The Linda Letters by Gabriel O'Sullivan: "Pee-trova"

23 June 2004

R. Linda:

It took forever to get on the Internet. I don't know what was going on. Just one more thing in Gabe's Daily World of the Upside Down. As you can see, I am up early AGAIN! The freaking cat was scratching at me closed bedroom door all night. I couldn't stand it, so I let the evil demon in. It walked over me all night long. Every time I went to grab it to throw it off me, it took off claws, scrapping the floor much like you see in cartoons.

I had such a night of horrors (I dreamt of it throwing me out the window) that I was once again up before dawn broke. I should have rings around me eyes like a raccoon if this keeps up.

I threw the shirts out. They were soaked in cat urine, and they dripped. Nothing, and I mean nothing, would get that stuff out. The thought of wearing them again is repugnant. The shoes I will take your advice and try the Febreze. If I can quell the odour, I will bring them in for new in-soles and hope for the best.

To let you know, I am sporting an egg on the back of my head from my tumble into the coffee table. The bump is as big as one of the Faberge eggs that adorn this place.

I decided to get dressed and go to the Starbucks down the street, hoping they were open early. There, I would spend an hour over a few cups of java and some sticky rolls before I gathered my courage to return to Catville. So this I did, and I was in luck; they were just opening their doors, so I sauntered to the counter, morning newspaper rolled under me arm along with the Russian instructions on The Cat (I brought that along in the hopes that in a place with bright lights, I could make out what was on the paper), and I stood there looking at the menu. The girl came over and wished me a cheery good morning, and as I answered, her smile slowly faded as she looked at me like a deer caught in headlights. She was sniffing the air covertly, and damn it, I knew I must smell of that blighty cat!

I hastily gave her me order, and as she went to prepare it, I sniffed my shirt sleeve, and sure enough, eau de cat was pungent upon me sleeve. I almost passed out from the smell. Not only that, my off-yellow shirt is darker in one place, and oh my, is it concentrated. I wanted to rip off the shirt or hide me face in me hands and have a good cry.

About that time, I was looking down at me feet in a dejected frame of mind, and I noticed my good trousers were looking (from the ankle to the knee) like furry boot tops. I slammed the newspaper on the table behind me and animatedly was cursing that damn animal. You see Linda, cat fur seems to float and stick with magnetic strength. I knew then and there that I would have to invest in one of those jumbo lint removers the size of a paint roller at Brookstones. Meanwhile, I was oblivious to the girl behind the counter. She had got me everything I ordered and was standing there watching me dance around cursing. She must have thought I had Tourette's Syndrome, but if she did, she didn't let on. With big eyes, she took me money and gave me change, slowly backing away from me and looking in the back for help.

I thanked her and took me vittles to a table near the door where the breeze might kill some of the cat pee smell. I was the only one in there, and that at least gave me some ease. A worker with a push broom came my way and noticed me squinting over the instructions in Russian. He said, "Dobre utra, Rusk?" I looked up at him, clueless. Then, in broken English, he said, "You are Rooshin?" I shook me head, and he then said, "You have Rooshin there. Paper, you see?"

"Oh, this," I waved the cat instructions at him. "Yes, but I don't understand what is written here. You are Russian?"

He laughed and nodded. Then he stepped back, sniffing the air. I thought to meself I needed to explain before I lost a translator, and I apologised for the smell and told him that I had a cat that wasn't housebroken for lack of having to admit I was being bested by an 8-inch-high four-legged fur ball.

I pressed the crinkled Russian paper on the table in a gesture he should read and tell me what it said. He picked it up and studied it and then smiled down at me, broom handle under his armpit.

"You must feed Pe-tro-vah twice a day with this, uhm, Fancy Feasting cat food. Petrovah is to have fresh water at all timies and, uhn heavy cramia one upon the day. In morning." He smiled down at me. "You will find Petrovah's litterise pan in closet in kitchen. You must cleen every morning and keep door open please."

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I had closed the door on me first foray into the flat the first night. No wonder Petrova was mad at me. I had locked her out of the poo closet.

"And, and here it say," he pointed at the bottom line, "Most importune you pet Petrovah for an hour each a tha nights so she can sleep goud."

WHAT? There was no way in hell I was going to cuddle up with that cat for an hour each night so that stupid cat could get a good night's sleep. What about ME?

I thanked him as he put the paper back on the table. He looked at me before moving off to sweep and said, "You get with Fabrezie on shirt, and wash much times, then dry in sunlight. Get Petrovah out of shirt."

I left thereafter, too embarrassed to stay any longer and will NOT be going back there. I don't know how I got stuck cat-sitting. That wasn't mentioned, no Petrova, no nothing about a furry roommate. And to think this is for ONE LONG BLOODY YEAR!