She’s been gone five days. Ella Mae said she’d be home late Wednesday,
and it’s now Friday afternoon. I had to buy more cans of cat food at the market because I used up everything she had left. The apartment is beginning to smell. She said I didn’t have to change the cat box — that she was out of kitty litter and would do it when she got back. But it’s become so unpleasant to go in there that I guess I’m going to have to get some litter too.
Msr. Snuff has remained ill-tempered, although he doesn’t hide from Bernie and me now so he must be getting used to us. He scratches himself nonstop. When he’s not scratching me. Cat fleas now cover my legs up to my knees as soon as I open the door. They’re multiplying on a daily basis. The cat arches his back and hisses at Bernie, who sometimes reacts by growling. I always flea comb Bernie when we get home, just to be sure he hasn’t brought any of Msr. Snuff’s fleas with him.
There’s something strange about Ella Mae’s place. There are only a few pieces of furniture. It doesn’t appear that she has ever really settled in. No photos. No books. Nothing on the walls except a free calendar from Le Drugstore on the Champs Elysee. A worn old tan sofa with badly shredded arms from the cat claiming it as a scratching post and a dusty black wicker chair that is coming apart sit center stage in the living room, along with the ironing board. The kitchen window doesn’t have a curtain, but there are three African violet plants — all brown and dried up — in plastic pots on the window sill.
There’s a small red table against the kitchen wall, with a single straight-back wooden chair pulled up to it. A half-full cup of coffee in a chipped blue mug is still on the table. Food-encrusted plates and eating utensils fill the kitchen sink along with a partially eaten cut piece of cantaloupe that is now a decayed and moldy mess, buzzing with clouds of tiny gnats and flies.