The Kitten Files, Season One

by Perry Kirkpatrick

  Dr. Creighton, the lead research scientist, was going to be holding a press conference to announce “new developments” in their work “and the future of Caput Laboratories.”

  Well, that was vague.

  I whisked a nervous paw over my nose and tried to think what it could mean. I hoped it was good news. The kind that would assure me I could safely go home to Keith. But with these scientists, I never knew.

  Three

  Tommy discovered the basement door slightly ajar the next morning. He grunted sleepily to himself and said something about forgetting to latch it all the way the night before.

  I stayed in the warm confines of my cardboard box and just let him think that.

  Eventually, with his coffee made, he slid into a chair at the round table in the breakfast nook. “Well, hey there, Cat,” he said hunching over the steaming mug and peering groggily at me around the small Christmas tree on the table. “Wait, that sounds wrong. Do you have a name?” He shook his head as if to clear it and took a long, slow drink. “What am I thinking? It’s not like you’re gonna answer me.”

  He pondered something deep within the coffee mug. “Let’s just call you Joe—like coffee. Joe. Coffee. Get it?”

  I sincerely hoped this guy didn’t have early morning classes at college. He sure woke up slowly. After his second cup of coffee, however, he was more awake, and he announced he was going to pick up a few things for me.

  I was touched, although I would have been okay with living on hamburgers as an alternative to cat food.

  “Gonna call the folks, too,” he said, checking his watch. “It’s not quite dinner time at their mission. Sure miss ‘em this time of year!”

  I couldn’t blame him. It was a bummer being away from your family at Christmas-time—I ought to know.

  At some point between my foray into the basement and my second catnap of the night, the promised dusting of snow had fallen. The daytime temperature wasn’t really cold enough to maintain it, however, so I watched from the window as he slipped and skidded his way through the leftover slush to the driveway where his old black car was parked.

  While he was gone, I spent time exploring every inch of the house. I wasn’t being nosy. I was being a detective. There’s a difference, you know.

  I was tempted to let myself back into the basement and check my phone, but I reasoned that there was probably nothing new to see. Plus I didn’t want to make him too suspicious about my door-opening skills and my trips downstairs.

  It’s not like he would know I had a cell phone stashed down there, but still. He might change the doorknob or something to keep me out.

  Eventually, I got bored and curled up for a nap on the back of the couch. Sometime later, I woke to Tommy’s arrival as announced by the highly-irritating squeak of brakes that needed changing.

  I shuddered.

  Perhaps the guy should spend a little less on hamburgers and get his brakes looked at. But who was I to judge? It wasn’t as if I’d ever had to make the choice between hamburgers and a brake job. I had an uneasy guess as to what I would choose.

  I hopped off the back of the couch and threw myself into a long, luxurious back-stretch-and-yawn. When Tommy didn’t come right to the door, I jumped up onto a windowsill in the breakfast nook.

  He stood outside, cradling a large paper sack as he talked to a middle-aged woman who had just gotten out of a minivan in the next driveway over. She shooed a couple of kids into the house, chatting with him in a distracted, but neighborly fashion.

  I paced the windowsill, brimming with curiosity about their conversation. I decided the next unusual cat-skill I should work on (other than being able to read and write) was lip-reading.

  My movement seemed to catch the woman’s eye, for she gestured toward me. Tommy glanced over his shoulder and laughed, nodding his head. After a moment, he waved goodbye to the neighbor, and then headed toward our front door.

  If he had been Keith, I would have been waiting by the nearest notepad with a long list of questions about their conversation. But I hadn't let Tommy in on my little secret.

  He plunked the paper sack down on the breakfast table and unwound his scarf, tossing it and his coat beside the front door.

  “That was Mrs. Chandler, our neighbor. She and her husband have like four or five little kids. They’re a nice bunch. Always something going on at their house.”

  I made a mental note to avoid the Chandlers’ house. Little kids and clompy sandals were sort of a phobia of mine. Although it certainly wasn't sandal weather—so it was more likely to be clompy boots.

  Which was actually scarier, I realized.

  “I told her I’d been to the pet store to pick up some stuff for you,” Tommy continued. “She was all curious, so I told her about how I found you yesterday and stuff.”

  Apparently I didn’t need to write out my questions around this guy. He’d just rattle off all the answers without me asking them. Very considerate of him.

  I jumped onto the table and popped up on my hind legs, peering over the edge of the sack.

  “You look like an otter when you do that,” Tommy said, laughing at me.

  I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or not. I mean, otters are like cats who got confused and decided water was actually a fun thing. Traitors.

  I didn’t dwell on it too long, however, because Tommy pulled a small bottle out of the bag and read the back of it.

  “Okay, Joe,” he said, squinting at the fine print. “Bath time!”

  Let’s just say, no matter how much he thought I looked like one—I am certainly no otter. I certainly don’t appreciate water.

  And soap is weird.

  Also, I have a lot of pity for dishes now. Being washed in a kitchen sink is not my idea of a fun time. I wasn’t willing to make a big scene like some of the cats in those videos do. I didn’t turn into a buzzsaw.

  I hunkered down and waited for the soaking to be over, the whole time giving Tommy a yowling earful about the situation. He rattled on about how the weird soap was special soap that would get rid of all the ticks and fleas I probably had from being on my own outdoors.

  When he was satisfied that all these alleged bugs had been taken care of, he rubbed me semi-dry with a big towel, making all my fur stand on end.

  “Now, no more going outside for you,” he said. “Let’s stay bug-free.”

  Speak for yourself, I thought grumpily.

  The minute I could, I took a flying leap from the confines of the towel and disappeared down the hall to smooth my coat out and dry it the right way.

  Unfortunately, my fur tasted weird now. Like weird soap.

  Four

  The next morning I was up long before Tommy even stirred. I rattled my way behind the mini-blinds in the breakfast nook and looked outside. It had snowed a little again that night, and the neighbor kids were already outside scraping it off everything in sight and pelting each other with snowballs.

  I eyed their footwear. I had been right about it being the season for clompy boots.

  One of the snowballs went astray and thunked into the siding just under my window. The kids spotted me and the littlest two tracked across the slushy snow to press their noses against the outside of the window and talk to me.

  “Hi, kitty! Are you Tommy’s kitty? Do you like snow?” chattered the second-to-littlest.

  The very littlest one just meowed at me. It really wasn’t a half-bad imitation. The older siblings realized the little ones had wandered off and came hurrying over.

  “Come on, you guys. You can’t just walk up to a neighbor’s house and leave nose-prints all over the window! Mom won’t like that,” insisted a girl who was probably 12 or 13. “It’s bad manners.”

  “Kitty!” the littlest protested, pointing at me.

  “Yes, it’s a nice kitty,” the big sister said, taking firm hold of the toddler’s arm and beginning to move her away from the window.

  “I'll bet that’s who left the mouse on the porch,” said the husky 10-y
ear-old brother. I guessed part of his girth was probably due to the excessively puffy orange coat he wore.

  “Ew, don’t remind me!” said the big sister. “I still say we should tell mom about the mouse.”

  “She’ll freak out! She might not let us outside to play!”

  “Kitty!” squealed the littlest again.

  “Come on, you two. Back to our own front yard.”

  The children’s voices grew more faint as they walked away. I wondered what mouse they were referring to.

  Tommy stumbled out of his room to begin his daily coffee-and-waking ritual. He jumped as I popped out from behind the mini-blinds.

  I promise I wasn’t trying to startle him, but it was kind of funny. And now he was wide awake without the assistance of caffeine.

  He continued with his coffee ritual anyway, and had just finished the second cup when a loud pounding boomed through the quiet house. I jumped and skittered under the table, the hair on my back and tail standing on end.

  Too late, I realized what the sound had been: a knock at the door. Oops.

  I quickly worked on licking down my fur, hoping Tommy wouldn't notice my overreaction.

  Too late. He was already laughing at me as he moseyed to the front door.

  A cold draft curled through the house as he opened it. I listened from under the table.

  “Oh hello, Mrs. Chandler,” Tommy said, “what’s up?”

  “I think your new cat left a—a rodent on our doorstep,” the woman said, and I could hear the disapproving frown in her voice. “My children discovered it, and it’s a miracle one of the little ones didn’t touch it. I can’t even begin to think what kinds of diseases are probably all over that thing.”

  Tommy made a noise like he was about to say something, but our neighbor wasn’t finished.

  “I am not a fan of mice—dead or alive,” she went on, “and if my husband were home, I’d have him get rid of it. But until then it’s either avoid using our front door, or else you’ll need to come get rid of your cat’s present.”

  I laid my ears back at her accusations. That wasn't my mouse! Someone was framing me.

  Once again, it was like Tommy had read my mind.

  “What makes you think it was Joe?”

  I rolled my eyes. I had the worst luck when it came to getting named.

  “Well, it hasn’t happened before today. And she just showed up, so...”

  “That is kind of logical,” Tommy agreed, “but I’ve kept her inside the whole time. I washed her real good with flea and tick shampoo and haven’t let her out since.”

  There was a moment of silence, and I tried to imagine what was going on at the door. Were they glaring at each other and swishing their tails in agitation? —Oh, wait.

  That’s what cats would be doing.

  Finally, Mrs. Chandler let out a frustrated sigh. “Hmm,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “Keep a close eye on your cat, please.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  My heart sank. I had to find a way to prove this wasn't me. I didn't want Tommy noticing my basement trips, and the increased surveillance meant I had to be even more careful.

  “I can come get rid of the mouse,” Tommy offered.

  “Oh, you don’t have to,” she said. “I just get so worked up over mice...”

  “It's really not a problem. Let me grab something to pick up that critter with. I’ll be right over.”

  “Thank you, Tommy. You’re a good neighbor. Maybe now the kids will stop begging to dissect it.” She made a shuddering noise.

  Tommy held in a laugh until he’d shut the door. I came out from under the table, approaching him and waving my tail gently in the air.

  That’s a friendly “hi” to cats, and I thought he deserved it for sticking up for me.

  “Yet another good reason you’re an indoor kitty,” he said, looking down at me with his hands planted on his hips. “Can't get in trouble with the neighbors. At least I hope not. Hmm...” he said, thoughtfully. “Now, how am I going to pick up that mouse?”

  I refrained from giving him ideas.

  Nope, only Keith got that treatment. I really couldn’t wait to get home to him. It would be nice to have someone to write snarky notes to again.

  Five

  That night, I made another trek to the basement. It seemed colder, but maybe I was just acclimating to living in a warm house again. I settled into a tight, puffy ball as my phone booted up. Finally, a notification popped up letting me know I had a new message.

  I tapped the app with my stylus and read.

  Caught a new case today & I have a meeting with someone else tomorrow. Weird that I have any cases at Christmastime. Bummer, I guess. Thought Christmas was supposed 2B a time of year 2B nice.

  If you catch any tips about a break-in night before last at convenience store on Baltimore and Main, let me know?

  Despite the fact his abbreviations sounded like he was playing Battleship, he was again asking for my help! And, while it was good to hear business was booming (which meant his reputation as a detective wasn’t doing too badly), he did have a point about Christmastime.

  There was something to be said for the Christmas spirit. No matter how much people lost sight of the real reason for the festivities, general concepts of peace and family and kindness still hung around. For everyone but the criminals, it seemed.

  It sounded like, with me gone, he was probably going to be spending Christmas Day alone. And he'd probably spend it working, aside from a trip to church.

  I twitched my ears and got busy writing a reply.

  I’ll keep you posted if I come across any clues. Now, about Christmas—you make a good point. It isn’t right that a detective’s business should be booming this time of year. People should be with family and friends, making memories, and remembering the real and joyful reason to celebrate.

  I sent the message and thought for a moment. Keith didn’t usually get subtlety. He would never realize I was recommending he take some time off and spend time with family or friends.

  I began another message.

  Start on these cases and then take the rest of the week off. Slow down and enjoy Christmas. Maybe visit some family...

  I paused, thinking. I wanted to encourage him to see Ms. Clara Thornblood if he could. She was a very nice lady. Her case had been the first one I'd worked on with Keith. We had (okay, mostly I had) caught the member of her staff who was leaking information to the tabloids.

  She was fond of Keith—and me, for that matter—and he seemed bumblingly, awkwardly fond of her. Which was his usual way of doing anything.

  I wanted to tell him to bring her some kind of Christmas snack. I swished my tail, thinking. What did humans consider a Christmas-y snack?

  I mean, I would like a can of tuna. Or a bag of fish. The orange cracker kind, not the swimming kind. Man, those things were good.

  I licked my lips and determined to raid the kitchen and find out if Tommy kept any around.

  ...and take some kind of snack-y gift to a friend. Candy canes? Nuts? I don’t know.

  I hit send. I hoped he’d get the idea. A moment later, to my surprise, a new message from Keith appeared. How exciting! He was awake and on his phone!

  Thank u.

  Well that was a bit of a letdown. I twitched my ears in irritation. He'd only replied to one part of my message. After a long moment, another message popped up.

  U know, that’s not such a bad idea. It stinks 2B alone at Christmas. I’ll have 2 see how these cases go.

  I stared at the words, feeling more guilty for faking my death and leaving him to his own devices than I had yet felt over the past several weeks.

  Another message appeared. He was talkative tonight!

  I really do appreciate ur help. I wish u weren’t staying anonymous so I could thank u in person.

  That just made me feel even more guilty. I swiped a paw across my nose and then scrawled out a “goodnight” message.

  A quick internet searc
h assured me that Caput Laboratories was still planning to make an announcement on Wednesday. I stared at the headline for a long time, hoping with everything inside me that it would be good news for me.

  Six

  After a quick catnap, I wandered restlessly around the quiet, dark house. There was nothing interesting to do. I didn’t want to wake Tommy, so I refrained from ransacking the kitchen looking for fish crackers.

  I got into a windowsill and spent some time staring outside at the cold, clear night, pondering the problem of who could be framing me for the dead mouse. I decided a quick, exploratory walk around outside wasn’t a bad idea.

  Sure, it would be chilly, but I had a built-in fur coat and a nice warm place to come back to. I padded back down the hallway and to the basement door, which was still slightly ajar from my earlier trip downstairs.

  Since I’d already checked for messages and news, I ignored my phone, lying quiet and dark in its hiding place, and instead headed for the cat-sized hole in the window.

  Wriggling out into the cold, pre-dawn world, I slunk my way around the outside of Tommy’s house. Nothing much was stirring in the backyard. It was too cold for bugs of any kind to be out and about.

  I wondered where the mouse on the Chandlers’ doorstep had come from. It seemed to me that finding a mouse in this weather would be a rather difficult task. Whoever had caught the thing and framed me was certainly good at hunting.

  I wasn’t much of a hunting expert. I’d grown up in a laboratory, for crying out loud! I admired the skill of whoever had caught the mouse.

  Why this nefarious character was torturing the neighbors with dead rodents, I didn’t know, though.

  All this thinking about the mouse had apparently caused me to veer toward the Chandlers’ house. I froze in a shadow, realizing I hadn’t been paying close attention to my surroundings. I was thankful they'd turned off their Christmas lights, otherwise I would have been all too visible.