Another Saturday Night

Unless we are working on a psychic investigation, something I thought a year ago I would never do again, I usually have a date. My family refers to me as the “one-date wonder” behind my back.

 Yeah, I know what they say, and they drive their point home with comments like, “What’s his name tonight? Is he the blond or the dude with the Jag? Which one wore the goofy glasses?”

But tonight, I felt the need to stay home and wash dishes. Crazy, right? I needed something tactile to do, and there were dinner plates on the counter.

Plus, my date for the evening was called to an armed robbery. Three more dishes to go. The soap bubbles gliding over the ice blue stoneware and flowing into the sink as I rinsed them with the sprayer fascinated me for some odd reason. Maybe because there were no pets in the room under my feet or pushing objects to the floor.

Usually, my psychic talking Maine Coon sidekick, BMC, bats at my hand when I use the sprayer, sending water flying across the white counter.  Tonight, BMC was absent. This was strange and so unlike the huge cat. Usually, when I’m in the kitchen, he’s on the counter. It’s in his cat-human contract.

After finishing the last two plates in rapid succession, I set them into the chrome wire drainer and wiped my hands. Where could BMC be? That question nagged at me. One way to find out. I crossed the tile floor towards the living room.

Two steps from the living room, the hair on the back of my neck stood tall. Taking another step, icy fingers crept from the base to the top of my spine. Something was wrong. Over the last six months, I’d been wrestling with my intuition. I’d stuffed it down for so long, but returning to my father’s house had poked holes in the guards around my former senses.  So, reading intuitive clues was challenging. My heart started to race. Was I about to have my first vision in decades?

Bugsy barked a shrill sound, shaking the upstairs and cascading throughout the house. The little pug raced around the banister and down the stairs.

“Jenna, come quick,” he panted. “BMC fell off the bed. He’s rolling and wiggling on the floor. I think he’s having a scary vision.” Bugsy turned and raced up the stairs with me on his tail.

I learned early in life it was dangerous to yank a psychic from their vision. One needed to move slowly.

“BMC, talk to me. What do you see?” I asked, stroking his mane.

“Bobby, we need to save Bobby.”