Popeye’s black-and-white coat was handsomely reminiscent of a tuxedo, but her fur was very short, her freckled, pink skin very sensitive and prone to get dry and irritated.
Popeye loved it when every few weeks her owner would put her in a sink of warm water and lather her up with Nusalt antiseborrheic therapeutic shampoo, followed by the Relief antipruritic oatmeal and pramoxine cream rinse that her owner kneaded into Popeye’s fur for exactly seven minutes, as the directions prescribed. Popeye loved her owner. Popeye stood on her hind legs and nuzzled her owner’s knee.
‘But a bath will have to wait, I guess, or I’ll be late.’ Her owner sighed and got down to Popeye’s level. ‘I shouldn’t even have brought it up, should I?’
Popeye licked her owner’s face and felt pity. Popeye knew, her owner was denying the grief and the guilt she felt about her late husband’s sudden death. Not that Popeye had known Seth, but she had overheard conversations about him and had seen photographs. Popeye could not imagine her owner being married to a lazy, independently wealthy, fat, whiny slob who did nothing but eat, work in his garden and watch television.
Popeye was glad Seth wasn’t around. Popeye adored her owner. Popeye wished there was more she could do to comfort this heroic, kind lady who had saved Popeye from being an orphan or being adopted by some unhappy family with cruel children.
‘All right.’ Her owner got up. ‘I’ve got to get going.’
Hammer showered quickly. She threw a robe around her and stood inside her cedar-lined closet, deliberating over what to wear. Hammer understood the subliminal power of clothing, cars, office decor, jewelry and what she ate at business lunches and dinners. Some days required pearls and skirts, other days called for unfriendly suits. Colors, styles, fabrics, collars or no collars, patterns or plain, pockets or pleats, watches, earrings and perfumes and fish or chicken all mattered.
She shoved hangers here and there, deliberating, envisioning, intuiting and finally settling on a navy blue suit with trousers that had pockets and cuffs. She selected low-heel lace-up black leather shoes and matching belt, and a blue and white striped cotton shirt with French cuffs. She dug through her jewelry box for simple gold post earrings and her stainless steel Breitling watch.
She picked out a pair of gold and lapis cufflinks that had belonged to Seth. She fumbled with them as she put them on and remembered those times when Seth followed her around the house like Popeye, unable to manage buttons, lapels, matching socks or combinations, on those rare occasions when Seth dressed up.
It would have made sense to divide her late husband’s jewelry, leather briefcases, wallets and other things male between their sons, but Hammer held on. When she wore something of Seth’s, she had the eerie feeling that he wanted her to be the man he never was. He wanted her to be strong. Maybe he wanted to help her because now he could. Seth had always had a good heart. But he had spent his life at war with his compulsions and privileged past, spreading misery like the flu. He had left Hammer wealthy, relieved, pained, pissed off and as burdened with anxieties as he had been with his weight.
‘Popeye, come here,’ Hammer called out.
Popeye was lazy in a bar of sunlight on the kitchen floor. She had no intention of changing venues.
‘Let’s get in our crate, Popeye.’
Popeye regarded her owner through slitted eyes. She yawned and thought it silly that her owner always used the we word, as if Popeye wasn’t smart enough to see through it. Popeye knew her owner had no intention of climbing inside that little plastic crate with Popeye any more than her owner was going to eat a heartworm pill or get a shot at the vet when the we word was used about those, either.
‘Popeye.’ Her owner’s tone firmed up. ‘I’m in a hurry. Come on. In the crate. Here’s your squirrel.’
She tossed Popeye’s favorite stuffed squirrel inside the crate. Popeye couldn’t care less.
‘All right. Here’s your fuzzle.’
She tossed in the filthy lambs’ wool chick that Popeye had chewed the eyes off and routinely flung into the toilet. Popeye was indifferent. Her owner walked with purpose across the kitchen and picked up Popeye. Popeye went into her Salvador Dali limply-drape-over-everything-and-play-possum manifestation. Her owner tucked Popeye into the crate and fastened shut the wire grate door.