Snakes Don't Miss Their Mothers (7 page)

His very favorite was called “Gifts.”

I like to crush the mouses' bones.

I like to eat their hearts.

I like upon the doormat

To leave their other parts.

I wait for mouses in the fields,

I catch them by the toes.

A mouse's tail is always peeled.

Put mustard on the nose.

Of course there were others about birds and moles, chipmunks and rabbits, the frustrations of winter and the joys of warm weather. There was even one about the big fat Persian cat next door who had gross mats in her hair because her owner did not know enough to comb her every day.

But Rags had never written a poem about Rex until that Christmas Day.

Cats rarely write about dogs, no matter how desperate they might be for material. Why remind themselves of what life is like with a dog around?

Even when a dog tries to be pleasant, as Rex always did, what is more deplorable than the sound of a dog barking just as you have slipped into the sort of deep sleep that finds you flopped on your back with your paws up, your whiskers drooping, your tongue hanging out?

Then …
Woof! Woof! Woof!

Nothing more than a car going down the street, and for that you are jolted out of your sweet slumber!

Five other obnoxious things dogs do:

1. Come in from the rain shaking themselves near your cat bed!

2. Return from a walk stinking of manure (and once it was skunk)!

3. Gallop through the fields looking for you just as you are sneaking up on a vole!

4. Hog the rug in front of the fireplace on cold nights!

5. Try to knock your food bowl off the table and gobble it down!

Rags could go on and on. There wasn't a cat alive who did not compare himself to dogs again and again. There wasn't a cat alive who did not marvel at the difference, raise his eyes to the heavens, and utter,
“Dogs!”
with the same tone reserved for ticks, fleas, and baths.

But on this Christmas Day Rags would not care what disagreeable thing Rex did, if only he could be there to do it.

Rags was heartsick, sleepless, and unable to finish his Fancy Feast, even when it was beef and giblets, the flavor he loved best.

He sat by the window looking out forlornly. He was face-to-face with a grackle, and his teeth were not even chattering.

His creative juices were soured with grief.

Rex, this is Rags, can you hear me?

I miss not having you near me.

Run fast Rex, run hard,

Till you come to our yard!

Rex, this is Rags, can you hear me?

B
Y THE DAY AFTER
Christmas, Placido had his sea legs. He padded through the boat with a sure step on a regular route that led to the master's cabin. There he devoured Roscoe the Robotic Frog's red plastic tongue. He chewed up his voice box, too, so he could not cry
ribbit!
It took Placido a long time to accomplish all this.

From the porthole Placido could see that one saucy seagull who often perched on the aft deck, waiting for handouts.

Placido had named him Snack, for that was what he would be one of these days when Placido could figure out a way to reach him.

In the main cabin the girl was sitting at the computer. Her father was getting into his overcoat. They were still discussing the composition she was to write about something unique in a country.

“Why can't you write about Miami?” her father asked. “You really know Miami!”

“But the United States isn't known for something in Miami!”

“Remember the summer your mom, me, and you played San Antonio? There's a fascinating city for you: San Antonio, Texas!”

“That's not what they mean, Daddy! That's like naming
me
for a famous person, instead of someone who's a big star.”

“You're a big star! You just played Radio City Music Hall, for pete's sake. And don't sell San Antonio short! Remember the Alamo! That was San Antonio!”

“They want a country, something unique. They want Italy, or France, or England! Someplace exotic! And I am
not
a star, Daddy! I didn't even get a callback from BrainPower!”

“Well, you're not in a good mood this morning, are you, Jimmie? I have to go buy lumber to repair the aft deck. It's rotting…. Try to cheer up. New Year's is coming, and we have the Star-Tintree date.”

After he left, the girl went back to the master's cabin and began talking to Placido.

“If I was going to get another chance to try out for Jane Brain, I'd have heard by now.”

She was sitting in the captain's chair while Placido jumped away from the porthole, down to the bed.

“I wouldn't have been a good Jane Brain anyway. I said ‘consensus of opinion,' Placido!”

Placido suddenly found himself purring contentedly, for he had never had an owner who confided in him.

Madame de Flute had sung opera to him sometimes, but more often she made threats like: “Stay away from Polly's cage, Placido, or you're toast!”

And of course there were all the owners after Madame de Flute (Placido never discussed his first owner), the two-month owners, the two-week owners, the two-day owners, and the two-hour owners. Placido could hear them yelling at him.

“Get down, Placido!”

“If you don't eat what's there, then you'll starve!”

“Get that dead mouse out of here!”

“Don't paw your litter so hard—it's all over the floors!”

“Placido, do you hear me calling you?”

“Placido! You puked on my new cashmere sweater!”

“I'd rather be Twinkle Toes than Jane Brain, anyway,” the girl continued. “But let's face it, without Dancer I'm not special anymore.”

She was beginning to cry. Even better than a stick of butter, Placido enjoyed licking salty tears. He jumped from the bed and sat beside her on the desk. She made no attempt to pick him up, so forget salty tears. Maybe she was repulsed by the eyehole minus the eye. Maybe she was just like everyone else: not taken with him for whatever reason. Just when he was beginning to think of her as Jimmie, too, even though this time he had promised himself to keep his distance from whoever adopted him. Placido was not spoiling for another rejection.

Behind her there were framed photographs lined up: a woman, a woman and the girl, a woman and the man, and one of that stupid little Boston terrier with his eyes popping out of his head and his stubby tail.

“I wish we were in Miami, where it's warm.” The girl sniffled. “If you. go back to Miami with us, you'll be able to sit out on the deck and sunbathe, Placido.”

If. Right? If. There was always an if in life, wasn't there?

If you have his claws removed, he won't ruin the furniture.

Remember that if?

Major surgery was performed on him, just to save the arms on some ratty old sofa.

And what had this famous decorator done when Placido showed her his forgiveness by presenting her with a bloody crow kicking and biting as he pounced on it and then wrestled it through the pet door with his teeth? She had called him a killer. Never mind her flyswatter, her mousetraps, her Roach Motels—
Placido
was the killer! Another trip back to Critters!

The girl was sounding sadder and sadder, and she got on a talking jag next—about guess who? Dancer!

Dogs, Placido mused, will do anything—even humiliate themselves—to please people.

You would never catch a cat waltzing around on his hind legs!

Neither would you catch one jumping up and down, making a racket that would raise the dead, barking until his throat hurt, just because some people were visiting Critters.

“Oh, take me home! Oh, adopt me!” they'd cry out shamelessly.

They had no pride, dogs didn't!

Both Placido and the girl jumped at the sound of knocking on the door.

“It's too late for the mailman,” said the girl. “Maybe it's FedEx. Maybe the BrainPower people wrote instead of calling.”

She was on her feet.

The knocking became louder.

A dog, of course, would have gone ballistic, barking and tearing toward the door to see who it was. But that was not the way of a cat.

Placido glared up at Dancer's photograph on the shelf by her desk.

He heard the door open, and he heard the girl say, “Oh. It's you.”

Then she said, “You can come in and see for yourself. So far he's knocked over our tree and made tinsel turds.”

“You don't sound like you're mad for him anymore. You sound like you're mad
at
him.”

“I just don't know if he likes it here or not.”

Neither does
he,
Placido thought. How was he supposed to like being second fiddle to a dead Boston terrier? Placido brushed his paw against the framed photograph of Dancer.

“I took the bus all the way out to see him,” said the boy. Placido knew that voice. Placido liked that voice. That was Mrs. Splinter's grandson, Walter the Worry Wart.

“Did you have a nice Christmas, Jimmie?”

“I worked. Working on Christmas sucks.”

“My mother came for an hour Christmas Eve. She couldn't stay longer because of the storm. She didn't want to get stuck.”

“Where is your father?” Jimmie asked.

The world-famous globe-trotter, Placido called him. Guy Splinter broadcasting from anywhere but where his family was. Sometimes when Mrs. Splinter came to Critters early in the morning, the dogs would hear him talking on the
Today
show. Word would spread that Guy Splinter was here, there, everywhere but his home.

Walter told the girl his father had been in Israel. “But he's on his way back. He's getting an apartment in New York City! Just when I'm in so much trouble!” he said. “It was my fault a dog got loose. I didn't fasten his cage. I'm so worried that Mr. Uttergore will find him!”

Placido gave the picture of Dancer a little push.

“Placido! You have a visitor!”

Then another little push.

“So long, Popeyes,” Placido whispered. “Roscoe the Robotic Frog is waiting for you.”

The dancing dog disappeared down the crack between the desk and the wall just as Jimmie and Walter reached the master's cabin.

“You have company, Placido.”

“He's purring,” Walter said. “He seems pretty pleased with life.”

T
WO DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS
Marshall was swinging from the plastic tree branch inside his cage. All the other cages in the row were empty. Goldie was still missing. Catherine was still at the Star-Tintrees'. And Dewey, the red Irish setter, had been adopted the day after Christmas.

To make matters more grim, there was a new critter, who looked like a cross between a pig and a pit bull. She was hairless, save for a fuzzy little Mohawk between her ears. Even Marshall, who had a fondness for big words, could not pronounce her breed. Xoloitzcuintle, which was pronounced
SHO-lo-EETS-queen-tlee.
Mrs. Splinter had already invited a professional dog breeder to see this four-legged freak, now named Posh, because the breeder said she could cost a thousand dollars and up and she was fast becoming the new fashionable dog. Already her kind was appearing in the pages of
Elle
and
Vogue
magazines.

Her cage was put near Marshall's because she, too, was susceptible to colds and needed the extra heat from the radiator.

Posh had been brought to Critters because her owner had been arrested for grand theft while trying to remove some mink coats from the checkroom of the Women's Exchange. Of course Posh was humiliated and embarrassed, and therefore barked twenty minutes out of sixty every hour except at darkest night. She also cried. Marshall was astonished to see dripping tears roll down her leathery cheeks. When Marshall made an attempt to introduce himself, she turned away, her nose wiggling with mortification.

Days of Our Lives
was playing on the television in the office, but Mrs. Splinter was not there to watch her favorite soap opera. It was Irving's favorite, too. He often watched it through the mirror, just as he watched adoption interviews. But Irving was out with Mrs. Silverman, the volunteer who always walked him in the afternoon.

Marshall could see Mrs. Splinter coming out of the supply room with Mrs. Tintree, whom everyone called Flo. Mrs. Splinter was giving Catherine's ragged brown sweater to her.

“Poor Catherine is
never
warm enough,” said Flo. “Ginny and Nell want to keep Catherine for good, if Peke will accept her. Everyone is trying so hard to find Goldie, we'll definitely keep Catherine until after New Year's. That way you'll have one less critter to care for.”

Marshall's forked tongue quivered as the pair came closer. He had always hidden when Flo was in Critters. He had the idea she would go ape if she came upon a snake, so many visitors did, particularly the senior citizens.

He decided he was not going to move. Let her get a big scare! Good for the circulation to have fresh adrenaline zap the system. He waited to hear the usual “Eeeeeeeeeek! A snake!” How many times had he heard that?

But Flo Tintree surprised him, calling out in a melodious voice, “My my my my my! What have we here?”

“A lovely king snake,” said Mrs. Splinter.

“Oh, he is a lovely snake,” said Flo Tintree. “I never knew you had a snake back here.”

“I have to keep him near the radiators,” said Mrs. Splinter. “He has to be warm at all times. Snakes catch cold very easily.”

“Oh, my!
Do
keep him warm. What does he eat?”

“Frozen mice, mostly, though he prefers live rats my grandson sometimes brings him from Animal House. He would eat another snake as well.”

“So you are a cannibal,” Flo Tintree said to Marshall. “Oh, my my my!”

But she did not seem to be saying it with distaste; it sounded more like amusement. Marshall liked that, because he also found amusement in cannibalism. Eating his own kind wasn't always a meal of survival. Sometimes it simply hit the spot.