Chapter One
In a snug little bed, situated in a modest two-bedroom house on a tiny plot in a sleepy little suburban community, a mound of golden fur slept snugly. Content in the love and obedience of the man sawing wood just one bed away, the fat, happy cat snored and dreamed . . .
He was in a large, elegant room abuzz with the tinkle of stemware and laughter. Every now and then an orchestra struck up a tune. Beautiful women parading a dizzying array of sparkle and feathers sat side by side with impossibly short, rich men called ?producers,? who were not at all beautiful but paid thousands of dollars for the table.
Dressed to the nine lives in black tie, his bow tie just a bit crooked, the suave orange tabby leaned slowly into the woman seated to his right at the banquet table. She was as beautiful as any girl he?d ever seen . . . dewy and fresh-faced with wide-set brown eyes and sparkling white teeth. She seemed a vision in a pale pink gown, her lips reflecting the color of the roses bursting with life at the center of the table. If anything, she was prettier in person than she was on the big screen, with warm chestnut hair that reflected the soft candlelight flickering amid the flowers.
The tabby brushed a breadcrumb from his cummerbund and inched closer, ears forward, tail swishing in breathless anticipation.
Excuse me, Jennifer, love . . . are you going to eat that?
With one smooth, gulping leap, the cat scarfed the lasagna from her plate, returned to his seat, and proceeded to lick himself as if nothing had happened. You da mannnnn, Stan. He smacked the last of the sauce from his whiskers. She can have my brussels sprouts if she likes.
Suddenly, confusion broke out at the table. The beautiful woman in the pink gown threw her hands together and cried, ?Garfield, that?s you!? as she smooshed him on the head. Other voices chimed in. ?Get up there, Garfield! They?re calling your name!? urged a smiling, mild-looking young man seated across from the dapper feline.
I won? Of course I won. Garfield adjusted his tie and trotted to the podium amid a cheering crowd, practicing his acceptance speech on the way. First I?d like to thank the A-cat-emy, and all my worshipping fans, but mostly I want to thank the man without whom none of this would be possible, that born loser and Saturday night special, Jon Arbuckle, who basks in the glory of my light . . .
Speech rehearsed, Garfield leapt onto the podium and turned to face the audience. The spotlight seared over the heads of the audience and straight to the back of his brain. The applause swelled to a deafening roar. He slammed his eyes shut against the light as his bow tie popped from around his neck and fur stuck straight out at every angle. He sat before the bright, thundering crowd, speechless for perhaps the first time in his life.
Back in the snug little bed, Garfield slowly opened one eye, only to slam it shut against the rising sun pouring through the window. As he struggled toward consciousness, the thunderous applause became the grating buzz of an alarm clock. 7:23 a.m. Garfield swiped a paw, putting an end to the torture and the dream. I?d like morning better if it started later.
He yawned and looked over at the big bed, where Jon Arbuckle slept soundly in bright red-and-white-striped pajamas. Garfield and his human went back many years, all the way to the kitchen of Mama Leone?s Italian restaurant. It was there that the ginger tabby came into this world at a whopping five pounds, six ounces, adopted a short while later by the eager young bachelor who fled the farm to make his mark in the big suburb. Weaned on the table scraps of one of the finest local restaurants, Garfield immediately set about educating Jon to his unusual gastronomic demands. The early training was a resounding success, for in no time at all Garfield had Jon just where he wanted him: dishing up the lasagna and brewing the coffee strong enough to sit up and bark. As Jon?s career grew over time, so did Garfield?s waistline and the love and companionship between man and beast. Now Jon was a successful freelance cartoonist and a lonely single, and Garfield still had Jon doing tricks.
He bid good morning to his best friend Pooky, the stuffed bear Garfield had rescued from the bottom of Jon?s dresser many years ago. Pooky was an excellent listener who was there whenever Garfield needed him. He never competed for food or Jon?s attention, and was always willing to relinquish the remote control. No one knew Garfield?s secrets, hopes, and fears the way Pooky did, not even Jon. And Pooky wasn?t telling, mostly because he had no mouth.
?Cover me, Pooky, I?m going in.? Garfield delicately stretched a hind paw to test the floor temperature, then jumped from his miniature bed and crossed the room. He padded past the photographs and memories that make a house a home. Here was a snapshot of him dragging Jon from the ski lodge by his bootlace, after the last of the eligible young ladies refused his offer of cocoa. Halloween, the year Jon dressed as a giant mouse. Next to it was a picture from their never-to-be-repeated camping trip, a miserable week of nature punctuated by a total lack of television. Still, Jon was a good man, if overly geeky, and it was a good life.
Jon had failed to respond to the alarm and snored away, rattling the miniblinds. This would never do. If Garfield had to be awake, then Jon should have been showered and preparing the morning meal by now. The cat slithered to the head of the big bed and pulled back the covers, revealing the noisy object of his affection.
Rise and shine, Jon. Time to feed the cat.
The object of Garfield?s affection stirred and muttered, ?Not now, Garfield,? and dropped back to sleep, reaching up and pulling the cat into a warm, contented hug. Garfield?s ears flattened and his eyes narrowed into slits.
We play this game every morning. I?m a cat. You?re my master. You need to lead. You need to provide. You need to get up, Jon. You?re sleeping your life away.
Jon turned and drew the covers up around his neck, babbling softly about needing a few more minutes. With a dreamy smile on his face, he took a deep breath and squeezed the soft, warm cat closer. Garfield scrunched up his face and began a slow burn. He wriggled from Jon?s arms and leapt to a dresser next to the bed, casually knocking over photos, cologne, and an odd little array of golf tees on his way.
I don?t think you grasp the severity of the situation, Jon. There is no snooze button on a cat that wants breakfast. I get cranky when I?m hungry. He assumed the position, arms raised, back extended. Wiggling his butt ever so slightly, Garfield calculated the effort-to-distance ratio that lay between him and breakfast. Suddenly Garfield lurched from the dresser like an Acapulco cliff diver, in a clean arch dead-centered on Jon?s solar plexus. Oooof!
He thrust his face an inch from Jon?s nose and stared hard.
And guess what, Jon?I?m ALWAYS hungry!
In one swift movement Jon sat upright and his eyes sprang open, bugging with a glassy sort of surprise. He yawned, rubbed his face, and glanced at the clock.
?It?s seven twenty-three! I forgot to set the alarm! Guess I was up too late last night with the model railroad. Thanks, Garfield. I owe you one!?
Put it on my tabby.
John swung his legs around the side of the bed and wiggled his toes, scratching and searching for his slippers. They were hard to miss, what with their long ears up front and the fluffy cottontails at the ankles.
He slid into his robe, a blue velour with i § my cat stitched over the breast pocket, and shuffled toward the bathroom. ?Looks like another beautiful morning, Garfield. And there?s nothing I like better than to start my day off squeaky clean!?
Garfield watched Jon?s retreat from the bed, completely unamused. Well, there?s nothing I like better than to start my day off fed. Come, Jon. Only I can smell you from here. Breakfast. NOW.
Jon stepped into the bathroom and turned the spigots, humming cheerfully to himself and adjusting the water until it was just the right temperature. Steam began to fill the room. Garfield followed and sat next to the commode, himself steaming, as Jon stepped into the shower and drew the curtain. The humming grew into full-throttle singing: ?I?ve gotta be meeeee! I?ve gotta be meeee!?
Yeah, and I?ve gotta be me.
Staring intently at the caterwauling lump scrubbing himself behind the curtain, Garfield casually lifted a paw and?whoosh!?flushed the toilet.
Jon?s screams could be heard five houses away.
I am one hot kitty.
Jon stuck his dripping head out from behind the shower curtain and said through gritted teeth, ?Breakfast will be served in just a moment.?
Moments later, Garfield sat in the kitchen window, sipping a mug of strong, hot coffee while he watched Jon lay out a plate of corned beef hash. Ohhhh, that smells good. A little mustard on the side would be nice. Is there any rye bread in the house?
?The day is young, Garfield, and we should make the most of it. How do you feel about doing some exercise this morning?? Jon set the plate on the kitchen table and opened the cupboard.
How do you feel about bleeding this morning?
?It?ll do you some good. We can do my Pilates video together.?
Too trendy, and I don?t really have the time, Jon. You don?t have the rigorous napping obligations I do.
?At the rate your tummy is growing, you could make a fortune selling shade,? Jon said, casting a hard eye upon Garfield?s girth. ?Might be the first contribution you make to this household.?
Oh, really? And just whose midsection keeps the hardwood floors around here freshly buffed, hmm?
Jon?s attention returned to the stack of silver tins in the cabinet. ?Let?s see . . . ?Salmon Surprise? . . . ?Beef-Bacon Boogie-Woogie? . . . ?Mystery Mélange? . . . Let?s try something new this morning, Garfield. Yes, here we go . . . ?Liver-Flavored.? You?re going to love it.? Jon popped the can of Kibbly Kat, prepared a plate, and set it beside his own on the kitchen table.
As Jon turned his back to recycle the empty can, Garfield sprang into action with an impish smile.
?I know what we could do today,? Jon said, as he took his seat and spread a napkin on his lap. ?I?ve noticed you scratching a bit lately. Maybe we should take a drive to see Liz. You like Liz.? He lifted the fork to his mouth ?Liz is really an excellent . . .?
Ptuhyee!! Jon spit the food from his mouth as Garfield lapped up the last of the corned beef hash.
?Liver???? Jon grimaced and ran for the sink, where he rinsed out his mouth a dozen times and drank a quart of water.
Actually, it?s liver-flavored.
