“We do have a cat that meets your description,” Morgan said.
“I thought so.”
“Does it belong to you?”
“It belongs to my master.”
“You know, when you say that, it makes you sound like a Sith apprentice.”
The manservants glanced at Morgan’s t-shirt. Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace.
“You boys need to get out more.”
“Look who’s talking. Are you even from this century?”
“Oh—pardon my appearance. I worked at a funeral home before taking the job as manservant. Salem’s Rest, do you know it?”
“Uh—buddy, we kill cats, not human beings—and we definitely don’t bury our dead—we burn them.”
“So did Mister Salem.”
“Let me get you the cat. Is it a pet?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss Hubbard’s business.”
“Here it is,” Morgan said. The cat was asleep—no, that’s not the right word—the cat was blackout drunk on tranquilizer.
“Charlie sure does over-do-it with the knockout juice,” I said.
“That’s because he got bitten by a rabid dog last year. Charlie got two shots off, before the beast ripped his leg off. He had to have anti-rabies vaccine for five weeks, and that stuff makes you thirsty, but you don’t want to drink water. The surgeon sewed his leg back on and reset the bone. We saw chew-marks under the x-rays.”
I knew Morgan’s explanation was totally ignorant, but I didn’t correct him. He was content in his misunderstanding. A discontented fool is dangerous. Morgan still believed the weather causes earthquakes.
To be continued…