"Simon Hawke - The Nine Lives of Catseye Gomez" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

I started to lose it again, and that set him off, too.
"Oh, hell," he said, trying to catch his breath. "I can't believe I'm laughing about this. I cried for days. We
pulled it out of the bag and it was all mashed up and covered with dust-''
And we both promptly lost it again. I couldn't even sit up straight. I just fell over on my side and lay there on
the carpet, helpless with hysterics. It's not that I find cruelty to animals amusing, you understand, nor that I
have a morbid streak.. .well, maybe I do, who knows? But it was just funny as hell somehow. Aside from
which, a hamster's really nothing but a rodent, and you know how cats are about mice. I mean, if God hadn't
meant for us to bat 'em around, he wouldn't have made 'em so fucking small and stupid.
There was a knocking at the door, and Solo got up from the couch, wiping his eyes. "Excuse me a minute,
will you?" he said, heading for the door.
What happened after that kinda put a damper on the evening. He opened the door, and I heard him say
something to someone, and then my ears pricked up as I caught the unmistakable scent of a dog. The dog
must have smelled me at about the same time, for the next thing I knew, there was a high-pitched, yipping
sort of bark, and the most ridiculous thing I ever saw came barreling around the corner into the living room.
It was one of those small French poodles, with its hair cut in that goofy way that leaves bare patches of skin
here and big, fluffy balls of hair there, and it even had a ribbon tied up in the hair on top of its ratty-looking
head. But that wasn't the worst part, though it was bad enough. Somebody had actually dyed the stupid thing
pink.
I don't know if it expected me to arch my back and spit or take off running with a stark, raving terror, but it's
kinda hard to get scared by anything that looks so goddamned silly. It came racing up to me, yipping like an
Indian, and when I didn't turn tail and run, it dug in and stopped about six inches away from me, all ribbony
and pink malevolence, and bared its teeth and started growling.
"Fuck you," I said, and gave it the claws. Just reached out with a quick right and raked it one, right across its
wet and shiny little nose.
The damned thing squealed like a pig caught in a meat grinder and beat a hasty retreat, crying out, "Mommy,
Mommy!"
Mommy? I felt like I wanted to puke. Being somewhat distracted by the pink avenger, I hadn't noticed the
skirt who came in with Solo. She was a real elegant-looking number, dressed in a formfitting, clingy outfit that
didn't leave much to the imagination. For that matter, if she'd been wearing a sack, it wouldn't have left much
to the imagination. You can't hide a body like that without really working at it.
I have to confess that human bodies don't really do anything for me, but some human females I can find
aesthetically appealing. They're usually the ones who have something of the cat about them, the ones with
lean, slim bodies and long legs and a sinewy, graceful way of moving. This lady wasn't one of those. This was
the kind of babe Hammer would've liked. Voluptuous, with generous, curvaceous hips, small waist, and large
breasts that strained at the fabric of her dress. What they call "an hourglass figure." .I've noticed that a lot of
human males seem to really lose their cookies over female anatomy like that. I don't know what their thing is
about breasts. Far as I can see, they're only fat.
"Ohhh, my poor baby!" said the skirt, crouching down to scoop up her fluffy, whimpering, pink thaumagene in
her arms. "What did the nasty kitty do to my Pinky?"
"The nasty kitty gave Pinky a swat in the kisser," I said, wryly.
She stared at me with loathing while she cradled her trembling pink poodle in her arms, protectively. "You
horrible thing!" she said. She glanced at Solo. "What is that?" she asked him, in an accusing tone.
"A cat," said Solo.
"I know it's a cat," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "What's it doing here?"
"Visiting," I said.
She ignored me. "Jay, where did you get that awful beast? Don't tell me you actually went out and bought
it?"
"Nobody buys me, lady. I'm not for sale," I said. "We had a mutual friend in common, if it's any of your
business, and he passed on recently. We were just getting together at his request to trade some war stories
and remember what a privilege it was to know him. And if that ridiculous-looking dog of yours hadn't gotten in