Free The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives by Blaize Clement Page A

life, and in exchange I go over twice a day and walk his retired greyhound racing dog, Billy Elliot.
    I’m pretty sure that most greyhounds who spend their entire lives on a racetrack, work grueling hours, and are treated like slave mules would prefer to lounge around on a velvet pillow in their old age and never see a racetrack again. Not Billy Elliot. Twice a day, we go down to the big circular parking lot outside Tom’s building, and Billy races around like his glory days aren’t yet behind him. He’s one of the lucky ones. Greyhound racing is not for the faint of heart. Broken toes, bone fractures, torn ligaments, and crippling arthritis are par for the course. Most retired greyhounds Billy’s age can’t walk fifty feet without having to stop and take a rest.
    Usually I jog along panting like a fool with Billy trotting next to me pretending we’re going at a respectable pace. It’s only when I let him off the leash to run a few laps on his own that his true colors shine through. He zips around the parking lot like greased lightning. Then we admire ourselves in the mirror as we ride back up in the elevator, both of us spent and happy and panting like … well, like a couple of dogs.
    Tom was still in his office working when we came in, so I didn’t want to interrupt him. I patted Billy on the head and told him I’d stop by for another round in the afternoon. He gave me a kiss on the nose, blinked twice, and then trotted down the hall to take his place on the dog bed under Tom’s desk. I felt a little smile play across my lips. There’s nothing like a dog at your feet or a cat in your lap to right the wrongs that the world has dealt you.
    Riding back down in the elevator, I remembered with a little shock that not only had I forgotten to see who’d called me during breakfast, I’d also forgotten to check for messages after dinner the night before. I immediately blamed Ethan. If he hadn’t so rudely made me breakfast I would have remembered. I have a very well honed routine I follow in the morning, but Ethan had thrown a wrench in the works—a very nice wrench, but still it had me all discombobulated.
    I pulled out my cell phone to check my messages, but the display just read Two missed calls. I figured maybe Sara Somebody had called again, or perhaps it was a wrong number. Either way, I thought, if it was important they’d call back.
    Next on the schedule was Timmy Anthem. Timmy is the coach for our local high school’s hockey team, the Seagulls. You’d think hockey wouldn’t be a big deal in a semitropical beach town. The only time you see ice on the ground around here is if somebody drops a sno-cone in the beach parking lot, but Timmy Anthem is kind of a hockey legend.
    He grew up in a small town in Canada, where apparently kids learn how to ice-skate while they’re still in diapers, and he was the star player in his high school. Nobody really knew how good he was, though, not even his own family, until he won a full scholarship to play hockey in college and led his team to the national championships not once but twice. He still holds one of the top records for most goals scored in a single game.
    Venturing into Timmy’s apartment is always the same. As soon as I pull my keys out, there comes from deep inside the apartment a string of loud, ferocious-sounding barks. Then there’s a pause, and by the time I’ve turned the lock and am about to open the door, the barking is closer and louder, only now it’s a little muffled.
    I braced myself and opened the door. Zoë came running toward me at breakneck speed, her barks muffled by the fleece pull-toy in her mouth, and slid to a perfect sit right at my feet. Zoë is a pit bull, or sometimes Timmy calls her an American Staffordshire terrier. She’s all white except for a few spots splashed across her tummy and a field of black and brown on her rump, which is how she got her nickname: Brindlebutt.
    Depending on who you talk to, pit bulls and