Free The Genie of Sutton Place by George Selden Page B

at me, to prove her point.
    â€œâ€™Ullo,” said Sam, in a bassety voice. He gave Mr. Watkins a limp handshake. I hated that. Because I knew Sam was really a strong dog. Or man. Or whatever he was. At that stage I wasn’t really sure.
    Aunt Lucy began churning out more chatter, but Mr. Watkins wouldn’t go along with fluff. I could see that he instinctively didn’t like Sam, just as much as Sam resented him. It was chemical, that’s all. He kept digging in.
    Like—“What’s your field, Bassinger?”
    â€œWell, I—I—” Sam looked to me for help. But I didn’t have any.
    â€œBetween jobs, eh?” Mr. Watkins lit a cigarette. He did it as if he’d scored a point. “Kind of late to change horses, isn’t it?”
    â€œAm I going to change horses?” Sam panicked at me. I shut my eyes and shook my head a little, to reassure him: no.
    â€œThe recession, I meant,” said Mr. Watkins. “And a man your age, to be changing careers. What line of work have you been in?”
    â€œJust—mostly—” Sam gave another quick scratch at his ear, but then remembered and held his hand in his lap—“prowling around, I guess.”
    â€œProwling?” Old Watkins wouldn’t let that go by.
    â€œI mean—inspecting is more what I do.”
    â€œInspecting what ?”
    â€œOh—trees—fireplugs—”
    â€œI see. A city job,” sneered Mr. Watkins cattily.
    That’s it! I didn’t realize it till now, but Mr. Watkins was a cat person.
    Don’t misunderstand: I’ve met some very nice cat people. Mrs. Libovski, who owned the clock shop next to Madame Sosostris’s on Bleecker Street, was definitely a cat woman. I don’t just mean she owned cats—she did, three Siamese—I mean, if she’d been an animal, she would have been a cat. I think inside of everybody, along with the humanity, there exists a possible animal. I don’t mean like the dog in Sam—a transformation like that must take place only once in a very blue moon. I mean, more like what that person might have been. For instance Aunt Lucy: there’s a little nervous squirrel sitting up on its hind legs inside of her. And Dooley—he’d have been, perhaps not a bull or a bear, but something big and dark and powerful. Rose has a panther inside her, but a quiet one, with its tail switched around its legs—only don’t make her mad.
    And if ever there was a man with a cat—a catty cat, not like one of Mrs. Libovski’s—inside of him it was Henry Watkins.
    I can see now that that explained Sam’s reaction. His lips began to curl, and I heard a growl coming up from his chest.
    Mr. Watkins didn’t help things, either, by asking Aunt Lucy, right over my head, “How did the chappy take his—canine separation this morning?” As if any kid doesn’t know what “canine” means.
    The squirrel in Aunt Lucy twitched nervously at me. “Uh—we haven’t discussed it, Henry.”
    â€œWhat canine separation?” snarled Sam.
    â€œTim had this dog—a pretty ragged character—that didn’t fit in. I’m proud of the way you’re accepting this, Tim—”
    He didn’t have time to finish his purring compliment, because Sam barked, “Yes, and you’re the one who called the dogcatcher—!”
    â€œHow did you know that?”
    â€œA guess! ” Sam’s teeth were all out now.
    We were right on the edge of a downright cat-and-dog fight.
    â€œMr. Bassinger—” I stood up—“would you like to see my room? I have some things of Lorenzo’s there.”
    Sam got his dog under control and muttered, “Yes, I would. Very much.”
    It turned out that Aunt Lucy and Mr. Watkins were going off to a meeting of the Committee for the Preservation of the Upper East Side. But before they left, Aunt Lucy