Cat Tales (14 page)

“You disappear for hours on end and all you can think of is food?” he asked.

“But I haven't eaten all day. I'm hungry.”

John folded his arms. “What am I going to do with you, Marina? All right, you can come over to my place. I'll make you eggs. But you can't bring those cats. They stay in the kennel here. Brutus doesn't like cats.”

“Told you it was a bad idea to get a Rottweiler for a pup,” she said. “We can lock him in the bathroom and then he won't be any trouble to my cats.”

“We are not locking up my dog!”

“John, you're shouting at me.”

“You never listen to me. Talking to you is like talking to a post.”

Salisha and Puddy followed them out to the car park. “Shall we take your van or my rental?” she asked.

“Mine.” He slid the door open. The cats immediately jumped in and he scowled at them.

Marina hesitated, and then headed back to the clinic.

“Where are you going now?” he asked.

“I'll be right back, I forgot something.”

She ran to her office and grabbed her medical bag. When she got into the van, she tossed it into the back. She gave him a cheerful smile as she buckled herself into the passenger seat, for suddenly everything about life felt as if it were just perfect, including going to John's place for breakfast at the break of dawn.

“Are you ever going to tell me where you disappeared to?” he asked, giving her a side-glance.

“I'd rather we talk about my vacation plans.”

“Thought of someplace fun, did you?” He grinned too, as if catching her good humor. “I wouldn't mind a vacation myself.” He gave her another look, and this one had a definite gleam that suggested he had more then sun tanning and swimming in mind. Marina felt herself warm up.

“Want to go together?” he asked, ultra casual. “Maybe head out to Hawaii? We could hire someone to fill in at the clinic.” He glanced out the driver's side window. “Or are you tired of me already?” he asked softly.

Hawaii was not what she had in mind when she mentioned vacation. How would he react to her plans? She could certainly use his help. “I thought of taking a few days off to paint Mrs. McTavish's house,” she said in a quiet voice, glancing at him hesitantly. At his silence, she frowned. Was he disappointed that she wasn't going to a sunny location? Could he understand what she needed to do, and why?

“You're pretty good with a ham mer,” she suggested with an encouraging smile. “And her roof leaks.”

John frowned at her and then he nodded, as if he did indeed understand. “I'd like to help.” His smile was breathtaking.

Marine reached over and kissed his cheek, surprising both of them. “Thanks for being patient with me.”

He took her hand and kissed the back of it. He kept hold of it he drove, ignoring Salisha's howl from the back seat as he took a sharp corner. His thumb gently rubbed across her palm, sending tingles up her arm. “I'm glad you're including me in this.” He sounded as if she'd given him a birthday present.

“Well,” Marina said, trying to hide her mischievous laughter, “since Mrs. McTavish just lost Caesar, I also hoped we could get her another pet.”

“
We
?” he said in a worried tone. The circling motion on her palm stopped.

“Hmm. I was thinking along the lines of a little Rottweiler pup.”

He flung her hand away. “You are not giving away my dog!”

“You're shouting again. If you keep this up, I won't tell you about the wonderful place I just visited.”

They were almost at his apartment when something large and sharp scraped along the top of the van.

He swerved off the road and checked to see what he'd hit.

Marina dived to the back of the van.

She knew he'd find nothing on the road that could have harmed his van. Any more than she had when the same thing had happened to her Fiat on Marina's way to Mrs. McTavish's house. At her chuckle, he whipped around to look at her.

She hugged her medical bag and gave him wide smile.

“What're you doing?” he asked.

“Learning to be prepared,” she replied. U

The author tells us that she has worked as an
Animal Health Technician in both small-and large-animal
hospitals for several years.

CAT CALL

by K.D. Wentworth

I
SAW THE BODY the moment I squeezed back into the living room through my catdoor. It was male and overweight, dressed in frayed jeans and a red shirt, both of which smelled much more intriguing than anything my tidy roommate Sidley would ever have worn. The hands, large and bloodied, were clutched into fists. The brown eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. The aromatic tang of blood lingered in the air, and the house was still as a cornered mouse.

How very odd. I curled my tail around my gray and white hindquarters, my best thinking position, and gave my whiskers a thorough wash. I'd never seen a dead human before and this one was most unexpected, sprawled across the worn roses of our living room carpet. When Sidley left this morning, the most I'd hoped was that he'd bring home a dead bird or two. A kill of this magnitude was impressive.

Of course, I, Hudson, (named for Sidley's ex-father-in-law, not a warm relationship, I've been given to understand), have been totally mystified anyway ever since this crazy business concerning
birds
started a few weeks ago. Herm Sidley and I have lived together in this humble abode for three years now, and he's never before evidenced the slightest interest in birds. In fact, months passed after I moved in before he could even bring himself to touch
me,
so I can't imagine what prompted him taking up this silliness he calls “bird-watching.”

It's understood, of course, that cats watch birds. I keep a careful eye on the robins and sparrows outside Sidley's bungalow. They're certainly more interesting than that pointless box Sidley stares at all evening. But cats do more than gaze wistfully up at the trees;
we
do our very best to bring one of the saucy creatures down from time to time, and I thought from the first Sidley didn't have it in him. It's not his fault, though. Feline companionship and example came into his life late.

Whenever this so-called “bird-watching” was to take place, a woman would arrive at our house, not a good sign with Sidley. When females are about, he turns red, stammers, and stares at the floor, never taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch and show himself off to his best advantage.

This particular she was thin as a post and had the intent, leanbellied look of a cat about to pounce on something delicious. She had dreary yellow fur on her head and darted about the living room, chattering louder than an angry sparrow. Even worse, she always reeked of flowers as though she'd been out rolling in the garden. I found it an overwhelming and noxious scent, quite unlike the delicate bouquet of freshly slaughtered mouse.

A
FTER HER arrival, the subsequent sequence of events was always the same. She would natter on about the differences between “pileated woodpeckers” and “nuthatches” (as though they don't all taste the same), raise the window shade as if she were looking for something, then haul Sidley off to view “our fine feathered friends.”

The strangest part is that minutes later the front door would always open again. Strangers would come prowling in as though they belonged there, peer out the windows, use the phone (which is quite indiscriminating and will talk to absolutely anyone). If I so much as poked my nose out from behind the couch, they threw magazines at me. Sooner or later, the faithless phone would ring. They would answer, then leave a few minutes before Sidley returned, a thoroughly mystifying chain of events.

This morning had begun like all the others involving the detested “Marie.” It was a cloud-ridden, damp day, not the sort at all for stalking birds, I would have thought. Marie bounced in the door and cooed at me, though I wouldn't let her get within half a room. As always, that made her giggle as if being despised were amusing. Anxious to avoid the inevitable invading strangers, I exited via my cat door to do some bird-watching of my own, hopefully of a more productive nature than Sidley's. He never brought home anything from these outings but a stupid smile.

When the sun was overhead, I returned, feeling peckish and thinking Sidley would probably be back by now and I could wheedle a bit of milk. Instead, I found the house empty — — except for the body sprawled across the threadbare carpet in the living room.

Now, usually there's nothing I'd rather roll on than a newly dead body. Mouse bodies, squirrel bodies, rabbit bodies, bird bodies, they're all delightful, but this human corpse was a bit overwhelming. I decided to nap instead.

Sometime later, the front door creaked open. “What the — !”

I bolted up, eyes expectant.

“My God, Hudson!” Sidley looked as though he might keel over.

Hunger, no doubt. I knew exactly how he felt.

Disturbed dust motes danced in the light slanting in through the open front door. “There's blood all over the living room!” he said.

I cocked my head. Trust Sidley to state the obvious.

“How — ?” He froze in place, one hand to his chest, his mouth hanging open in that unappealing way only he has truly mastered.

I positioned myself between him and the corpse, pricked my ears at a meaningful angle.
You can pour
me a nice stiff bowl of milk, while you're trying to figure it out,
I thought helpfully.

“It's Bill Vincent, from next door!” He glanced down at me, his eyes as startled as a just-flushed rabbit's. “Did you — ?”

Oh, right,
I thought,
like I'm going to bring down
something that big on an empty stomach.
I arched my back and loosed a low growling complaint, to let him know that milk — now — would be a very good idea.

Sidley collapsed into his green armchair and lowered his head into his trembling hands. “No, of course not,” he muttered. “It had to be someone else. Hudson isn't vicious."

If I don't see some milk real soon, buster,
I thought,
you may have reason to reconsider!

“The police,” Sidley said. He fumbled for the phone beside his chair. “We have to call the police. Don't touch anything!

Hadn't planned to.
I leaped onto the arm of his chair.

Before he could dial, though, a siren wailed outside. Car doors slammed. Sidley hung up and opened the door.

A hulking policeman stood on our porch. “We had a call about a murder.”

“Thank goodness you're here, officer!” Sidley said.

The policeman stepped inside, smelling of onions and garlic, intriguing, but not at all appealing.

“It's this — this body!” Sidley pointed with a trembling finger.

“I see.” The policeman's lined face fell into concerned folds, but he kept a hand near the holster on his belt. “Do you know this person?”

Sidley nodded, then blurted out the whole bird-watching story, finishing with his discovery of the corpse. I lashed my tail with disapproval. Even I found the tale ridiculous, and I had witnessed most of it for myself.

The policeman, whose name was Officer Rogers, scribbled determinedly in a battered little notebook. “Will you call the young lady and have her drop over, sir? We'd like to take her statement and back up your alibi.”

Sidley swallowed hard and admitted he didn't have her phone number. He'd met Marie at the park four weeks ago and she'd always insisted upon calling him whenever they got together. She had an unlisted number and her mother didn't allow her to give it out.

“I see.” Officer Rogers' mouth quirked knowingly and he bent over his notebook. Sirens howled and then more police arrived.

Men and women streamed inside the small living room. Lights flashed until I was half-blind. People crawled over the rug like mice, picking up tiny bits of who-knows-what and stowing them in plastic bags.

Frankly, this was not how I'd envisioned spending the afternoon. My stomach grew ever emptier, my temper more foul.

One of the other policemen handed Officer Rogers a long thin metallic shape with one end encased in clear plastic. He held it up to the light and squinted. “Have you ever seen this before, Mr. Sidley?”

Sidley took the bag and the plastic crinkled as he turned it over. “It looks like one of my screwdrivers.”

Rogers took it back. “This was lying beneath the victim and matches a five inch puncture in his back. I think we'd better read you your rights.”

Sidley picked me up and clutched me against his chest in a convulsive gesture of despair. We are not a touchy-feelie pair, so I knew matters were grim. I laid my ears back, but otherwise endured until the officer made him put me down so he could apply handcuffs.

Yeah,
I thought sourly,
you wimps better look out for
old.