AROO, A NEW ARC (PART 3)

Sunday morning, I text Nat.

"Do you have five minutes?"

Nat takes an elevator down to my apartment (on the ninth floor) from his (on the eleventh).
He's in my apartment in two minutes.

(I've worked with Nat in summer stock (years ago): "Charlie's Aunt", "Little Shop", "The Matchmaker".
We became reunited when he married a mutual friend in my building. We now run into each other in the lobby, the elevator, the new little park outside the building. Our high-rise feels like, one long, vertical city block).

"Can you take a look at Aroo?"

"Sure I can." Nat whistles with two fingers "Aroo!" and drags the cat out from under the bed.

Aroo appears doped up and ever so annoyed.

"Hey there little fella, how you doin' there little fella?"

Nat's relationship to the cat is very male.  No "sweet baby" comments. No "aren't you a good lil' boy?" coos. Nat is warmly abrasive like a little league coach.

"You gonna eat buddy? Huh? How bout some grub?"

Aroo is unreachable.

"What do you think, Nat" I ask glumly.

And I ask everyones' opinion - Spiro the doorman, my sister, my neighbor Tina.  And each person I ask, I hope will unveil the ideal solution - that they'll launch a strong objection to my haplessness - take over, heal the cat, and I'll be off the hook. "Nat seemed to feel he needed some kind of a shot?- I guess?.. and whisked him away, he's fine now," I'd say to anyone who asked.

But all Nat offers is,

"Charlie, I think Aroo's having sympathy pains" - (meaning, the cat is sick because I'm sick).

Ugh.

We concentrate on Aroo.  We stare at Aroo like hopeful vacationers scanning the sky for a break in the bad weather.

But the delirious cat dissociates and slinks back to the black beneath the bed.