I guessed there was truth to the wisdom about petting a cat to lower your blood pressure, because I could feel my heart rate slowing, calming - which was pretty good, considering how pissed off I was getting at being kept on hold in the middle of an emergency. I stroked him absently as he wriggled around and tried to bite my fingers. He’d been mauled by a dog three weeks ago. The cat - kitten, really - was also convalescing. I was only loaning a fellow bachelor my pad. Not that I was an expert - nor did I plan on becoming one. He blinked his wide, almond-shaped, green-gold eyes at me and meowed. Tomkins pussyfooted up to delicately head-butt me. The ironic thing about the surgery and the news that I was evidently going to make old bones after all was that I felt mortal in a way that I hadn’t for the last fifteen years. Everything was under control now, and according to my cardiologist, I was making terrific progress. A recent bout of pneumonia had worsened my condition, and I’d been in line for surgery even before getting shot three weeks earlier. My heart had been damaged by rheumatic fever when I was sixteen. I was having trouble catching my breath as I waited - and waited - for the 911 operator, and I hoped to hell I wasn’t having a heart attack. Reaction hit me, and I slid down the wall and dialed 911.
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