Hissy Fitz

by Patrick Jennings

  I clean myself up after my snack, then head back through town. The food has soothed my rage somewhat, though I still hiss and scream and swat at passersby. I stop for a drink at the city fountain with the statue of the mermaid in the center. A sparrow foolishly lands beside me and pecks at the water. My killer instinct kicks in, but I don’t give into it. I let the bird live. It doesn’t know how lucky it is that I’m fed.

  I jump down from the fountain to start the long walk home. I climb the 126 stairs leading up from the fountain to our neighborhood, which the people call Uptown. By the time I hit the top step I’m hungry again and regret letting the sparrow go.

  I hope someone has refilled my food dish. If not, someone is going to pay.

  11.

  Swagger

  Before the flap to my door slaps shut behind me, Zeb is there. “Hissy cat!” he hollers, and attempts to grab my tail.

  I give him my leopard impression: fangs bared, back arched, hackles up, eyes wild, my loudest scream. RRROWWWRRRR!

  Zeb backs off, but I don’t. I launch at him, all four paws off the ground, all eighteen of my claws bared. I’m not messing around.

  Zeb’s face turns white. He twists to run, gets tangled up on his own feet, and falls to the floor. I land beside him. I could pounce on him, teach him a lesson. I should.

  But I don’t. He’s only a child. I merely scold him: Hssssssssss!

  “Mama!” he cries. “Maaaaa-maaaaa!” He scrambles to his feet and flees.

  That was enjoyable.

  I stroll over to my dishes. No food. No water.

  Grrrrrrrrrr!

  Never mind. I smell something more delicious. There’s a bag of groceries on the counter. I leap up onto it. The smell is bird. It’s in the bag. I slash through the paper, then paw through the people food inside: apples, oranges, carrots, cabbage, a couple boxes of pasta, some cans of beans and then … a chicken breast! I slash through the plastic wrap into the bird’s flesh. Blood stains my claws. I lick them clean. I slash again.

  “Hissy!” Mom says.

  I jump. Didn’t hear her come in. Too focused on the poultry.

  She’s already changed out of her business clothes. She’s in yoga pants and a sweatshirt.

  “Get down!” she says, walking briskly toward me.

  Hssssssssss! I say.

  I like Mom, but I don’t like being told what to do.

  “Go on,” she says, waving her hand at me. “Get down. Get down!”

  I hiss louder. HSSSSSSSSSS!

  “Don’t you have any food of your own?” She checks my dishes. “You don’t. And no water, either. Georgie!”

  Good. She sees the problem here. I respect Mom’s good sense. I jump down.

  But Georgie doesn’t appear. A violin is screeching in the living room. Georgie is learning to play the foul instrument. Of the many earsplitting things humans have invented, the violin must be the worst. As Georgie saws on hers, she also sings along. She makes up the words as she goes.

  “Where are my SLIP-pers!

  They’re right UN-der the chair, said her mother,

  They’re right O-ver here, said her father,

  They are right … here.”

  It’s doubtful Georgie can hear her mother over the din she is making.

  “Georgie!” Mom calls her again in a louder, shriller voice. I wince. Then she starts putting away the groceries.

  “Zeb says you attacked him,” she says to me.

  True, but Zeb had it coming.

  “I’m sure he deserved it,” she adds.

  Absolutely.

  “I’d feed you myself, but I want Georgie to do it. It’s her job.”

  I understand — so long as I get fed and watered.

  She yells her daughter’s name again even louder, even shriller, at the exact moment Georgie appears in the doorway.

  “Here I am!” she chirps.

  “Did you forget to feed Hissy?”

  “No, I fed him when I got home,” Georgie says. “He must have eaten it all. Is he still hungry?”

  He is.

  “He just tore into the groceries,” Mom says.

  “Should I feed him again?”

  Yes.

  “Did you give him wet food?”

  “Yes,” Georgie says.

  “Then just give him a little dry. We don’t want him getting fat.”

  Grrrrrrrrrr.

  “And water, too,” Mom says. “Better do it quickly. He’s been hissing at me. And he attacked Zeb.”

  “Zeb probably deserved it,” Georgie says with a roll of her eyes.

  Georgie scoops some kibbles out of the bag and pours them into my dish. They make an unappetizing tinkling sound.

  I eat a couple. Compared to the salmon in the Dumpster, kibbles taste like dirt. I gulp them down, lap up some water, then stroll away.

  “That’s all you want?” Mom asks. “After all that fuss?”

  The fuss, I wish I could tell her, is not about food and drink. It is about sleep. It is about not being able to get any in this house. Since I can’t tell her, I lift my tail and add a little swagger to my walk.

  12.

  The Bug

  I hurry up to the parents’ bedroom and scoot under their big bed. It’s the family’s dinnertime, and I’m hoping to get in a quick nap while they’re all busy eating.

  I tuck my legs under me and shut my eyes. All the muscles in my body instantly relax. I feel as if I’m melting.

  I am a lion, dozing on the savannah. Gazelles and zebras circle around me, but I am too bushed to lift my enormous, maned head. I’m too tired to hunt.

  “Hissy!” Georgie says. “Hissy Fitz! Come out of there!”

  I open my eyes. She’s peeking under the bed at me.

  “Hurry, before Zeb gets here!”

  The light in the hall is shining in my eyes. It wasn’t on when I came up here. Georgie must have turned it on. But why would she? Night hasn’t fallen yet.

  Or has it?

  “He’s still at the table. Mama won’t let him get up till he eats a vegetable. Come on! We can play in my room.”

  I don’t want to play in her room. I want to —

  What’s that? Something is swishing back and forth in front of me.

  It disappeared!

  It’s back!

  Georgie giggles. “What do you see, Hissy? What is it? Come and see, Hissy. Come on. Come out and see what it is.”

  It acts like a bug. It flutters. It zigzags. I grip the carpet with my claws and prepare to pounce.

  I’m not fooled, of course. Georgie’s trying to lure me out with a cat toy, a wad of paper tied to a wire. I’m not going to —

  There it is again! To the right. It’s on the move. I must catch it before it gets away.

  I creep forward.

  “That’s it, Hissy,” Georgie says. “Get it. Go on.…”

  My movements are smooth and silent. I’m practically gliding across the rug. The bug/toy dances a herky-jerky jig. Then it flies straight up, out of sight. I must get out from under the bed!

  “Where’d it go, Hissy? Where’d it go? It flew away, I think. It’s gone, Hissy. You didn’t catch it.”

  I stick my nose out from under the bed and glance upward. I don’t see the bug. But I hear a dull thumping on the bedspread.

  “It’s on the bed, Hissy! It’s on the bed! Get it, Hissy! Get it!”

  I run out from under the bed and look back to see the bug flopping on it. There’s no time to lose! I spring onto the bed — which is taller than the kids’ — just as the bug lifts off. It disappears again. Rats!

  “Oh, no,” Georgie says, pretending to be disappointed. “I guess it really did get away this — no, there it is!” The bug flies back and flitters in circles right over my head. I swat at it and miss. Georgie laughs. I spin around and swat again. I miss again. Georgie laughs harder.

  “You can get it, Hissy! Don’t give up!”

  She continues to make the thing dance in the air. I want to teach
Georgie a lesson for waking me. I will catch it and rip it to shreds before her eyes. Then we’ll see who laughs best.

  I leap into the air, but she jerks the toy away in the nick of time. She lifts it higher. I leap higher. She jerks it away. I land awkwardly and fall on my side. She laughs. I spring to my feet.

  Hssssssssss! I say.

  “Oh, don’t get mad, Hissy. Keep trying. You’ll get it.”

  I lunge at the wire and catch it with my right paw. My claw slides along the wire, pulling the toy downward, where I can reach it. The “bug” is a twisted pipe cleaner. I feverishly claw at it. I bite it. I growl. I win.

  “You got it!” Georgie squeals. “Good boy, Hissy! Good boy! Now let go and we’ll do it again.”

  I let go. She hovers it over my head again. I yawn. There will be no rematch.

  I walk across the bedspread to the edge and jump down. Through the window I see it is dark outside. I guess I did fall asleep.

  The nap was too short to help, though. And I spent what little energy I had saved chasing after Georgie’s toy. Soon Zeb will be on the loose again.

  It may be dark, but the human day has not yet ended.

  13.

  Bath Time

  I hide in the pantry during bath time, behind the cans. Zeb and Abe bathe first. The only voice I hear is Zeb’s. He is imitating the sounds of motors and weapons. Revving sounds. Machine-gun fire. Explosions. There are also the sounds of splashing and tussling. It is a scene to avoid.

  Just as I’m drifting off, Georgie steps into the pantry.

  She sits cross-legged on the other side of the cans.

  “I can’t believe that Ethan lets Peanut Butter run around without a leash like that,” she says. “Then he gets mad at poor Zeb for chasing him. It’s not Zeb’s fault. If Peanut Butter was on a leash, Zeb wouldn’t chase him.”

  No, he would just torment him. Maybe try to ride him. He’s done that to dogs before.

  “Did you see Peanut Butter lick my face? He has such a big tongue!” She sticks hers out in disgust. “But it’s not his fault. He should be on a leash.”

  I agree with her, though I wouldn’t like to be leashed. Cats are lucky that way. We can go where we want. Most of us, anyway. I know cats who are kept inside. Igloo, for example. Their owners don’t want them to get run over by cars, or get into fights with other cats, or catch diseases, or kill birds. Igloo’s family tries to keep him inside, but he always escapes. I’m glad my humans don’t try to keep me inside. I’d go crazy locked up in this house.

  Not that I don’t feel crazy now. I must get some rest.

  I hate to do it, but I’m going to have to …

  Hssssssssss!

  “Hissy! What’s the matter?”

  I rise up, arch my back, repeat myself. Hssssssssss! Then, to be sure I get my point across, I spit: Fffft! Fffft!

  She inches away.

  “Is it because I’m talking about Peanut Butter? Is that why you’re so upset?”

  She’s not getting it. I want to be left alone.

  Hssssssssss! Fffft! Fffft!

  She reaches out a hand, as if to pet me.

  I swat at it, and, again, say, HSSSSSSSSSS!

  I won’t lie. It feels good. Besides, it’s not as if I have the option of politely asking her for some privacy.

  “Georgie!” Mom’s voice calls. “Bath time!”

  “I have to go take my bath,” Georgie says to me, climbing to her feet. “Let’s talk about this later.”

  Hssssssssss!

  She scoots out the door.

  I close my eyes. All the hissing has made my heart race. It will take a while before I can calm down enough to sleep.

  Feet pound on the stairs overhead. The pantry is under the staircase.

  “Hissy cat!” I hear. “Where are you?”

  “Zeb!” Mom yells. “You’re soaking wet! Get back here!”

  “Hissy cat! I’ll find yooooooou!”

  Oh, help.

  14.

  Very Mad Cat

  The footsteps I hear in the kitchen are light and slow. They’re not Zeb’s.

  Abe slips into the pantry, quiet as a mouse. Clearly, he’s trying not to be seen by his brother.

  Though I’d prefer being alone, I’m relieved. I don’t have to worry about Abe talking my ear off, as Georgie does, or pulling my ear off, as Zeb tries to do. Abe sits on the floor and sets Medium Sad Guy in his lap. His face is flush from the bath and his hair is mussed from the towel drying. He’s wearing his pajamas. He smells like apricots.

  He sits a while without saying a word. It’s soothing, his silence. My eyelids close on their own. I breathe deeply. I feel safe, as if I had a protector. Then Abe moves, and my eyes open. He’s lifting Medium Sad Guy to his ear. He “listens” to it, nods, then sets it back in his lap. He does this with such seriousness that I begin to wonder if somehow the stuffed-rabbit puppet really does speak to him.

  I’m getting loopy. I desperately need sleep.

  I close my eyes.

  “Medium Sad Guy says good night, Hissy. And sweet dreams.”

  I open my eyes, halfway. The boy is looking at me, his hazel eyes wide, his mouth puckered. For a human, he’s pretty adorable.

  I’m sliding my eyelids closed again when Abe brings the puppet back up to his ear. He listens. He lowers the puppet. I wait for him to relay the message.

  He says nothing. I guess Medium Sad Guy had nothing further to say to me. His message was for Abe alone.

  So I close my eyes.

  “Medium Sad Guy told me I should say good night and sweet dreams to you, too,” Abe says. “Good night, Hissy. Sweet dreams.”

  I open one eye, halfway. I love the kid. I don’t want to have to hiss at him. So I glare at him. I’m telling him with my half eye that he needs to stop talking. Then I lower the eyelid the rest of the way.

  He says nothing more. There is silence in the house. I have no idea why Zeb isn’t making noise, but he isn’t. I enjoy this little miracle.

  I don’t fall asleep, though. I keep expecting another message from the rabbit. I try to put it out my mind, try to relax, try to drift off. But I’m afraid the second I let myself drop off, Abe will lift the puppet to his ear again.

  I open an eye a crack and peek at him. He’s inspecting Medium Sad Guy’s fur the way his mom inspects his hair for lice. Or me for fleas. I close my eye. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about.

  The door bursts open.

  “BOO!” Zeb shouts, leaping into the room, wrapped in a towel. “Snuck up on you! Ha!”

  HSSSSSSSSSS! I say, and fly over the cans. Or part of the way over the cans. I accidentally kick them with my hind paws, and they topple with a clatter. Abe leaps to his feet and hits his head on a shelf, which causes a bag of flour to fall. It explodes on the floor in a white cloud. I dive through it toward the door.

  I’m hissing, snarling, spitting, and swatting as I pass Zeb. One of my claws catches his towel and I end up dragging it into the kitchen. I stop and, in a fury, shake it off. Then I fly up the stairs to the parents’ room and dive under their bed. I start cleaning the flour from my fur.

  I hear calling and pounding of feet as Mom and Dad run to find out what happened, then more calling and pounding as they try to catch Zeb.

  Georgie joins in the chase. She’s angry that Zeb’s been chasing me again and is scolding him loudly. I don’t hear a peep from Abe. I hope he didn’t hurt his head badly.

  My heart is pounding like one of Dad’s hammers. Will this family ever stop tormenting me? Will they ever let me sleep?

  Maybe now’s the time. They’re all busy. And the kids’ bedtime comes next, so the parents won’t be coming in here for a while. If I can tune out the noise, maybe I can doze off.

  “Zeb! Come here and put some clothes on!” Mom says.

  “Zeb! Stop chasing Hissy!” Georgie says.

  “Zeb! Come down off that ladder!” Dad says.

  I doubt I can tune out the noise.

  Beside
s, night has fallen, and the hunting instinct has switched on. It’s as if a light has been turned on inside me, and it’s shining out through my eyes. I feel the urge to go outside, to go hunting. It’s not something I want to do, or need to do. It’s something I am.

  It’s time for the cat to go out.

  15.

  Savage Predator

  The night air is chilled. Through the trees, the sky twinkles with stars. I feel energy surge within me. The night is where I belong. I feel alive.

  The humans say the night is dark, but not to a cat. I don’t see darkness. The world is always bright, just a little less so at night.

  I move along from branch to fence to roof, every step made softly and surely. My tail shifts angles to keep me balanced. The breeze whiffles my fur. What a fine thing it is to be a cat in the nighttime!

  “Hissy!” a feline voice calls. “Hissy Fitz! Who are you running from?”

  It’s Igloo, sitting on the slanted roof of his house. His white coat seems to glow in the starlight.

  “No one. I’m just running. How’d you get out this time?”

  “They forgot to lock my cat door. Did you finally get a nap?”

  I give him a look.

  He laughs. “You do have a noisy family.”

  “You don’t know how lucky you are, having only Tillie to deal with.”

  “At least you have your freedom,” Igloo says.

  True. I can escape.

  “Why don’t you come and have a nap with me?” Igloo asks.

  “Later. I need to prowl a while first.”

  “Can I come along?”

  I prefer to prowl alone, but tonight I wouldn’t mind having someone to talk to. To complain to. Maybe if I talk about my problems, I’ll be able to relax.

  “Sure,” I say. “But you have to keep up.”

  Igloo’s a longhair. The fur on his belly grazes the ground when he walks. It’s often snarled and littered with debris. It slows him down. I’m glad I’m a shorthair. A British shorthair, to be exact.