Ten Ways to Your Cat’s Happiness

Evan looked out the window, stamped out a cigarette, checked on his cats, and finally decided to take the plunge. He dialed the number quickly, and he heard Charles Loundering answer the phone at Loundering Publicity.

“Mr. Loundering,” Evan said. “I’m very glad to speak to you. My name is Evan McGorkle, and I’m a writer with two published books. Maybe you’ve heard my name.”

“McGurkle? I don’t think so. Probably I’d remember it.”

Evan gave a nervous laugh. “Yes, it’s McGorkle, actually. Why don’t you just call me Evan?” Before Loundering could cut him off, he hurried on. “I’m calling you because I have a new book, and I’ve read how your work turned a couple of books into best sellers.”

“Yes, that did happen. What’s your new book?”

“It’s about how to make your cat happy. Ten different ways.”

“No fooling,” said Loundering in a tone that sounded skeptical.

“It’ll capitalize on the craze for self-help books, see. I envision a small volume with cute drawings, sitting on the checkout counter.”

“Who’s your publisher, Mr. McGo … Evan?”

Evan took a deep breath. “That’s the thing. I don’t totally have a publisher just yet.”

“What about your first publishers?”

“Those books were historical romances, and I want to do something … with wider appeal.”

“Are you saying that those sales were not great?”

Evan’s voice softened. “You could say that.”

A brief silence fell over the conversation. “You know I’m not a publisher. I publicize books that a publisher … publishes.”

“Of course, Charles. It’s okay if I call you Charles? I know that, but if a publisher knows that the Loundering Agency is handling the publicity, he’s bound to want the book.”

“In other words, you imagine that I will find you a publisher.”

“And join in the profits!”

“That’s quite irregular. Give me a sample of your book on making your cat happy.”

“If your cat decides to sit on your keyboard while you’re typing, leave him and go do something else.”

Loundering sounded as if he might be suppressing a cough. “One more?”

“If your cat leaves you no room on your bed, move to the sofa.”

“Any others?”

“Sure. If your cat wants to sleep on your head at night, be sure not to disturb him.”

“It seems that the cat’s happiness comes at the expense of the owner’s.”

“Well, not always.”

A renewed silence led Evan to imagine that Loundering was mulling over the idea. He tapped a pencil rapidly on his desk.

“How do you know so much about cats, Evan?”

“I have two of my own. Mickey and Falina. They’re siblings.”

“Are they happy?”

“If only you could see them running around the apartment.” Evan ignored the fact that, at that moment, Mickey was cringing in the corner, ill. “How do you feel about cats?”

Loundering’s voice seemed to drop. “My wife and I have three—maybe three too many. Our daughters keep bringing them home.”

“There, Charles! You and thousands of others are the market for my book.”

“Evan, I imagine that, like many writers, you are in need of money.”

“Well, yes.”

“Do you have any idea of my rates?”

“Actually, I don’t. A lot of your authors are famous, so probably you can charge them a bundle. I’m different. I have a weird name but a good idea. I hope you’d take this as a challenge, a little adventure.”

The absence of a refusal made Evan’s pulse speed up.

“I’m not sure, not at all sure, but the truth is that business is slow right now. Beth, my assistant, is back from lunch, so I’ll connect you with her. She’ll make an appointment. Bring your manuscript.”

“That’s really wonderful, Charles. Many thanks! Yeah, that’s wonderful. You won’t be sorry!”

The phone line went quiet, and Evan’s fingers continued to drum uneasily around the top of his desk. Since Loundering had answered his own phone, Evan wondered whether he and Beth were the only ones in that office. Finally Beth came on the line. “Mr. Loundering could see you next Monday at ten A.M., Mr. McGurkle,” she said.

“Thank you, Beth, so much. By the way, if you don’t mind, my name is McGorkle.”

“We’ll see you Monday, Mr. McGurkle.”

“I’ll be right on time.”

Evan waited until he had hung up the receiver, and then shouted at his cats in a burst of joy. “Hear that, kids? A date with Loundering. All right!” Mickey, ailing in a corner, shot him a look of alarm. As celebration, Evan stretched up to a high kitchen cabinet where he kept a package of cigarettes out of easy reach. Taking out one more, he lit it and crossed back to the window in his living room, smiling that the risk he had taken had paid off. He looked down on three or four Columbia University students raising their collars and huddling together for shelter against a wind rushing from the Hudson River. Did any of them have cats, and were their cats happy? Maybe he should find out the ways they made them happy and see if that would work for him….