipper.  Major Tom christened it with a fresh puddle daily. Al tried all the suggested deterrents. Citronella.  Tin foil. The latter only served to pool and distribute the offending torrent from the center of the seat-cushion to the harder-to-clean borders. Coming home, the smell would hit Al first as soon as he turned the key.  He’d douse his throne with a spray or three of Febreze and lay down a dry towel. Hell, it was the best view of the TV in the house, he’d be damned if he’d be relegated to the bleachers in his own home. Then Major Tom would bound up and settle into Al’s lap, pecking order established. 

An earthquake rattled Al and Tom’s peaceful world. Al was looking at some time away. Upstate. The hidden presence of a slumbering apartment-dweller transformed a benign burglary into a felony. Al’s discount-bin lawyer, he of the law school diploma from a cereal box, couldn’t shake the rap. So up the river Al would go. 

Before becoming a guest of the state, Al had his eye on a big job. One last score. But time was of the essence. 

He’d seen the portrait of old Mrs. Tibbs hanging over the check-in desk at the pet shelter. The old biddy was many times over their biggest benefactor.  He’d looked her up. House as big as a museum, and just as loaded with baubles. That was the spot. He’d found his mark. 

Al set off that night with his usual tools of the trade packed in a small duffel.  Usually, he’d bring the bag home laden with newly swiped goodies. But this time he left empty handed. 

Still, the job was a smashing success. You see, it wasn’t a heist at all but rather a drop-off. Once inside, Al unzipped his tote and out jumped his furry old pal to scamper away and meet his new brothers and sisters amid 15,000 square feet of splendor. 

While Al had some rocky months ahead, he took comfort that Major Tom was safe and sound, hell had even gotten an upgrade. Forget the ratty BarcaLounger. He’d be pissing on genuine leather from now on.

What Scott said about the prompt:
I have changed Brownie’s name to protect the guilty but my one time favorite chair appears as is.

Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in various publications, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash fiction newsletter can be found on Substack.
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Read more from Scott:

The Twin Bill Baseball Lit – ‘Elysian Field‘
The Under Review – ‘Fahrenheit .406‘

Here on Trash Cat Lit – Oh Give Me a Home and Phantom Pain