Pets.

23Mar08

It wasn’t that Brock disliked animals. Really, it wasn’t. Actually, he was a bit of pet person, if he said so himself.

It was that he disliked Molotov’s animals. In a twist he had never expected, Molotov actually loved animals, but had never owned one before; when she was young, her father didn’t allow pets, she explained, and then she had never really had someone to keep watch over a dog or cat while she was off killing people in different countries.

So it made perfect sense that, as soon as she got Brock to move in and take care of her daily life, she got a dog, a massive Black Russian Terrier that she named Beria. Fittingly, this dog hated Brock with a passion, even though Brock was the one that fed and cleaned up after it. Beria would regularly attack Brock, snarled if he got within ten feet of Molotov, and was just generally a furious creature.

Molotov was none too happy either, not when Brock locked the dog out of the bedroom because it had bit him on the leg as he fucked his own wife. “He thought you were hurting me!” she exclaimed, shoving Brock off of her to go into the hall and cuddle with her dog. “He is a good boy, da, a good boy,” she cooed, her arms around its neck and her back to Brock as she scratched the dog’s back. Sighing frustratedly, Brock went to the bathroom to take care of things himself; he swore he saw the dog smirking as it panted, tongue out. When he came back, Molotov was asleep in bed, and the damn dog was lying in Brock’s spot, softly growling as he neared it.

Brock went to sleep in the guest room.

After a few months of this ridiculousness, Molotov decided it was time for a change. The problem, as she saw it, was obviously that Brock was jealous of her relationship with Beria. And of course he was! She could honestly kick herself for not realising it sooner. Brock was used to being her dog! His position had been usurped, and it was completely understandable that now he felt lonely and abandoned. And so, she decided to make it right.

“Brock!” she howled one afternoon, walking back into the house, tightly clutching a large purse.

“Huh?” he answered, walking out of the kitchen, wiping his hands off with a dish rag. “I’m fixing the sink, thought you went shopping.”

“I did,” she answered, smiling.

“What’d you get, you don’t have any bags…”

Molotov turned and unzipped her bag, then reached in and drew out a small kitten, grey with tiger stripes, a collar with a bell around its neck. “His name is Krushchev,” she said happily, thrusting the animal towards her husband. “For you.”

Confused, Brock accepted the cat, which meowed and placed its front paws in the centre of his chest. “Um, where did you get him?” he asked.

“From a woman,” Molotov answered vaguely, placing her purse on the table.

“Uh-huh. And why?”

“Because I don’t want you to be lonely and jealous,” she said, crossing her arms. “I have Beria, and now you have Krushchev, you should be happy.”

“I don’t even get to name my own cat?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered. “Of course you do… but this one is already named, so I suppose you are stuck with it.”

Krushchev meowed again, then curled up in Brock’s palm and started purring. Brock sighed. “Mol,” he started slowly, looking first at the cat and then at his wife. “I’m not… I’m not really a cat person.”

“Of course you are,” she said brusquely, lighting a cigarette. “Look at you, you are getting along splendidly with him.” She turned around and walked back into the living room .

Brock sighed again — Molotov was so difficult sometimes! “No, baby,” he started again, pacing his words. “Look… you can’t just take animals from strangers. He’s real cute and all, and I appreciate where you were going with it, but he might have worms or fleas or something horrible, do you want Beria to get a disease from him?”

Molotov shook her head, then pushed her hair over her shoulder. “Nyet, he was seen by the vet. Krushchev is completely healthy. A little underweight, but healthy.”

Of course. Brock frowned, then went the other route. “Well, we don’t have the right stuff for a cat, babydoll…” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “You need like, a litter box, and a scratching pole, and cat food, and all kinds of other stuff, he won’t be happy here.”

She shook her head again. “It’s all in the trunk, I went to the pet store right after I went to the vet. You can go get his things while he sleeps,” she told Brock, taking Krushchev from him and clutching the kitten to her chest. “He will be very happy here,” she said, voice growing softer as she looked down at the cat and scratched behind its ears.

Brock was getting desperate; if there was anything he didn’t want, it was a cat. “What about Beria?” he asked, believing that there was no way she could already love the cat as much as she did her precious dog. “I bet Beria won’t like having a little kitten around, what if they fight? The cat’ll die, Beria’s too big.”

Molotov looked thoughtful for a moment, then whistled for Beria. The dog bounded in from the backyard, his tongue hanging out. Smiling, Molotov scratched under his chin for a moment before sitting down on the floor and placing the cat in front of the dog; the cat stirred from sleep when the dog stuck its snout in his face. They sniffed at each other for a moment, nose to nose, then the dog licked the top of the cat’s head and lumbered off.

Grinning at her husband, Molotov went back to petting the kitten. “Nyet, it will be fine,” she said, still sitting on the floor. “Go get Krushchev’s things, and then you can play with him until it is time to make dinner.”

Brock gritted his teeth — she was talking to him like he was a damn child — but turned on his heel to go out to the garage and get cat stuff out of the trunk of the Viper. He heard a bell jingling behind him. The cat had followed.

Of course. With Brock’s luck, it only made sense.

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