I followed him into a large sunny room with a glass wall offering a view of a dock behind the house where a small pleasure boat rocked. Siesta Key has over fifty miles of waterways, so boats are common. From Hal Richards’s pallor, though, I doubted that he went out in his very often. Gillis, a softly pretty dark-haired woman in a scoop-neck T-shirt and an ankle-length linen skirt, stood at the sink stirring something in a cereal bowl. Like Hal, Gillis wore the stunned look of people whose world has shrunk to the small arc of here and now.
Jeffrey sat in a child’s booster chair at a round table. He had a fading yellow bruise on his cheek from falling, and a new purple bruise on his upper arm. Dark shadows lay like soot under his drug-dulled eyes. Mazie, a golden retriever, sat close beside the boy’s chair. The dog’s eyes were bright and healthy, watching the boy with close attention.
Adults with seizure disorders frequently have seizure-alert dogs who sense when a seizure is coming and signal the person, then do whatever is necessary to protect them from harming themselves during the attack. Children as young as Jeffrey can’t be made responsible for that kind of alert. Instead, they have seizure-assistance dogs, who may or may not sense impending seizures, but stay close by the child’s side at all times.
Gillis smiled at me and put a bowl of something white and lumpy in front of Jeffrey.
Gillis said, “Jeffrey, say hello to Miss Hemingway.”
The kid spooned up a blob of whatever his mother had given him, and grinned shyly.
I said, “Is that oatmeal you’re eating?”
Gillis said, “It’s groats, actually, with some banana mixed in.”
I managed to keep my upper lip from lifting, but the word “groats” sounded too much like “gross” to me. Besides, what the heck are groats, anyway?
Gillis smiled. “It’s whole oats, healthier than oatmeal. Jeffrey likes it. Don’t you, Jeffrey?”
The kid nodded, but he didn’t seem excited about it. Actually, he didn’t look as if much of anything excited him. I didn’t know a lot about seizure disorders, but I knew the erased look that people get when they’re on heavy medication, and Jeffrey had it.
Knowing that Mazie was a service dog currently on duty, I didn’t speak to her or touch her. But I sat down at the table so she could smell me and feel my energy. She gave me a quick glance, but her job was to be exquisitely alert to Jeffrey and to any change in him, even something as slight as a change in his body odor that would signal an impending seizure. Hal and Gillis went silent, knowing what I was doing and not wanting to interfere.
After a few minutes, I stood up. “Hal, maybe you and I should talk in the living room for a minute.”
Hal said, “Good idea.”
In the living room, I took an easy chair and Hal sat on the sofa. I got out my client notebook and prepared to take any last-minute instructions or information.
Sometimes people are surprised to learn that pet sitting is a profession like any other profession. I approach it the same way I approached being a deputy. I was always aware that lives could depend on my being alert, on remembering my training, on handling my job in a professional manner. I feel the same way about pet sitting. Pet owners entrust me with animals they love, and I take that very seriously. I’m licensed, bonded and insured, and I never commit to a pet-sitting job without first meeting the pet and its owners. I go to their house and get the pet’s medical history, along with details of its diet and daily habits. I let the pet look me over and get to know my scent. By the time I’ve finished interviewing a new client, I know everything there is to know about their pet, and the pet feels comfortable with me. I insist on a key to their house, a number where I can reach them, and the name and number of the person they want called in case of an emergency. Just as I was when I was a deputy, I’m always aware that bad things can happen when you least expect them.
Hal said, “I know I explained this before, but the only reason we’re doing this is that Jeffrey has temporal lobe seizures. Two or three a week, and they’re severe. Of all seizure disorders, temporal lobe seizures are most responsive to surgery and least responsive to medication. He’s been on several meds, but none of them have done much good, and they cause so much dizziness that he has problems with balance.” As if he felt guilty saying it, he added, “They also cause behavior problems. Temper tantrums, that kind of thing. That’s why we have Mazie. She calms him down, and she walks close beside him so he can lean on her.”
He had already told me about the medication and why they had decided on surgery, but he obviously needed to tell it again.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “As you might imagine, Gillis and I live with the fear of a terrible fall—into fire, water, whatever—or of his cognitive development being … well, you know. Do you have children?”
I didn’t want to answer him, because a parent numbed by fear over a child’s illness doesn’t want to hear how another child died. But I also didn’t want to disrespect my own child by denying her.
I said, “I had a little girl. She was killed in an accident when she was three. I understand how you feel about Jeffrey.”
He looked stricken. “I’m sorry.”
For both our sakes, I needed to get the conversation back to why I was there.
I said, “Please don’t worry about Mazie while you’re gone. Pete Madeira will be here twenty-four/seven, and I’ll come twice a day and walk her.”
Pete’s a former professional clown I’d met through some circus people I know—Sarasota has a long circus history—and he sometimes helped me out when I needed a full-time pet sitter.
He leaned forward and clasped his hands with desperate urgency. “There’s a risk to surgery, but there may be a larger risk if we do nothing.”
The doorbell interrupted Hal’s compulsive explanation. As Hal opened the door, Gillis and Jeffrey came into the living room, Jeffrey with his arm over Mazie’s back and leaning against her as he walked.
Pete Madeira stood at the door, suitcase in hand and a clown nose stuck on his face. He also had a case with him that looked as if it might hold some kind of musical instrument. Pete had visited several times before, so he was as familiar to the family as I was. Hal and Gillis looked relieved to see him, and Mazie wagged her tail as if she were giving Pete her approval. Jeffrey gave him a tired smile, but I doubted that he understood Pete’s presence meant he was soon going to be separated from his best friend.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
EVEN CAT SITTERS GET THE BLUES
Copyright © 2008 by Blaize Clement.
Excerpt from Cat Sitter on a Hot Tin Roof copyright © 2008 by Blaize Clement.
All rights reserved.
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St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN 9781429992206
First eBook Edition : January 2011
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2007038735
EAN: 978-0-312-94536-7
ISBN: 0-312-94536-1
St Martin’s Press hardcover edition / January 2008
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / November 2008