The horror just kept piling on. If this impawsible situation continued for much longer, it would drive me around the bend. Not only had my human purchased the wrong brand of food, but he’d also bought it from the wrong shop.
Hanmer Springs wasn’t the biggest town in the country, so I’ve heard. Adventuresome cats who had traveled here over the years—some staying, some departing—had informed me of larger, bustling metropolises where you couldn’t venture onto the road for fear of being hit by a car.
When I’d once asked, imagining that they were joking, whether cats were invisible to the metal beasts, the cat replied in all seriousness that they were not only blind but deaf and a bit stupid besides.
Here in my township, the metal beasts prowled the roads slowly, always on the lookout for cats crossing or humans who liked to ignore the painted signs dictating where they should go. Cats don’t have to follow the same convention—nobody would put up a sign for us to cross—but those humans are a tad dimwitted. That, or rebelling against the herd.
Anyway, we had two shops here in town that were of any note. One was the superette that carried an extensive supply of many things—all of them bland and tasteless. I didn’t know how they did it, myself. I was quite sure that achieving the boring level of sameness in every foodstuff took a great deal of training, indeed.
The other shop—to be fair, the only store worth talking about—was a small dairy wedged between a coffee house and a fish ‘n’ chip shop. If those glorious scents weren’t enough to tempt you through the door, then the waiting stock of manna from heaven in a can would surely beckon you inside.
It was hard to explain how different everything inside the dairy was. How much better it tasted, how it appealed more to a refined palate such as mine. I mean, if I were starving and had to make a hard call, perhaps some of the superette food would make it down my gullet, but aside from direst need—nope. Just the thought of touching it made me shiver.
Old Man Jack and his wife Agnes ran the dairy. On the rare occasions when I had deigned to shop with him, they always greeted my human with the widest of smiles. While they caught up with their strangely unimportant news, I would prowl to the back of the store and wait patiently for my human to fetch my cans.
Even the smell of the worn lino beneath my paws was intoxicating, comprised of the best odors in the world. A multitude of foot traffic couldn’t ever hide the scent of a whole smoked salmon was once laid down to leak through its newspaper sheath. Nor could it disguise the hot grease in which a hundred chickens had been fried.
Mm. Just the thought of that shop was enough to send me reeling.
But those receipts weren’t from Old Man Jack’s dairy. They weren’t scrawled on a slip of notepaper and added up by hand.
They were the sterile lists of the superette—a concoction of ink and plastic-scented paper. A machine was the only thing to touch them, and even it spat the slips out in disgust.
I also couldn’t say with any certainty what the inside of the superette smelled like. The one time that my human had attempted to carry me in there, he got short shrift from the owner. Back to the car I went, left on the seat where any passing tom could have stared in to tease me.
Nope. This wasn’t right. More to the point, my human knew this wasn’t right as well, yet he’d still committed the travesty and shopped at the wrong outfit.
As far as I could see from the receipts, it wasn’t to save himself any money, either. Though Old Man Jack didn’t allow any specials—he was special enough already, he’d tell anybody who asked—his goods were reasonably priced. The superette had a set markup that might waver according to the mood of the conglomerate that ran them, but they didn’t work out much different when all was said and done.
A horrid thought struck me.
What if Old Man Jack had shut up shop? He hadn’t taken a holiday as far back as I knew him, but that didn’t mean a holiday was out of the question. If that was the case, I might be subjected to this inferior food for as long as he wanted to sun himself on a beach.
No, siree. That wasn’t right. Though, if anybody deserved a break, it was probably Jack.
Only one way to know for sure. I had to get out of my comfort zone and stroll the streets that I once knew all too well. If I was quick, I could be there and back before my human even realized I was missing. If I found out there was no good reason for him not to shop at Jacks’, then woe betide him when he returned.
I might have only tipped the bowl out this morning to indicate my displeasure. There were a thousand worse things than that I could try. I had once been a street cat, after all.
Full of energy and empty of food, I trotted down to the front garden. I can’t see Old Man Jack’s from home, but I looked in the direction in case that offered any clues. Nothing that I could see. No plumes of smoke rising or telltale rivulets of water to indicate a flood.
Old Man Jack might have a fair excuse to shut up shop, but none that was visible to me.
I traced out the route in my mind. It had been a while since I was out on the road, fending for myself. If there had been some new construction going up since then I might have to rely on my internal compass to head the right way.
Sure that the route I’d traced out in my memory would lead me directly there, I set off down the driveway. I was almost at the edge of the property when I felt the tingle in my collar. I pulled up sharpish, a sense of dismay leaking through my body as I remembered the heavy weight that I had to bear.
My collar was electrified. I couldn’t walk out of the front gate without setting a thousand volts jolting through my body.
How on earth could I have forgotten that?
Chapter Three
My human was a nice man. That was the summation I came to the first time I visited. On the following night and then the next, it just solidified further in my mind. There was that one incident that shall not be referred to, where we went on a visit and not all of me came back, but aside from that, it had all been pretty smooth sailing.
Once I decided that I would stay, he had just one requirement. No matter how I fought it, my human put his foot down in that regard.
So now I have this infernal collar around my neck.
On the mean streets of Hanmer Springs, the cat population was staked against each other in a long-standing tradition of gang warfare. I was a middling-sized beast, capable of holding my own if necessary. However, my beautiful coat and large ears were like a red flag to a bull in some situations. If I’d stayed out on the roads, living by my own rules, then I wouldn’t be nearly so pretty as I am.
When it came down to it, I had aligned forces with my human to ensure that I kept my beautiful body in one piece, but that came with some restrictions. My human liked to know where I was and that I was safe at all times. Pretty annoying behavior when you’re used to going it alone, but I suppose it showed he cared.
One of those measures was the collar around my neck. Another was an electric beam that triggered an explosion of pain if I wandered too far across it.
Cats can’t usually be contained. I remember when I first moved in, there was another tom in the neighborhood who would merrily walk through my cat door. When my human put his foot down and decided he meant business, I ended up with a chip in my collar, and the door had a matching receipt.
Magic.
No tom could now wander through the cat-flap—not without taking my collar from me, and any cat in the neighborhood brave enough to try that tomfoolery would end up with the scars to remind them of their failure.
My door was my door. The downside? More things around the property could be chipped.
I understand it was to keep me safe. The council’s animal controllers can get a bit trigger happy from time to time. If I’d been caught visiting my old haunts once too often, then chances were good they’d toss me in the back of the van and haul me to maximum security. That would cause my owner more sleepless nights than he had time for.
There were other, more threat
ening measures that I’d heard on the grapevine over the last few months too. Talk about poison being laid—for possums not for cats—but just as deadly. It’s not as though a lump of toxic paste knows what’s eating it.
The world was a dangerous place for a cat in Hanmer Springs these days. I’d chosen my human, and I’d picked well—if that came with restrictions, then I had to accept that with the territory.
None of which was a help to me now.
The beam had a controller, but it was attached to my human’s keyring. He could press it to turn it on and off, but unless I tackled him for it when he got home, that wasn’t a solution for me today.
Tackling him, when I was already weak from skipping a meal, would be a difficult conundrum. One that I needed a full stomach and a clear head before I could generate a wise solution to.
I walked the edge of the property, wondering if I could trace the buzz in my collar back to the source. I have a mean set of claws and an even more savage set of teeth on me. If I could just find the location of the death ray, then I might be able to thwart it and escape.
As the morning sun turned into midday heat, I had to admit my first failure. I’d wandered close enough to the invisible fence line to buzz my fur a hundred times over but never caught even a glimpse of what might be the cause.
There was nothing else for it. I needed to get that collar off my neck, or I wouldn’t be leaving the property. Not today.
I circled the property again. This time, instead of searching for the zapper, I searched for something that would aid me in removing the collar. My paws are nimble, I’d place them up against the best in the feline world, but dexterity wasn’t ever going to be a replacement for a thumb.
Even the addition of one of the finest tails in the world ever can make up for that lack. If I tried to remove that collar with my paws and claws, I’d probably just put my eye out.
There was a stake left over from the summer garden lying in the patch of dirt. By holding down one end with my back paw while I wriggled my neck close, I could get it underneath the encircling leather and exert some pressure. When I then tried to turn my neck to liquid and back out of it, I just ended up with my weight removed from the end of the stick. Not a well-thought plan. For a moment, as I struggled to shake myself free, I came close to a sense of embarrassment.
Then I remembered that I should never have been placed in this position and got my mojo back.
What I ideally needed was a stable structure that I could hook my collar over while I then using my entire weight to slip out of. My head was of standard size—the perfect size, some might say—but with a few dexterous twists and turns I should be able to pull it through.
The coat rack outside the back door looked like the best bet, but I hesitated. Once upon a time, when I’d been a lot younger and less experienced than I was now, I’d tried a similar feat. Well, not really. What I tried was to launch myself onto the hooks and then walk across the top of them.
It seemed a good idea at the time—necessary almost—but for the life of me, I can’t remember why now. On that occasion, my nimble paws and impressive tail were no help. I missed my target with the first jump and ended up with the collar caught on the hook by mistake. No amount of wriggling and writhing set me free that day. The effort to free myself was so exhausting that in the end, I had to let go and just hang.
When my human found me and lifted me up, I heard his gasp of astonishment. While I walked away, so ashamed I refused to eat my dinner, he sobbed in gratitude that he’d been given a chance to rescue me. Or something like that. To be honest, I was too absorbed with my own failure to pay much attention.
If I tried to use the hooks again today, I might end up in a similar situation. My weight now, though, might cause a more tragic end. I would only have a narrow gap of time to get the collar hooked and work my way out of it. If I couldn’t pull my head through, then my weight would drag against the collar so hard that I mightn’t be able to breathe.
I couldn’t stare at the hooks while I made my decision. They mocked me with memories of my shame so that my head felt like it was full of bees. Instead, I walked around and into the kitchen, looking sadly down into the bowl that my human had refilled with the garbage that he was pretending was suitable food. I sniffed at it, taking my time to sort through all the different aromas.
Maybe if I had a nibble, the taste wouldn’t be as bad as the smell?
Oh, no. Oh, dear. Get it off me! Get that foul stuff out of my mouth!
I tried to rinse the horrific taste out with mouthful after mouthful of water. Instead of washing the flavor away, the moisture seemed to intensify it. Even when I tried swishing the water around and spitting it out again, the retchingly-foul taste lingered.
I ran outside, batting my head too hard on the cat door as I did so but not caring. It was hard to care when my mouth was sending such an outrageous series of signals fizzing up through my brain that I couldn’t think straight.
Foul. Foul. Foul.
I would rather die than touch that garbage with the inside of my tender mouth again.
Did I say garbage? No. A thousand times worse than that. Eating that single mouthful of food was like having a loathsome dog camp out inside my mouth. A friendly dog. The type that spends twenty hours a day with its face stuffed up another dog’s butt.
I licked the grass, the dirt, the peeling paint on the side of the patio. Anything to try to rid my mouth of the horrible taste. I swear that an hour or more passed while I rolled in fits of shuddering horror, the remnant of the food crawling inside my mouth like an extended family of scuttling spiders.
Even when I was a kitten, alone in the world, fending for myself and forced to eat things that now made me hang my head in shame—even then, I’d never put something so dreadful inside my mouth! Never would I have believed that something designed for cats to eat could taste so dreadful.
And so it was, that I found myself in front of the coat hooks again, staring at their metal curves with trepidation. I would have only one chance—a nimble jump that might leave me with an opportunity for freedom or might be the cause of my destruction.
One chance.
I readied myself by shaking my body low to the ground, in mimicry of chasing prey, then I jumped.
Chapter Four
I almost missed.
Embarrassing as that was to admit, I had misjudged my takeoff by a tiny bit and launched myself at the wrong angle. All that I would say now was that it was a good thing that there were four hooks lined up in a row. The first one skimmed the top of my head while I managed—more by luck than aim—to hook my collar onto the second.
That stole the air straight out of my lungs.
For a moment, I just swung back and forth, so winded that I couldn’t summon the energy to help myself. Only when the lack of air sent up more warning signals than my depleted muscles, did I get the shot of adrenalin to fight back and take control.
First, I swung one paw up over the top of the hook. That gave me a rest and breathing room while I ran through the remainder of the plan in my head. Next step, tilt my head, so my jawline was in one smooth angle on my right-hand side and bunched together with my shoulder on the other.
Think liquid, I mewed to myself as I let go with my paw and gave my plan over to gravity. When I came to a halt, stuck halfway through, it took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to struggle. I closed my eyes and tightened up the muscles on my left-side cheek, relaxing the opposing ones so that I began to move again.
Slowly, so slowly, I slipped out of the mesh of leather and metal. There was one more dicey moment that sent my whiskers twanging, but then I was through and landing on four paws on the ground.
Free!
I stared up at where my collar hung, still swinging gently. The first part of my plan complete, I turned and ran back down the drive.
At the edge of the property, I hesitated again. In matters involving electric shocks, I’ve found out the hard way that it pays to be cau
tious.
Instead of bundling head-first through the danger zone, I moved stealthily, inch by inch, until it was clear that no zap would be exercising restraint on me.
Once I had that certainty, I zipped out of the grounds and ran along the street.
It had been so long since I’d been anywhere except my human’s house. Too long, maybe. I sniffed the air, tasting the different scents as they wafted to me on the stiff breeze.
Mm. Lunchtime. I’d forgotten how many different smells would be competing with each other at this time of day. I slowed my pace as I grew closer to town. Sure, I was on a mission, but that didn’t mean I shouldn’t enjoy myself as well.
The row of shops at the corner were packed full of people, buying goods or slouching over tables piled high with food and drink.
As I slipped in behind the tavern and trotted up the alley that fed into the back of the shops, a lady who smelled like chocolate and heaven, bent down to feed me the second half of her cupcake. All she seemed to ask in return was to pat along the length of my back.
Job done, I hurried on. The time that I’d wasted already had eaten up half my day.
If this had been a standard day, I would already have gotten in a good solid hour of napping. Or four. I had to ignore the call of patches of warm concrete, basking in the afternoon sun.
Once I’d done my job, then I could think about dozing in the hot sun.
Mind back on the task at hand, I turned the corner into the main thoroughfare and came to a complete stop.
Right in front of me, already tensing his haunches for battle, was Fat Bobby the tom. My childhood nemesis.
There were two types of stray cats in Hanmer Springs. The collection of fat cats who called themselves “The Winners” gang and the others who simply called themselves “Winners.”
Confused?
The cats who belonged to the first gang of winners were actual winners. They had the heft and muscle to prevail in any fight, and they had their fair share. Not a pretty cat survived among them—the ones who’d started out that way now had those delicate features buried under a mountain of scar tissue. When cat hair was torn out in a fight, it usually grew back. Sometimes in a different color. Occasionally, like human eyebrows, it just refused to come back at all.
Food Bowl Mysteries Books 1-3 Page 2