Princess’s gray fur was just the tiniest bit lighter, and she was one pound smaller than her brother. Otherwise they looked so similar it was hard to know which one was which unless they were sitting side by side.
However, they were equally fussy and full of spite.
The cats looked away from me, stood, then stalked across the two-foot gap between them, Prince making for Princess’s bowl, while Princess closed in on Prince’s fish platter.
“No! You can’t swap food!” I picked up Princess, who sagged from my grasp, and grabbed her ceramic bowl. I carried her across the sitting room, to the edge of the kitchen—which was about five steps away. She meowed angrily as I set her down.
I ignored it and slid the ceramic bowl in front of her. “You have the fancy allergy food. Prince has the prescription level diet food. You cannot switch, or you’ll get sick and he’ll get fatter!”
Princess gave me a look of disgust, then bolted—moving as fast as lightning despite her portly heft.
I grabbed Prince as he made a beeline for Princess’s ceramic bowl and hauled him back to his fish dish where Princess was eating so fast her breathing was wheezy.
“No—you can’t eat that!” I set Prince down and picked up Princess. Her extra rolls of skin draped over my arm as I walked her back to the kitchen and desperately, because I didn’t want to clean up cat puke in the middle of the night, stuck Princess on top of the table, then grabbed her bowl and put it in front of her.
Princess looked from me to the bowl.
I scratched my nose as I watched for any sign that she might bolt. “Does it displease Your Highness?”
Princess strutted across the table and leaned over the side so she could rub her face against my arm. She purred, then wandered back to her food dish, pausing at my plastic cup of water I’d poured for myself when I got home.
She poked her tail high and peered back at me.
“Don’t—”
Using a white mittened paw, Princess pushed the glass off the table, spilling water everywhere.
She purred, then immediately settled down to eat her food.
I sighed. “Of course. That’ll teach me.” I suspiciously turned around, but Prince was innocently crunching on his diet kibble.
Shaking my head, I grabbed a dish towel and started cleaning up the mess—at least it was just water, and given the size of my place the cats could only do so much damage.
My cottage was small, but wolves spent so much time at the lodge, larger homes were unnecessary—particularly for a pair of retired wolves, given that Mama Dulce and Papa Santos had built this place long before I was around.
A tiny loft bedroom—where I slept—with a beautiful view of the forest occupied the small second floor of the cottage, while the main floor held a small sitting area, the compact kitchen, the only bathroom, and a slightly larger bedroom that had belonged to my adopted parents.
My loft bedroom had wooden slat walls and smelled faintly of wood, while the main floor had cherry wood floors that mysteriously never got scratched—even though I’d roller bladed through the house on more than one occasion—and a cute little stone fireplace topped with my only TV. The wallpaper in the sitting area was faded, and the tiny, three-seater table Princess had taken up residence on was so old a lot of the varnish covering it had been rubbed off, but I’d never buy a replacement table—I had too many memories of making cookies with Papa Santos and watching Mama Dulce make tamales wrapped in corn leaves there.
I’d inherited the cottage from them—though it technically belonged to the Pack, I’d be able to stay there rent free for as long as I wanted.
Once I finished cleaning up the water I got dinner ready for myself—a frozen pizza, because I am a fancy person—and watched the cats eat the last of their food as the pizza baked in the oven.
When the Bedevilments were almost finished with their food, I snuck over to the cupboard that had their ridiculously expensive food, treats, and various medications. It was strapped shut with a bungee cord because they’d gotten inside before and ripped open bags of treats.
After prying the cupboard open, I got out a cream I had to smear on lucky Princess’s rear, then got my disposable gloves—because there was no way I was doing this bare handed.
Gloves on and with the cream hidden behind my back, I casually strolled back to the table where Princess was licking out her dish.
I made a grab for her, but she skittered off so fast I only brushed the tip of her tail.
Considering her size, she was able to scuttle across the floor at a physics-defying pace, and evaded me as she ran into the bedroom my adopted parents used to occupy, scurrying under their empty bed.
“Princess, come on.” I dropped to my belly and peered under the bed frame at the cat crouched there. “You need this cream, or your rear is going to hurt and you’ll try to pluck out all your hair again. Come here, kitty, kitty,” I called in a singsong voice.
Princess didn’t appreciate the vocals. She shuffled so her massive rear was pointed in my direction.
I had to wriggle under the bed and grab her by the scruff. When I hauled her out I tried to adjust my grip on her and she slipped free, streaking back under the bed.
It took me two more tries before I caught her, got her pinned between my legs and the cap off the prescription cream before I swung her around and discovered it was not Princess, but Prince.
I sat back on my heels and groaned as Prince ran off.
“Why me?” I asked my ceiling. “What did I ever do to deserve the Bedevilments?”
Prince and Princess were a pair of cats that Mama Dulce and Papa Santos had adopted when I was a senior in high school. The pair were a brother and sister from the same litter, and had been spoiled horribly since they came to live among wolves.
Unfortunately, the despotic twins had been the pride and joy of Papa Santos. I would never give them up—even if they dripped my bank account dry with their expensive food and costly vet bills. (And yes, even if I had to apply creams to their rears.)
I found Princess—sitting in the doorway and watching my struggle with Prince with glee, apparently—and wiped the cream on her. I’d thrown out the gloves and was washing my hands when the doorbell rang.
“Coming!” I wiped my hands off on my shirt since I’d used my towels drying up the cup-mess Princess had made, and walked toward the door, nearly tripping on Prince when he decided to dart across my path—probably an attempt to do me in so he and Princess could have the cottage to themselves.
I was a bit of a sweaty mess when I swung the door open, blinking when I realized it wasn’t a human that had rung my doorbell, but a wolf.
A large, white wolf.
“Greyson,” I said. “What do you want?”
I maneuvered my hand so I could slam the door shut on him if needed. A couple times a year the wolves would yank me from my cottage to chase/hunt/“play” with me without any preparation on my end.
Hector insisted it was to teach me to be prepared for a fight at any moment.