by Huskyteer
I had only just come in, hadn’t even undone my tie yet, and all I could do for a minute was sit on the couch and stare at him; I mean, this wasn’t normal behavior for a Lab-Doberman mix. The conversation then proceeded along these lines:
Me: “You talked!”
Bruce: “I did, yes.”
Me: “But dogs can’t talk.”
Bruce: “Says who?”
Me: “Everybody!”
Bruce: “Everybody thinks they can win the lottery, too.”
We went on like that, him countering my every claim just by standing there and talking, till I ran out of arguments. Then he said, “Now that that’s settled, you’re not busy this weekend, are you?”
“Well, no,” I had to admit. Ever since Christine left, my life had been pretty quiet.
“Great.” With a toothy grin, he set the bag on my lap.
It oozed against my legs. “What’s in here?”
Bruce gave it a poke. “Custard.”
“Custard?”
“Yeah. You know: eggs, vanilla, milk, sugar. Custard.”
I looked at the bag, then back at him. “But why?”
“Why? What do you mean ‘why?’”
“Why custard? Why watch it? I mean, custard can pretty much take care of itself, can’t it?”
“Not this custard.” He came a step closer, his paws on my knees, his snout right up to my ear. “Enemy agents may try to take this custard while I’m out of town.” He licked my cheek, then dropped onto all fours. “Well, see you Sunday.” And he turned and trotted off into the front hall.
“Wait a minute!” I grabbed the bag as I stood up; it was warm and damp in my hands. “You can’t come waltzing in here after three years of being just a dog, plop a bag of custard in my lap, and tell me I have to guard it from enemy agents! What enemy?! Why custard?! How in the—”
“It’s better if you don’t know,” I heard him call. “Besides, they might not come, and you wouldn’t want to get all worked up over nothing, would you? Just put the bag somewhere safe and don’t tell anyone you have it. See you!”
I ran into the hallway in time to see the front door swing shut, but by the time I got it open, Bruce was nowhere in sight. The yard was empty, the front gate closed, the street as quiet and shady as it could be with kids down the block screaming and playing tag around the parked cars.
After a minute of staring, all I could do was close the door with my elbow, my hands full of squishy paper sack, head back into the front room, and set the bag on the coffee table. The top was twisted shut, so I undid it to take a look. Off-yellow, smelling softly of vanilla: it was custard all right. I started to wonder how Bruce had managed to make it, but I put the brakes on that train of thought; dogs baking custard is very near the top on my list of things not to think about. So I wondered instead where I should put it.
The refrigerator seemed best. But that would be too obvious, the first place an enemy agent would search.
I sat looking at the bag for a moment, and then I remembered our old ice chest. I could put the bag in and stow it somewhere cool, under the sink in the kitchen maybe, behind all the cleaners and polishers I never use.
That sounded good. I went through the kitchen to the backyard, into the laundry room, and rummaged through all the stuff Christine had left behind till I found the chest under some folding metal beach chairs she’d insisted on buying: I think we’d used them maybe twice. The chest was pretty small, but after I washed the cobwebs out, I figured I could squeeze the bag in. My bicycle lock and chain were hanging above the dryer, so I tossed them into the chest and went back inside.
I brought the bag into the kitchen to keep an eye on it as I dumped in the ice. A layer of cellophane to keep it from getting wet, and the bag just fit. I wrapped the chain around the chest a few times, tucked it into the cupboard behind the dishwasher soap, and locked the whole thing to the pipes under the sink. The key had rusted into the lock, but I finally worked it free and slipped it into my pocket. Then I closed the cupboard and went out into the front room.
The kids were still shouting outside. It was strange not hearing Bruce barking at them, and the thought came to me: maybe he barked at them because they were the enemy agents…
I almost went to peer through the curtain, but I stopped myself. I’d done my part. If Bruce had wanted anything more, he should’ve made better plans than just dumping his custard into my lap at the last minute. I refused to worry about it, undid my tie, kicked off my shoes, and switched on the TV.
Everything stayed quiet the rest of the evening. A few times, I thought I heard noises in the kitchen, but the place was empty every time I looked. I decided it was nerves and turned in at about ten o’clock. Getting to sleep wasn’t too hard, actually; after all, Bruce had said these alleged agents might not come.
But just after dawn, a crash slapped me awake. Metal and glass had smashed together somewhere, and I jumped up, thinking there’d been an accident out front. I grabbed my robe, rushed down the hall, and threw open the front door, ready to call the police if they were needed.
But all I saw was the smoky blue of a pre-dawn August Saturday. I stood and blinked at it for a minute, then I heard another, smaller crash ring out behind me.
I turned and closed the door as glass shattered again. Another, and I realized it was coming from the kitchen. I crept from the entryway into the front room and pushed at the kitchen door just enough to stick my head through.
The refrigerator was open, its pale light drifting over the counters, the cabinets, the linoleum, and these little shapes moving around on the floor. I wasn’t thinking too clearly; I reached over and slapped on the lights.
About a dozen mice whirled around, some wearing little tool belts and standing up on the counters, the rest in the refrigerator itself. But the refrigerator door wasn’t open: it had been pried off and was lying in a heap on the floor. Pickle jars and cardboard cartons lay shattered and strewn against it, and I could see a group of mice on the top shelf about to toss something wrapped in aluminum foil out onto the floor.
Two seconds, maybe three, we stood that way, then the mice suddenly had guns in their paws. “Get him!” a voice squeaked, and they all swarmed toward me.
Now, I like mice. I’d had one as a pet when I was a kid. But mice with guns are a different matter. I turned, ran for my bedroom, slammed the door, and braced myself against it. I could hear little pops and yells from outside, and I started wondering whether mice could dig through wood.
Then I caught some movement across my bed at the window. The curtains parted in the early morning light, and a crow hopped through onto the windowsill. “Problem?” it asked.
I just stared. The crow flapped over to my bed, and another appeared on the sill. “We too late?” the second asked.
“Uhh,” I said. “Too late for what?”
The second crow jumped onto my pillow, and a third winged in. “For mice,” it said.
“Mice.” I nodded. “With guns.”
The crow on the sill made a rattling sound. “They’re only mice.” It jumped onto the bed and cocked its head at the other two. “Ready?”
“Ready,” they croaked.
The third looked back at me. “Open the door.”
“Open it?” I could hear little scratchings and scrapings outside. “Are you crazy?!”
“Just do it.” The crow spread its wings, and the other two did the same. “Stay here if you want.”
So I pulled the door open. Out flashed the crows, their caws echoing in the hallway, and the shouts of the mice turned to screams. Pops went off, and everything started to smell like the Fourth of July. I slammed the door shut and crawled into bed; this was one more thing for my list of things not to think about. The sounds outside dropped away slowly, fell from a constant squeaking and scuffling to an occasional crash, pop, or shriek, and I fell back to sleep.
When I woke up after that, the sun was streaming through the window. The clock said 9:41, and I couldn’t d
ecide if I had dreamed the whole thing or not. But the firecracker smell still hung in the air, so I got dressed and opened the door.
The hallway looked all right—no mouse bodies, anyway—so I kept going through the entryway and into the front room.
There were the crows, all three of them, tearing up my sofa, fluff and fabric scattered all over the floor.
“Hey!” I tried to grab them, but they leaped up and screeched around the room. I threw myself onto what was left of the cushions and spread my arms out. “What’re you doing?!”
The crows settled slowly, one on top of the T.V., another on the back of my armchair. The third clattered down onto the coffee table, strutted to the highest stack of magazine, and cocked an eye at me. “Problem?” it asked.
“Problem?! Yes! Why are you tearing my sofa apart?!”
“You are concerned?” The crow hopped to the floor and ruffled its wings as the one from the TV landed next to it.
I couldn’t keep a laugh from bursting out. “Concerned?! Why should I be concerned because three stinking birds are destroying my furniture?!”
The crow on my armchair flapped down to join the others. “Makes a bird think you might be hiding something in it.”
“What?” I managed to get out, but by then they were all over me. Wings slapped my face, beaks jabbed my sides, claws scratched my arms, and I tripped over my own feet as I tried to jump up and away from them. Down onto the floor I rolled, snatches of Alfred Hitchcock movies flashing through the pricks and stings, and then I wasn’t being hit anymore. I thumped against the coffee table just as the ripping sounds started from across the room again.
After a minute, I peered from between my arms and saw the crows laying into the couch again. After another minute, I unfolded, crawled to the other side of the table and dropped shaking into my armchair. The crows didn’t seem to notice; they were too busy pulling every bit of stuffing from the second of my three couch pillows.
They kept at it all morning; I couldn’t even get breakfast. Every time I tried to stand, at least one of the crows would give a croak and snap its black eyes over to me.
And they took the whole sofa apart as the clock on my VCR slowly ticked past ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, noon, and one PM. By 1:54 every bit of stuffing larger than a cotton ball had been pulled apart, only the smallest swatches of brown fabric remained unshredded, and they’d spent at least an hour poking around inside the empty framework, the whole time chattering and clicking to one another in low voices.
My stomach was chattering and clicking, too. So was my head. Whether I was in shock or not, I don’t know; I’m not a doctor. But when you spend a few hours watching crows rip up your furniture, well, it does something to you.
At about two o’clock, all three jumped out onto the floor. “So,” the one in front said, “it wasn’t there.”
I didn’t know how to respond to this, so I didn’t. The crows looked at me a while longer, then at each other. “Maybe we should try the chair,” one suggested.
“No,” said a new voice. “I don’t think so.”
They turned and I turned. Sitting in the entryway, the afternoon sun shining off the white swirls in its black fur, was the biggest cat I had ever seen. When I was growing up, we’d had a tabby named Bingo, and as she’d gotten older, she just seemed to expand into a throw pillow of a cat, bigger than some of the dogs in the neighborhood.
This cat was even bigger. It sauntered into the room, tail held aloft like a flag, settled a yard or so from the crows, and licked a front paw. “Two choices, birds,” it said. “Either you leave,” and the cat gave a grin that showed every one of its teeth, “or you have a bad day.”
Things were quiet for a while, only the sound of the cat licking and a few cars going by outside breaking the afternoon stillness. Then one of the crows snapped its beak. “Balls!” it croaked, and leaped at the cat.
The cat just sort of flashed; it couldn’t have moved as fast as it did, not a cat that big, but somehow, the crow was suddenly on the floor with the cat on top of it, the bird’s head at a strange angle, something dark spreading in a puddle over the gold of my carpet. The cat stayed sprawled over the crow and licked at its paw for another moment, then it said without looking up, “You birds. I want you gone.”
The crows didn’t wait; they were flapping down the hall to my bedroom before the cat finished speaking. “We’ll be back!” I heard one screech, then the quiet closed in again.
The cat yawned. “Close that window back there, will ya?”
I stared down at it. “Yeah. Okay.” I stumbled to the bedroom, slammed the window, and locked it, something I’d never done before. Somehow I got back to the front room and managed to fall into the chair instead of onto the floor.
The cat had gotten up from the crow and was poking at it with one paw. A shudder rustled every hair on its body. “I hate crows. You can’t even eat ’em when you’ve killed ’em.”
My stomach growled at the word ‘eat.’ The cat grinned. “You better get some food. We can talk while you make it.”
I was in no state to argue, so I got up and pushed into the kitchen.
I’d forgotten that the mice had pulled the door off the refrigerator. The stink hit me like a fist, the milk they’d splashed already sour, and everything else wasn’t far behind.
The cat gave one look and wrinkled up its nose. “Guess we’ll hafta go out, then.”
“Out?” My stomach was knots. “What do you mean ‘out?’”
The cat jerked a paw over its shoulder. “The A&W down the road. They make a good strawberry shake.” It turned and started for the door.
I decided that that made as much sense as the rest. My car keys were jabbing at my leg, so I opened the front door for the cat, locked it behind us, and we went to the driveway.
The A&W had a take out window, so I ordered lunch for myself and a strawberry milk shake for the cat. We parked under a tree there and ate, the cat pouring the shake bit by bit into the plastic lid and lapping it up.
I’d gotten about halfway through my burger when the cat said, “Y’know, you’re not such a bad guy, Jim. Not everyone’d buy a strange cat a strawberry milk shake.”
I swallowed. “Well, you did save my chair from those crows. I owe you something for that.”
“Yeah, you do.” Its tongue scraped against the plastic. “I’m Grendal, by the way.”
I nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”
Grendal shrugged and went on licking; I had finished my burger and most of my fries before he spoke again. “So, let’s talk about the custard.”
My fries tried to go down the wrong way. “Custard?” I managed to get out.
“Now don’t be that way, Jim; just hear me out.” He brushed his whiskers. “I’m working a couple sides of the fence on this, and one of ’em, believe it or not, is yours.” His eyes narrowed. “Hey, wait a minute. Where’s your wife?”
“My wife?”
“Yeah. Christine, I think the name was.”
“She’s gone.” I had to laugh. “She said I was too boring.”
“Well, that’s one good thing.”
“Good? Excuse me, but I don’t see much good in—”
“Yeah, I’m sure you don’t. But at least she won’t end up a bargaining chip in all this.” The cat took a few more licks of milk shake. “So here’s the plan: we go back to your place, hang out, and get a little shut eye. I can keep the felines back till dawn, but after that, we’ll hafta play it by ear. I know Bruce wouldn’t leave an operation this tricky to an idiot, but you got any questions before we head back?”
“Hundreds,” I said. “But I’m afraid if I ask them, you might give me answers.”
The cat grinned. “You ready to go?”
I blew out a breath. “Yeah, okay.” I wasn’t sure I really trusted this cat, but at least he wasn’t trying to shoot me or shred me. So I drove us home.
As we went up the front walk, Grendal said, “I’ll go in first. Just to be on the
safe side.”
I shrugged and unlocked the door. Grendal stalked in, nose lifted, ears twitching forward and back, then stopped and scratched. “It’s okay; c’mon in.”
The stink was incredible. I left the door open and moved into the front room to push the windows up. The cat had settled on the carpet in the entryway; he gave me a look, then asked, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What does it look like?” I went past him and unlocked the door to the room Christine had used for her study. I hadn’t been in there since she’d left, but it had windows, and this place needed a major airing out.
As I passed the cat in the entryway again, he said, “I don’t think you get what’s going on here, Jim.”
“Look,” I called back as I slid open the windows in my bedroom, “I am not going to have my house smell like a dump.”
When I went back into the entryway, Grendal blocked my way. “You’re willing to jeopardize this whole operation, open every door and window to whatever agents might be in this neighborhood, just so you can tidy up?”
I looked down. “Yes,” was all I could think to say.
He shook his head. “You got more nerve than me.”
“I’ve got no nerves left.” I pushed into the kitchen and tied the door open with the chain Christine had attached to it; she’d put locks and chains on every door in the house, even the bathroom. Then she complained because no one ever tried to break in.
Glass crunched under my shoes, and I held my breath as I scooted past the refrigerator’s remains and out into the yard. I got one of the trash cans from along the fence, took the broom and dustpan from the laundry room, grabbed some gloves, and set to work.
It took the rest of the afternoon. The refrigerator’s motor had burned out trying to keep the whole house cool, so not only had this little escapade cost me a sofa, a week’s worth of food and a good chunk of my peace of mind, but I was going to need a new refrigerator as well. Grendal came by every half hour to say that everything was quiet; he’d hauled the crow’s body into the kitchen for me to toss in the trash with the rotted food, then had said he would be “patrolling the perimeter,” whatever that meant.