Note 1: This story is told from Josh's POV.
 
Note 2: No cats were harmed in the writing of this fanfic :)




       Okay, this isn't happening.  I am denying the existence of this 
occurrence.  

       I killed Donna's cat.  

       Oh damn, don't give me that look!  If *you* give me *that* look, what 
the hell can I expect from Donna?

       It was an accident.  A total accident.  

      It could've happened to anyone.  It could've happened to you, so you 
can wipe that self-righteous expression off your face.

       It all started at 10:00 pm on Friday.


* * * Flashback: 36 hours ago * * *


        Ding dong.  

      Oh, who the hell is that?  Give me a break.  I haven't gotten home from 
work before 10:00 pm in...wow...in I can't even remember how long.

       Until now, I was sitting in my boxers and ripped Yale t-shirt, 
enjoying an ice cold beer.  I have been engaging in what is commonly referred 
to as 'channel surfing' for quite some time.  200 freakin' channels and there 
isn't a damn thing on.  I mean, I am seriously considering watching my public 
access channel.  

       Public access, people.

      Have you ever stopped and actually watched one of the programs on those 
stations?  To say they are sad is a gross understatement.

       I have seen the following on my public access channel: a meeting of 
some sort of witches' coven, a call-in talk show about wrestling with 
pimple-faced teenagers as the hosts, a sock puppet performance of 'Romeo and 
Juliet' and, my personal favorite, a rendition of 'Who Let the Dogs Out' 
performed by two poodles.

       Is it sad that these shows are on and that there are people in this 
world who have worked hard to produce them?  Yes, it is.  

       Is it sadder that I have actually seen these shows and comprise half 
of their audience of about two?  Yes...Yes, it is.  

       For the record, their other viewer is probably some guy living in his 
parents' basement and those were his socks performing.  

       My social life sucks.  I don't know why I am so surprised.  When you 
spend practically every waking moment working, it's hard to meet anyone.  
And, when I do have time to actually go make a social life, I am way too 
exhausted to even try.

       I am going to die a lonely man watching crappy television programs.

     So, that's the frame of mind I am in as my doorbell rings.  I am feeling 
grumpy.

      I ease myself out of my recliner and make my way to the door.  I fling 
the door open to reveal my assistant.

       My eyebrows raise in surprise, but I manage a grin.  "A half an hour 
without me too much to bear, huh?"

       She rolls her eyes in response and shoves what seems to be a cat 
carrier into my arms.  "I have to fly to Wisconsin.  My Great-aunt Hilda 
died."

       "Oh, I'm sorry."

       "Don't be.  She was a bitch.  I'm only going because I'm afraid she'll 
put a curse on me from beyond the grave if I don't."

       "A curse?"

      "Yes.  She cursed my cousin, Jackie, at age five, because she said that 
Aunt Hilda was fat.  Jackie now lacks self-esteem and dates deadbeats."

       I smirk, "Are you sure your aunt hasn't already cursed you?"

       I am rewarded with a good-natured slap on the arm.  I smile and look 
down at the cat carrier. "So, what's this?"

       "I am going to be gone all weekend, Josh.  I need you to take care of 
Fluffy."

       I am shaking my head.  "Uh, no.  I don't do cats."

       Okay, that sounded weird and creepy.

       "You don't do any animals, Josh."

       That sounded even weirder and creepier.

      She continues with a grin, "You can't care for living things very well, 
Josh.  As a child, three turtles, two hamsters, an iguana and a pet rock met 
their demise while in your care."

       I smile, "The passing of the pet rock was especially tragic."

       "You seem to have an inability and unwillingness to care for living 
things."

       "That's right," I reply.  "I care for only one living thing: myself."

       "Yes, I've noticed.  And you're not even good at that," she pauses, 
"Look, if I had time to find someone else, believe me, I would.  But I don't, 
so you're it."

       "What about your roommate?"

       "Moved out last week.  Took the other cat, Flopsy, with her."

       I smile. "Good, I hated Flopsy.  She always gave me very sinister 
looks."

       Donna scoffs, "Not that I believe that cats can give looks of any 
kind, Josh, but that was Fluffy."

       My face falls.  "It's this one?"

       "Yup."

       I try to hand her the carrier.  "Sorry, no can do."

       She pushes the carrier back into my chest, "You have to do this for 
me, Josh.  How many times have I bailed you out?"

       "Well, you are my assistant.  Any bailing out has fallen under your 
assistant duties."

       "Picking my drunken boss, who has panties around his neck, up off the 
floor, is not a part of my job description."
       
       "I hate this cat," I declare.  Okay, so it was probably more of a 
whine, but it was definitely warranted.  "He's creepy."

       "He's a cat."

       "A cat with less than pure motives."

      "Yeah, Josh, I'm sure he's planning to rob you blind in the middle of 
the night."

       "I'm just saying I don't trust him."

       She sighs.  I think her patience has worn thin.  "All you have to do 
is feed him, give him fresh water and clean his litter box everyday."

       She hands me a large bag containing all that I need.  

     "What about your neighbors? That lady across the hall from you seems 
very capable."

       "She's ninety-five, blind, deaf and confined to bed, Josh."

       "Picky, picky." I pause and then ask, "And your other neighbors?"

      She shakes her head, "It's 10:00 pm on a Friday.  Unlike you and I, 
they actually have lives."

    I groan, as Donna smiles and gives me what can only be termed a  
condescending pat on the head. "All you have to do is feed him, give him 
water and clean his litterbox everyday," she repeats and then adds jokingly, 
"Oh, and try not to kill him."

* * * Present Day * * * 

       Oops.  

       Let me just say in my defense that the first three things I did very 
well.  

      The cat was given food and water everyday whenever he wanted them.  

     His litterbox was so much cleaner than my bathroom that I considered 
using it instead.  

       True, the fourth thing proved to be a bit of a challenge. Okay, not so 
much a challenge as a total, utter failure.  

       Who knew it would be so hard to keep a cat alive for a whole weekend?


* * * Flashback: 35 hours and 51 minutes ago* * *

       
       I enter my apartment and place the cat carrier down on the floor.  I 
proceed to empty the bag Donna gave me.   It includes five cans of soft cat 
food (three of tuna and two of chicken medley), a bag of dry food, three 
bowls (one for soft food, one for dry food, and one for water), a small 
litter box, a bag of litter, two squeezie toys (a mouse and a mangled bird), 
and two old socks filled with catnip.

       I smile at the catnip. 

       Marijuana for cats.

     Give a cat something with catnip in it and they'll keep themselves 
occupied for hours.  They go crazy for the stuff.  Cats get high off catnip.  
I once witnessed Flopsy run around in circles for thirty minutes straight and 
then collapse in exhaustion after being exposed to it.  

       My question is why isn't catnip illegal?  Why don't cats have to 
conform to the same standards as humans do?

       Can you just picture catnip being illegal: There would be all of these 
good, domesticated cats sneaking out at night and prowling the streets 
looking for their dealer.  They'd walk down an alley, find their dealer and 
exchange their rhinestone collars for catnip.

       I finish pondering the catnip and then walk over to the cat carrier.  
I crouch down  and look at the cat through the plastic bars.  

       He hisses at me.

       I hiss back.

       I loathe this cat.  And it's not even entirely due to the sinister 
looks he always gives me.  He has scratched me, bitten me, peed on my leg, 
and I swear one of his hisses sounded like 'Josh will die' once.

       I sigh, as I undo the latch.  He immediately runs out and through my 
legs.  He proceeds to run amok.  

     Fluffy jumps from the couch to the recliner, then to the coffee table.  
My eyes widen in horror, as he knocks my glass of ice cold beer over. 

      I am not ashamed to admit that a tear comes to my eye as the beer lands 
on my rug.  I cry not for the rug, but for the beer.  I can't stand to see 
alcohol wasted.

       Fluffy then runs into the kitchen and jumps up on the counter.  I can 
hear a plate crash to the floor.  I run into the kitchen to capture the 
mongrel, but he eludes me.  He scampers down the hall and into the bathroom.  
I follow after him and then slam the door closed behind him.  

       Ha!  Now he's my prisoner.  

       I talk to him through the door, "I'll let you out when you think you 
can behave."

       Yeah, I'm sure he's considering his actions right now.  

       I walk to the kitchen and fill one bowl with water and one with dry 
food.  I return to the door and get down on my knees.  After three attempts 
at pushing the bowls under the door, I give up.  I slowly turn the doorknob 
and open up the door only enough to fit the bowls through.  

       I notice something, however, as I listen carefully and look around. 
He's nowhere in sight and it's very quiet.

       Too quiet. 

       I'm just about to enter the bathroom, when I see an airborne cat 
hurling himself at my head.  Apparently, he had perched himself on my 
counter, at a spot where I couldn't see him, and had waited until the perfect 
moment.  Then he pounced.

       The cat lands on my head, his claws digging into my scalp.  I shriek 
(like a girl, I admit) and immediately jump to my feet.  I then proceed to 
run around in circles, while vigorously shaking my head back and forth.  

       Unfortunately, this cat's got a grip like Hercules.  Finally, after 
what seems like hours of running, shrieking, hair (mine) flying every which 
way, and a brief prayer to God that I will be an honest man if he ends this, 
the cat apparently tires of torturing me and simply jumps off my head.  

       I collapse to the ground and begin to whimper.  

       (Note to God: I'm a politician, I lie a lot.)

      After recovering from my ordeal and coming to terms with the fact that 
I now have considerably less hair than I did before, my eyes land on the cat. 

       I've decided to call him Satan's Minion.  I hope nobody has a problem 
with that.  

     I follow Satan's Minion down the hall and watch as he stops at my 
bedroom  door.  He glances back at me, offers me a devilish (yeah, that's 
right) look and then enters my bedroom.  I walk to my doorway and am just 
about to enter the room, when the door slams in my face.  

       My eye widen in shock.  

       How the hell did he do that?

       Ah yes, he's one of Satan's minions.  He has the help of the Dark One. 
He has the strength of ten men.

       Okay, so maybe that's a bit far-fetched, but I'm at a loss.  How does 
a eight pound fleebag slam a solid oak door closed that was wide open?

       I'm back to the Satan's minion explanation.  

       I drop my head and walk to the living room.  The truth is, and I am 
ashamed to admit this, but I am now terrified of this cat.   I fear that he 
will somehow open my bedroom door and scratch my eyes out as I sleep.  

     Therefore, I have done something drastic:  I've locked myself in my hall 
closet and assumed the fetal position.

* * * *

       It's morning by the time I venture out of my hall closet.  That wasn't 
the best night's sleep I've ever had.  It's a little crowded in here.  I'm 
not the neatest person who's ever walked the planet. 

     I slept amidst hangers, clothes, shoes, and, curiously, a banana and 
bologna sandwich.   I was hungry, so I examined the banana and bologna 
sandwich to determine if they were still edible.  (Note: Still edible to me 
means less than two weeks old and no more than a quarter of it, if 
applicable, covered with mold.)  Half of the sandwich was covered in mold, so 
I opted for the banana.   A strange smell also disrupted my beauty rest.  It 
was combination of stinky shoes, bananas and a moldy bologna sandwich.

       Anyway, I finally emerge from the closet this morning.  I tiptoe down 
the hall towards my bedroom and am astonished to find the door wide open.

       What the hell?!

     Okay, this cat is seriously freaking me out.  I mean, now he can turn 
doorknobs?

       I run a hand through my hair and emit a loud moan.  

       I walk to my bathroom to shower and then change.

       A half an hour later, I'm in a much better mood.  I've decided that I 
no longer care about the cat.  I don't care where he is.  I don't care if he 
eats or drinks.  I don't care.  I've left him food and water, I've done my 
job.  Now, he can fend for himself.  I cannot wait until Donna comes home 
tomorrow night.  

       I proceed to go about my day.  I go into the kitchen and fix myself a 
proper breakfast.  After eating, I call Sam up.

       "Hey, buddy, you want to come over to my place and watch my Mets kick 
your Giants asses this afternoon?"

       Sam smiles, "Sure, I'll be over at 1."

      I hang up the phone and continue to go about my day, without a care in 
the world.  Carefree.  Free as a bird.  

       I fear not the cat, I care not about the cat.

       I pass the time by 'tidying' my place.  By tidying I mean moving my 
dirty clothes from the couch to the floor and putting the cap back on my 
toothpaste.   

       The phone rings just as I'm about to go relax on the couch and watch 
some television.  I pick up on the second ring.

       "Hello?"

       "Hi, Josh."

       I narrow my eyes and say coldly, "Donnatella."

       She senses something is wrong, "What did you do?"

       "What did *I* do?  Your cat has nearly ruined my life." 

       Okay, so that was a little melodramatic and...well...entirely untrue.  
But I have to lay it on thick if I want any pity.

       "Josh, stop being so dramatic.  I am sure the cat has been no trouble 
at all."

       "No trouble at all?  He knocked over my beer, Donna."

       "Oh, heavens, how tragic."

      "Fine, mock me.  But there are men in this world who have no beer.  
Think about them."

       "Yes, Josh, and for just 75 cents a day you can sponsor a beerless man 
and give him the alcohol he so desperately needs."

       "I'm hanging up now."

       "Okay, okay.  Tell me what else he did."

      "He broke one of my plates.  He attacked me.  I'm talking, a scene from 
"The Birds", only with a cat.  He then slammed my door shut!  A cat slammed 
my door shut!  What the hell do you feed that thing?  Or, as I suspect, is he 
one of Satan's minions?"

       I can hear Donna burst into laughter.  She doesn't even attempt to 
disguise it.  That's a tad insulting.

       "Donna!" I yell.

       She finally recovers long enough to say, "I'm sorry, Josh, but you act 
like you're being terrorized by a cat.  This isn't some really bad horror 
movie."

       "Fine, don't believe me.  Just pick Beelzebub up promptly at 8:00 pm 
tomorrow night."

       "Ah, he's been promoted from one of Satan's minions to the devil 
himself.  Impressive."

       "Good-bye," I grumble into the phone and slam it down. 

      I continue to mutter beneath my breath as I go over to the couch and 
flop down on it.

     I spend the rest of the time until Sam arrives watching the public 
access channel.  What can I say?  Some habits are hard to break.  

       At precisely 1:00 pm my doorbell rings.  I walk to the door and shake 
my head at my best friend.  "Annoyingly prompt as always, Sam."

       Sam smiles, as he walks past me and surveys my apartment, 
"Disgustingly sloppy as always, Josh."

       "Welcome to my humble abode," I say with a flourish of my hand, as I 
close the door. 

       Sam makes himself comfortable on the couch, as I head to kitchen. 
"Beer?"

       "Yeah, thanks."

       I go over to the refrigerator and remove two beers from it.  I enter 
back into the living room and hand Sam his beer.  

       He points to the cat carrier, as I settle into my recliner.  "What's 
that about?"

       I roll my eyes.  "I'm taking care of Donna's cat this weekend.  She 
had to go to her Great-aunt's funeral in Wisconsin."

       "And she asked *you* to take care of him?"

       I feign a smile, "Yes, me.  I am perfectly capable of taking care of a 
cat for a couple of days, Sam."

       "You killed a pet rock, Josh.  I didn't even think that was possible."

       "It was smashed to pieces.  I don't see how that could be my fault."

       "You hit it with a hammer!"

       I smile and then shrug, as I lean back and pull the handle on the side 
of the recliner so that the leg rest pops up.  "Well, I have nothing to do 
with the cat now.  He's on his own.  I don't care about him.  I haven't even 
seen him all day."

       Sam nods and then says, "Got any chips?"

       I bob my head and use my feet to slam the leg rest back in place. 

       Strange.  That seemed a bit harder to do than usual.

       And what was that little shriek I heard?

       I look over at Sam, whose face has gone white.

       Oh. My. God.

       This is not happening.

       I shake my head at him, "It wasn't-..."

     He interrupts me by nodding furiously and pointing to a little bit of 
white fur sticking out from under the recliner.  "It was."

       I jump up from the recliner and begin to panic.  This can't be 
happening.  No God could be this cruel!   Please, don't let this be happening.

       I look over at Sam, "Do you think he's dead?"

       He shrugs, "I don't know."

       "Go check."

       "Me?!  Why do I have to do it?"

       "Because I may have just killed my assistant's cat!  I'm in a fragile 
place right now!"  

       "I'm not doing it," Sam says with a firm shake of his head.

       I study Sam for a moment, realizing that I need to appeal to his 
weakness:  the fact that he is one of the nicest, most sensitive men you 
could ever meet.  

       "Sam, if he's not dead then we have to bring him to the vet.  He needs 
help.  If he is dead, than he deserves a proper burial."

       Sam looks at me with a certain amount of contempt and then mutters 
softly, "Damn".  He pauses and then adds, "That was cheap, Josh.  That was 
cheap even for you."

       I shrug.  A man's got to do what a man's got to do.

       Sam walks over to the recliner and carefully lifts the leg rest up.  
He looks quickly and then slams it closed again.  He looks at me solemnly, 
"He's dead."

       I run a hand through my hair and shake my head.  

       I am so incredibly screwed right now.
  

* * * Present Day * * * 


       And that's where you guys came in.  

      A half an hour after the death, the animal hospital came to remove the 
body of the cat and I gave them my permission to bury it in their pet 
cemetery.  

      I spent the rest of that day denying that anything had happened.  Sam 
stayed with me, repeatedly reminding me of the incident.  

     It is now 10:00 am on Sunday and Donna is expected here in 10 hours.  I 
have now accepted the fact that I killed Donna's cat and decided that I need 
a plan.

     First, Sam helps me carry my recliner outside and place it on the curb.  
That object, which once held so many happy memories, only reminds me of how 
incredibly screwed I am right now.

      Don't get me wrong, I am not entirely selfish.  I feel really bad about 
Fluffy dying. 

      But I must carry on and try to save my own ass.

      I look at Sam, "We have to go to the pet store."

      "Josh, no."

      "Sam, I am not telling Donna that I killed her cat in a freak recliner 
accident."

      "Why?  That's what happened.  I witnessed it."

      "I know, but she'll never believe that.  I just finished telling her 
how much I hate the thing."

      "So, maybe you subconsciously-..."

      "Sam!"

      "I'm just saying-..."

      "Don't just say.  That's the kind of help that's going to do me in."

      "Do me in?  When did this turn into a Western movie?"

      I ignore him and begin to walk down the street.  "I'm going to the pet 
store.  Come, don't come, it's entirely up to you."

      I can hear him sigh in defeat and then break into a jog to catch up 
with me.  He joins me at my side.  "Fine, I'll go with you.  But I'd just 
like to say that I am totally opposed to this.  It goes against all of my 
morals and values.  It violates the common decency that we, as a society, 
should-..."

      I roll my eyes, cutting him off, "Yeah, yeah, I get it.  You're not for 
it."

      Sam snaps his mouth shut and remains silent the rest of the way to the 
store.  

      We enter the store and head towards the cat section.  To my dismay, 
there are only two cats left.  One is a humongous orange and white striped 
cat.  It could never pass as Fluffy.  He had long white hair and weighed 
about half as much.

      The other was a black cat who looked to be about the same size as 
Fluffy.

      Sam looks at me, "Well, let's go. None of these cats could pass for 
Fluffy."

      I shake my head, "Not so fast.  That black one could work."

      Sam's eyes widen.  "I know you're not the most observant guy in the 
world, Josh, but Fluffy was white."

      "I know."

      "So?"

      "Have you ever seen the movie 'Meet the Parents', Sam?"

      "No."

      "Well, you should, it's really very good.  Anyway, in that movie Ben 
Stiller's character loses his fiancees' family cat.  He finds a cat that is 
identical except for a slightly different tail.  So, he sprays the cat's tail 
to resemble that of the lost one."

      Sam's eyes nearly fall out of his head.  "You're not suggesting that 
we...Josh, this cat is entirely black.  We couldn't possibly spray paint a 
cat all white."

      Josh nods, "No, of course not."

      "Oh, thank God."

      "I'm going to pour flour all over it."

      "What?!"

      "Flour.  You know, used in the making of bread and-..."

      "I know what flour is!"

      "So then why did you ask?"

      "I was expressing shock at the fact that you plan to flour a cat.  It 
won't work, Josh."

      "Well, we're going to find out.  This cat's got long hair, Sam.  It 
should hold the flour well."

      At this point, Sam grabs me by the shoulders and looks me straight in 
the eye. "Josh, you've lost it.  I can't allow you to do this."

      I drop my head. He's right.  I've gone insane.  How could I have 
thought that would work?"

      "You're right," I agree.  

      He sighs in relief, "Thank God.  Now let's go home and prepare a speech 
for you to give Donna as an explanation."

      "No, we're going to another pet store."

      "Josh!"  I hear him exclaim, as I walk past him and head out the door.

      The next store is only a few blocks away and I make it there in record 
time.  Sam catches up to me, huffing and puffing.  

      "You can't do this."

      "I can and I will."

      "Why can't you just tell Donna the truth?"

      "Because she will hate me forever, Sam!   I'll lose my assistant and 
friend."

      "She'll understand."

      I shake my head and step towards the door, but Sam moves to block my 
path.

      "I kindly ask that you step aside, Sam."

      "I won't let you do this."

      I sigh and then smile as an idea hits me.  I turn to my right and point 
down the block, "Hey, is Tootie from 'The Facts of Life'?"

       "Where?" Sam says excitedly, as he steps forward and whips his head in 
that direction.

      I take this opportunity to maneuver past him and enter the store. I 
hear him scream, "Damn!", before he follows me inside.

      I hurry to the cat section at the back of the store and survey my 
options.  

      Aha!  They have one that looks like Fluffy!  He's about the same size 
and color.  

      I gesture to one of the employees, as Sam shoots me disapproving looks. 
"I'll take that one."

      "Yes, sir," she says.

      She removes the cat from his cage and proceeds to prepare it to go.  I 
pay the cashier and then receive instructions on proper care and 
recommendations for food, litter and health care.

      I nod, as we leave the store with the cat. 

      Sam is silent for quite some time, until he finally says, "You're going 
to hell for this, you know."

      "Sam, if this is the worst thing I do in the course of my life, then 
I'll consider myself a pretty decent human being."

      "Satan's playground.  That's where you're going."

* * * *
     
       It's been 26 hours since Fluffy met his demise.  

      Fluffy Part Deux, as I've taken to calling her, is doing just fine.  
We've known each other for a few hours now and we're getting along well.  And 
she's a much better roommate.  

     We've actually been bonding.  We watched a production of 'CATS' this 
afternoon on PBS.  We both agreed that the cats were not realistic 
interpretations.

      At 5:00 pm, the phone rings.  I go to answer it.

      "Hello?"

       "Hi, Josh."

      I swallow hard. "Hi, Donna.  Um, how's it going?"

      "Everything's fine.  I'm on my way home.  I should be there around 8:00 
pm, just as you requested."

      "Oh, no rush, take your time."

      "What?  Yesterday, you couldn't wait to get rid of him.  Now you're 
completely content?  What happened?"

      "Uh...we...Uh...We reached an understanding.  He promised to stop 
leaving the toilet seat up if I promised to stop licking myself."

      "Very funny.  Now try the truth."

      "Nothing happened, Donna.  We've been staying out of each other's way, 
that's all."

      Wow, I've really become good at this lying thing.  I almost believe me.

      There's still a hint of suspicion in her voice, as she replies, "Okay, 
fine.  I'll see you in a little while."

      "Okay."

      "Oh and Josh?"

      "Yeah?"

      "Thanks."

      "Yeah," I say softly and then hang up.
      
      Damn, why did she have to sound so appreciative.  I'd very nearly 
suppressed all guilty feelings until then.  

      Oh well, that's okay.  It's passed.

* * * *

      3 hours later, my doorbell rings.  I take a deep breath and go to 
answer it.  Donna smiles back at me.

      "Hi, Josh."

      "Hi...Uh, come in."

      She walks past me and immediately goes over to the couch to pick up 
Fluffy.  

       "How's my boy?" she says.

      I stand across from her uncomfortably, as she cradles the cat in her 
arms.  

      My heart skips a beat, however, when she looks down at him and says, 
"Now what's this?"

      Oh no.  Oh God.  Please, don't let her figure it out.

      I look over at her and am relieved to find that she is admiring the 
ribbon I tied around his neck.   (What?  Male cats can't look a little fancy, 
too?)

      She looks up at me, "You put this on him?"

      "Well, he has a date with a wild Persian down the hall tonight.  He 
wanted to look his best."

      Donna smiles and says softly, "That was sweet."

      There it is again.  That pang.  

      What is it called again?  

       Yes, that's right. 

       Guilt.

      Donna begins to move around the room, gathering the cat's belongings.  
I help her and then walk her to the door.  

      She smiles again, "Thanks so much for doing this, Josh. I know you 
didn't want to.  I really appreciate it."

      "It was my pleasure.  If you ever need someone to take care of Fluffy 
again feel free to...call someone else," I finish with a grin.

      Donna laughs and nods.  She then bids me good-bye and disappears down 
the hall. 

      I let out a sigh of relief, as a lean against my door.

      I did it.  I fooled her.  She'll never know.  Everybody wins.  
      
      Donna is spared pain and I, in turn, am spared pain.

      I am da man.


* * * Three weeks later * * * 

             
      There is a banging at my door.  A loud, violent banging.  

      It's 3:00 am and I have to force my eyes open.  I try to rub the sleep 
out of them to no avail.

      I slowly get out of bed and head to my door.  I stop dead in my tracks, 
two feet away from the door.

      "Open the door, Josh!  I know you're in there," Donna screams.
      
      Oh no.  Oh no.  Oh no.  

      I freeze and try to remain perfectly still.

      "Open up!  I know what you did, Joshua!"

      How could she possibly know?

      Sam! 
      
      That dirty rat.  Is a pinky swear no longer sacred?

      "Did you think I wouldn't notice that my male cat is now female?!"

      My mouth drops open.

      What?!

      You've got to be kidding me.  

      "It was kind of a dead giveaway when she went into labor two hours ago!"

      Damn!  

      This keeps getting worse and worse.  I knew it was too good to be true.

      "Open the damn door, Josh!"

      Okay, so what I decided to do next probably wasn't the best of choices, 
but I panicked.  "No habla ingles!"

      I can hear her snicker and her voice drops to an eerily calm tone, 
"Fine, don't open the door.  I'll just leave this gift outside your door.  
You know, as a thank you."

      I raise my eyebrows at that.  Hm, maybe she's come around.  Maybe she's 
glad that she now has a whole littler of kittens to keep her company.

      I wonder what she got me.  

      A Piazza jersey maybe?  That DVD set of 'Clarissa Explains It All?'  
(Don't laugh.  Clarissa was very wise. I learned a lot from her.)  Oh!  Maybe 
it's that combination radio/tv/cd player I saw a couple of months ago.

      The suspense is killing me!

      I throw the door open and drop my gaze to the floor.  

      Oh. My. God.

      She wouldn't.  She didn't. 

      Sitting at my feet in a basket, are six white kittens.  

      She would.  She did.

      I am so totally screwed.




THE END

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