Everything was quiet in the space between the two houses, so I ventured forward again. At the corner of the Chandlers’ house, I paused again, sniffing the air and swiveling my ears.
I didn’t detect anything dangerous, but the wind was also playing with my sense of smell. I crept around the corner and froze as a shadow near the front door moved.
I flattened myself against the ground, opening my eyes as wide as I could, trying to see better in the darkness.
Something was over there.
“Shhhhh!” the something hissed.
I flattened myself even further, trying to be invisible.
“Shhhhh! Ouuuta here,” moaned the voice, warningly.
I couldn’t see much, but the voice and the slight bits of scent that the wind didn’t blow away from me told me it was another cat.
I’d discovered the culprit, and he smelled of bird. I’d caught him in the act.
“Why are you trying to frame me?” I hissed.
“Go on, get moving,” he growled menacingly. “No competition. Myyy family.” His voice rose higher with each word, reedy and intimidating in the cold wind.
“You are a very bad cat,” I told him in a low, serious voice. And then I ran.
Back between the houses, over Tommy’s fence, around the side of the house, through the hole in the window, and up the basement stairs. I didn’t stop until I was inside my cardboard box.
I peeked over the top edge, looking around the living room for anyone pursuing me. Nothing stirred.
I curled up and shut my eyes—mostly. I kept them just slightly open in case the Very Bad Cat were to sneak up on me.
I mean, he’d have to figure out how to get into Tommy’s house first, but he was such a good hunter, it was always possible he’d be smart enough to—
Needless to say, between worrying about that and the fact that his words replayed themselves continually through my mind, I was still awake when the sun came up.
As Tommy stumbled into the kitchen for the coffee ritual, one question remained in my mind: what had the Very Bad Cat meant by “no competition” and “my family”?
Tommy had barely made it through his first cup of coffee before a knock on our door made me duck back inside my box.
“Uh, hi, Mrs. Chandler,” Tommy croaked when he opened the door.
“You look awful!” she said by way of greeting.
“Still working on waking up,” he said.
The understatement of the century.
“Well, your cat’s been at it again. And I think she was fighting with another cat early, early this morning. Their yowling scared a couple of the kids awake!”
I flattened myself into the box. My argument with the Very Bad Cat had been overheard! Now Tommy would know I had a way to escape the house!
After long pause while he collected his thoughts, Tommy said slowly, “Sorry... but she’s been in with me. There has to be more than one cat in this neighborhood... so that’s probably who you heard.”
Mrs. Chandler sighed in exasperation. “Well, we’re pretty tired of dead things on our porch. It was a bird this morning. One of the little girls is still crying about it.”
When she’d gone, Tommy wandered over to my box and looked down at me for a long moment.
“Hmm,” he said, and headed back to the kitchen.
These accusations against me needed to stop before he got any more suspicious. And little girls shouldn’t have to cry over dead birds. That was just too sad for me to handle.
I had to figure out why the Very Bad Cat was framing me. It was time for a confrontation.
I shuddered and settled in for a nap. Tonight was going to be a long night.
***
I woke up around noon and hopped out of my box. Yawning, I stretched my back legs one at a time, giving each one a little shake to work out the kinks developed during such a long nap.
The time had come. I needed to look for fish crackers. I trotted toward the kitchen, looked both ways for Tommy, and then popped open the pantry cabinet.
I stared up at the edges of several shelves. The cabinet was actually quite spacious and not very full of food, so I jumped up onto the first shelf and tiptoed around the items, sniffing each one delicately.
The fish crackers usually came in an obnoxiously orange paper bag, but one could never be careful enough. Humans had a fondness for moving food items from one container to another.
And—at least in Keith’s case—leaving things in food containers for too long.
I sneezed twice: once when I discovered a dust bunny, and another time when I discovered some kind of spicy seasoning.
Shelf two didn’t contain anything remotely like fish crackers. It was all hard metal cans of food.
Shelf three was much more interesting. Tommy had apparently bought—or been given—a tin of Christmas cookies. I sniffed along the edge of the container.
I poked around some more, stepping daintily over the cold cookie tin.
There. In the corner.
The orange paper bag called to me, the salty, cheesy cracker smell faintly escaping the container...
“What are you doing in the pantry?” Tommy’s voice asked suddenly.
I froze, one paw lifted in the air.
We stared at each other for a moment. I didn’t blink.
Tommy gave a short laugh and a shake of his head before lifting me out of the jumble of pantry goods and setting me on the floor.
He closed the cabinet door and said, “Are you hungry or just exploring?”
I ignored him by pretending to wash my face. I didn’t want to answer that question (not that I could have without revealing my secret skill).
But I knew where the fish crackers were. And just like that, I had a plan to get information out of the Very Bad Cat.
Seven
As soon as Tommy was asleep that night, I hopped out of my cardboard box and walked on soft, padded paws to the dark kitchen. Hooking my paw under the edge of the pantry cabinet door again, I stealthily swung it open and then made my way to the third shelf.
All was quiet, so my stealth was apparently working. The bag of fish crackers was small and had already been opened by someone—maybe Tommy, maybe one of the other college guys who usually lived here. Although this meant less crackers for me and the Very Bad Cat, it would make the thing easier to haul.
I gripped the top of the bag with my mouth and dragged it to the edge of the shelf. I eyed the floor for a moment and then jumped down, taking the cracker bag with me.
Freezing, I listened. The house was silent. Tommy was still sound asleep.
I gently nudged the pantry shut, and then tiptoed to the basement door. Setting the bag of fish crackers down, I licked my lips.
Not that I had been drooling. Ew.
The basement door creaked loudly this time when it opened. I shivered at the noise and at the cold draft that wafted up the steps. Taking the fish cracker bag with me, I hopped down into the dark basement, my eyes quickly adjusting.
I glanced at the hole in the window and then the corner in which my phone was hidden. I really wanted to check for messages from Keith, but I also couldn’t afford to get to the Chandlers’ front porchafter the Very Bad Cat did. Or miss him altogether. I had to be the first one there.
I hurried to the window, dragging the bag of fish crackers with me. It took quite a bit of finagling to get the bag through the hole without spilling anything. I was glad I’d left my phone alone and given myself plenty of time.
I held my head high so the small bag wouldn’t drag on the ground and hurried to the Chandlers’ house. I approached the front porch cautiously, sniffing and searching out the shadows.
To my relief, I had arrived first. I set to work.
Tipping the small paper bag on its side, I wiggled it until two fish crackers tumbled out onto the porch. I swiped one with my paw and ate it, the cheesy, salty flavor filling my mouth.
It made me miss Keith.
Not that he’s cheesy
and salty—actually, come to think of it, he can be pretty cheesy. No, he’d introduced me to fish crackers on our road trip to visit his nieces and nephews in the country.
I retreated to a deep shadow in the far corner of the porch, taking the rest of the fish crackers with me.
It was cold out, so I hunched into a ball, tucking all four paws beneath me and wrapping my tail snugly around them. I puffed up all my fur and immediately felt a bit warmer.
After waiting a while, I began yawning big, head-splitting yawns. The fish crackers remaining in the bag were calling my name. Singing to me.
Okay, so maybe I had dozed off a bit and dreamed that they were singing. It would be weird if crackers could really sing.
All I know is that I was suddenly aware of movement. I blinked a few times to clear my vision.
Illuminated by the moonlight, a large orange tomcat with a crooked tail was sniffing at the fish cracker I’d left out so temptingly.
I stayed perfectly still, glad the wind was blowing my scent away from him.
I waited with bated breath as he poked at the cracker with one paw. Would he eat it? I sure hoped so. I needed him to be just as in love with them as I was. The rest of the crackers were my peace offering. Or bribe. Whatever you want to call it.
We needed to talk.
The orange cat sat back on his haunches and stared down at the cracker, ears tipped forward as if waiting for it to do something.
Maybe orange cats weren’t very bright. I remembered seeing an internet meme about a cat who thought he was locked outside when the door was actually ajar. That cat had been orange too...
Or maybe I was the odd one. Maybe most cats didn’t find fish crackers as delicious as I did.
Finally, he picked up the cracker in his teeth, gave it one quick crunch, and swallowed.
I wasn’t sure what to do. He’d eaten it so fast, there was no way he knew how good it tasted! Would my plan even work?
He bent down again, sniffing the place where the cracker had been, whiskers twitching. He then licked the spot, trying to pick up the last remnants of flavor.
He was a goner!
If I had been a person, I would have done a fist-pump. Since I couldn’t do that, I said quietly, “Want some more?”
He jumped back, wary and bristling, scanning the shadows for me.
I snickered a little. “Hey, I’m not here to fight—I think we got off on the wrong paw last night. I brought a peace offering of more fish crackers.”
He narrowed his eyes, a faint growl building in his chest.
“Honest!” I said, gathering my courage and my bag of crackers and emerging into the moonlight. “I’m Mia. I’m not much of a fighter, but I do love to talk. I was hoping you'd clarify what you said last night.” And explain why you're framing me, I added to myself.
He seemed to relax a little when he saw me, and the growl stopped. I don’t know what he was expecting, but apparently my grey-striped tabby self didn’t look too threatening.
“Yo, I'm Spitz,” he said by way of introduction. “What’d I say last night? Can’t ‘member.”
I crept closer and shook some more crackers onto the porch. “It was something about ‘no competition’ and ‘my family.’”
“Oh,” he said, crunching on another cracker. “That’s right. See, I’m in the middle of this—thing. Kinda time-sensitive. Ya know...”
He scratched awkwardly at a scar on his face.
“Go on,” I prompted.
He gobbled a few more crackers before glancing away and answering, “When they see the critters, they'll want to...” he trailed off and scratched nervously at the scar again before mumbling, “I sorta want a family to ‘dopt me for Christmas.”
Eight
Well, that certainly wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. He wasn't trying to frame me after all? What did hunting have to do with adoption? I tried to connect the dots in my mind, but failed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, swiping one of the fish crackers and crunching it thoughtfully, “I’m not quite following. I mean, that’s great to want a family to adopt you for Christmas. I did the same sort of thing earlier this year. But... I’m not understanding how mice fit into your plan.”
Spitz cocked his head and blinked slowly as if this was hard to comprehend. “Ya don't?”
“Nooo...” I said. I had a nagging feeling this might be a normal cat thing I missed out on being raised in a lab. Apparently there was something special about mice that I wasn't getting.
Spitz looked at me curiously before scrubbing a paw across his face and explaining. “Ya gotta prove yourself. That you’re the best hunter in town—that ya can help take care of the family. Regularly. Every night I’ve brought them something even though it’s winter. No way they won't be impressed by that.”
I nodded, understanding starting to dawn.
“Then they adopt you.” Spitz sat up straight and curled his crooked tail around his paws.
I scratched behind my ear. “Spitz, have you ever been adopted before? Ever had a family?”
“No.”
“Well... um...” I had to set him straight about how to impress humans. He was just going to keep getting me blamed for the dead rodents on the Chandlers’ doorstep. And there was no way he was getting them to adopt him that way. Not by Christmas. Not ever.
“Listen, can I give you some advice?”
Spitz sat still as a statue and regarded me with long, slow blinks. I couldn’t tell if he was interested in what I had to say or not.
“Human families don’t actually eat mice, you know.”
He blinked slowly once more, and I paused to see if he’d respond. When a long moment stretched on, I prepared to continue.
“Yeah, you may actually be right about that,” he said in a low voice. “I can't say I've ever seen a person eating a mouse.” He began to look worried.
“I don’t know if you’ve stuck around to see what Mrs. Chandler thinks of the gifts you’ve been leaving, but I’ve heard all about it. She’s really, really not happy about dead mice on the doorstep, Spitz.”
I decided not to mention the fact that she thought I was leaving the critters. I didn't want him to think I was his competition again.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
He studied the ground, his ears drooping.
“When people are looking for a cat to adopt, they care about stuff like—” I began, but he cut me off, muttering.
“I was right. Shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Right about what?” I asked, unsure what to think.
“Eh...” he said, getting to his feet and arching back in a lazy stretch. “Cats. We’re meant to be loners. Independent. I don't actually need nobody—and ain't nobody needs me. Just a silly Christmas wish.”
“Oh. Spitz. I didn’t mean that at all,” I said in dismay. Had I made it sound like nobody needed him? Had I really just squashed a Christmas wish?
“Naw, I always thought so, but for some reason I just got a dumb hankering this Christmas, ya know?”
He turned as if to go, and I jumped to my feet, pawing the cracker bag. “Hey, there are still more fish crackers,” I said, hoping I could get him to stay. Maybe I could undo what I’d just done.
He half turned and looked at the bag and then at me. “I should just get my mouse and go.”
“No, I really think you should eat some more fish crackers with me. And I should tell you about how I got adopted by Tommy, here, without even writing him a note.”
He swiveled his ears. “Ha. Being able to write a note would be helpful.”
“Well—” I debated telling him about my secret skill. It wasn’t as if he could let the cat out of the proverbial bag. But something told me it would be better to focus on what any cat could do. I didn’t want him getting sidetracked on my unusual abilities.
“Yes, writing a note would make things easier, but listen—any cat who knows what people are looking for in a pet should be able to get
themselves adopted.”
He turned and sat back down. “That’s what I was doing...”
“While other cats would probably value hunting prowess and the mice you’re leaving, people value things like good manners, snuggliness, not destroying things during playtime, being friendly, and—especially in a family with little ones like the Chandlers—being patient with little ones. No biting or scratching.”
Spitz stared at me in shock. “I do have good manners even if I look a little rough. I would never bite the kittens—I mean the kids.”
“That’s good! But you have to think of some way to show them you’d make a good pet.”
He stared at the ground for a long moment. I shook a few more fish crackers out, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m thinking and thinking and—nothing. It was a silly dream.” He turned with a grunt. “Doesn’t really matter that I can’t come up with any ideas. I’m a cat! I don’t need nobody.”
“It’s not that hard, Spitz!” I said, jumping up to follow him. “It’s easy to wait for them when they come out the door, rub against their legs and purr, do something cute like chase a string.”
But he just shook his head and continued walking.
“Spitz! Listen, you’re wrong about cats being made to be independent. We may not be pack animals, but—” I paused, thinking about where I was going with this. “The Maker of Cats made us to need one another. Nobody was made to be all alone. People need other people, kittens need their mothers, birds fly in flocks, people need cats—and cats need people.” I couldn’t help but picture Keith.
The big orange cat looked over at me, his ears crooked in a puzzled, sad expression.
“Spitz, if it weren’t for the fact that all things need Someone, there wouldn’t be—why, there wouldn’t be Christmas!”
“It’s a nice thought. See you around, Mia.”
My ears drooped as I watched him retrieve his porch-offering and disappear into the cold shadows.
Nine
Something was making an awful, horrible racket. Thuds and clangs battered their way through the dead sleep I was in, until I finally pulled myself upright and peered over the edge of my cardboard box.
The Kitten Files, Season One Page 13