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“Of course you can’t be lab partners for this project,” said Mrs. Howitzer in science class.
Angus and Billy looked at each other. “Why not?” they asked in unison.
“I don’t believe you need me to answer that question, but I will. Angus, your science grades are, not to put too fine a point on it, in the toilet. And Billy, yours are on the rim trying not to get sucked into the vortex.”
“Huh?” said Billy.
“Remember the week we were working on recording our scientific findings? One of you was supposed to wear a blindfold and describe different foods using senses other than vision while the other took notes. Your classmates actually did the assignment. Do you remember what you two turned in?”
“No,” said Angus and looked at Billy. Billy was studiously examining his hi-tops.
“Look.” Mrs. Howitzer slapped a piece of paper down on her desk. Angus saw the left-sloping scrawl that was his best friend’s handwriting. If Billy had been the scribe, that meant that BP had performed the experiment. Uh oh. He read, “Stop moving One-Eye and help me put this stupid blindfold on.”
That wasn’t so bad, thought Angus.
And then he continued reading: “What is this *#?&% slop that old battle ax is making us *#?&% eat? It smells like *#?&%! No *#?&% way is that going anywhere near my *#?&% mouth.”
The notes got worse from there. Angus blanched and shoved the paper back to Mrs. Howitzer.
“Um, I guess I wasn’t feeling quite myself that day,” Angus said sheepishly.
“And your lab partner certainly didn’t help matters any. Why did you write all that down and hand it in, Billy? What were you thinking?” Billy continued staring at his shoes and shrugged. “That’s why I asked you to switch roles the next time we did an experiment,” continued Mrs. Howitzer. “But that didn’t help matters much either, did it?”
Angus thought about Gus. Based on what he’d learned about Gus when he’d been in the primitive world, Gus would have been a responsible guy, not prone to cursing and rude behavior like BP was. He would have done what was asked of him, been kind, and worked hard. How bad could that assignment have been?
And then he looked at the paper. Random crease lines indicated that the paper had been crumpled and then smoothed out. A strange brown color, the paper was poked full of holes where someone had pressed too hard with a pencil. Squiggles and lines covered the page. There were some rudimentary stick figures holding what looked to be bows and arrows running from a flying creature with a mouth full of pointed teeth. Pretty bad. Gus was illiterate. And then a ray of hope.
“Our names aren’t on this,” said Angus. “How do you know this is our work?”
“It was given to me in this.” With the end of her pen, Mrs. Howitzer picked up a small dried piece of leather shaped like a tiny bag. Angus and Billy leaned over her desk and peered closely at the specimen.
“What is that?” asked Billy.
“Is that ...” began Angus.
“The stomach of a small mammal, probably an opossum. Yes, in fact. It appears to be,” said Mrs. Howitzer. “So you see, gentlemen. This week, I do not want to read epithets. I do not want to unwrap the innards of a marsupial to view a picture my three-year old granddaughter could have drawn. I want to receive a scientific explanation of your experiment. That is why Billy, you will work with Patricia, and Angus, you will work with Ivy.”
Two feminine groans from across the classroom made it abundantly clear that Patricia and Ivy didn’t like this plan any more than the boys did.
Dr. Shouyi entered the examination room, Sir Schnortle tucked under an arm. “Oh, are we trying a new look?” she asked.
Mrs. Clark adjusted the cowboy hat on top of her head. “Well, my son likes it.”
“How is your son? Doing well in school?” She plunked Sir Schnortle on the examination table. He crept slowly away from her and flattened himself against the wall.
“Oh yes. Straight A’s like always,” lied Mrs. Clark.
“Good. Good. So, about Sir Schnortle here.” The cat regarded the veterinarian with a baleful eye.
“Yes?”
“I thought we had discussed a diet for him.”
“Yes. I bought him the diet food you recommended, and I fed him exactly the amount you said.”
“And nothing else? No treats, no raw meat, no scraps off the table?”
“No, nothing. Why do you ask? How much weight has he lost?”
Dr. Shouyi shook her head. “You remember I told you that obesity is extremely dangerous for cats: It can lead to diabetes, osteoarthritis, respiratory problems, and non-allergic skin conditions.”
“Yes, I remember all that. See? It’s here in my notebook.” Mrs. Clark showed Dr. Shouyi the notes she had taken at Sir Schnortle’s last checkup.
“Somehow he’s gained four pounds.”
“What? How is that even possible?” asked Mrs. Clark. “Did you remember to take off his collar?”
“Yes, I did. Good thing, too: It weighs several pounds on its own. A beautiful collar—those crystals are remarkable—but I don’t recommend keeping it on Sir Schnortle. It’s simply too heavy. But unfortunately, the excess weight is all Sir Schnortle, not his collar. You’re certain that you’re the only one in your home feeding him? He’s not getting extra food from someone else?”
Dr. Shouyi read the confusion on Mrs. Clark’s face and said, “Well, I would ask your family. And if neither your husband nor son has been feeding the cat outside of mealtimes, I recommend reducing his intake a bit more. And absolutely no treats.”
Sir Schnortle growled low in his throat.
Dr. Shouyi scooted the reluctant cat to the middle of the table, pulled up his tail to examine his backside, poked him in the abdomen, and pried open his mouth to check his teeth. Sir Schnortle wiggled and squirmed, but Dr. Shouyi held him fast. The cat’s eyes opened wide and he yowled as he felt a cold metal implement prodding him where no implement should ever go.
“Normal temperature.”
“I don’t know what happened, naughty boy, but you’re still a chubby little man.”
Mrs. Clark slowed the car and stopped at a red traffic light. She looked at the cardboard cat carrier taped, stapled, and buckled up next to her in the passenger’s seat.
“And now I have to give you even less food. I’m sorry little man, but you have to lose weight.”
The light changed to green and Mrs. Clark began driving again. “Dr. Shouyi says you could end up sick with diabetes. You don’t want that, do you my little fat man?”
“If Dr. Shouyi is so smart, why didn’t she tell you I had a deviated septum? That’s why I can never take a decent nap. I’m not getting enough oxygen—all the snoring,” said the box.
Mrs. Clark gasped, clenched the steering wheel, and stared at the box.
“I mean, sheesh. That exam is a little personal, don’t you think? She stuck a thermometer in my butt! Who does that to a person? And I’ve got diarrhea from that diet food you feed me. Do you know how embarrassing that is? Knowing that whoever cleans your litter box sees you have the runs? It’s inhumane.”
Mrs. Clark blanched, gasped for air, and rolled her car into a ditch.