The Toll Cat
A Short Story
Mimsy should be the name for a sweet cat; my cat is not sweet.
Well, maybe sometimes but not often. Well, mostly but when she lets her attitude get the better of her, well….watch out.
“Did you pay the toll, honey?” I ask.
“Of course I didn’t pay the toll. Who in the world pays a toll to a cat?” he yells, holding onto his arm where she had hit him.
Neither Mimsy nor I react.
“Gotta pay the toll,” I say as serious as I can and Mimsy meows in agreement, or in agitation that she didn’t get her treat; I’m not sure which.
Either way, I start to laugh.
Daryl, not thinking it funny grumbles, “God, if this got out that I have been trained by my cat, I’d never live it down.”
“I won’t tell and I don’t think Mimsy can, so just pay the toll and come back to bed.”
You see, Mimsy has it in her mind that she controls the bathroom, especially at night. She has set herself up as the toll collector, only allowing us in after we give her a treat.
Otherwise we are the recipient of a swift swipe of her claws in retribution and at one in the morning well…we have decided it is worth paying up just to keep the peace.
How this ever happened I have no idea.
Ever since moving into our new house, she started this behavior and sadly we have done nothing to dissuade her.
I guess we could kick her out of the bedroom but she is mostly a decent sort of a cat. And the alternative? Listening to her meow and scratch at our door all night long….so as they say, “It is what it is”.
Daryl digs into the treat bowl, lid tight to keep smartass cats out, and digs out two treats.
“Mimsy, here’s one for the toll.”
“Meow,” she says just before she eats the first treat offered.
“And one for your silence.”
Daryl proffers her the second treat but doesn’t immediately let go.
“Silence Mimsy, you hear…tell no one!” Daryl says, finger to lips as Mimsy finally pries the morsel free and starts to eat her second treat.
As soon as it is eaten, she looks at Daryl and if cats could smirk, it was all over Mimsy’s face.
“Smart ass cat,” Daryl mumbles under his breath as he returns to bed.
“Meow,” she replies which in cat speak was taken as “I heard that!”
And a sock is thrown as Mimsy runs for it, barely clearing the door before it hits a photo on the dresser that falls over on impact.
“I hate that cat,” Daryl says while plumping his pillow up to sleep.
“No, you don’t” I reply with a yawn.
“I know but there are times,” and Daryl turns to me in all seriousness and whispers, “You don’t think she will tell do you?” and with that, we both start laughing hysterically.
