Hm. The words tempted me a little more. I got up, shaking out my hind legs where they’d decided to slumber a tad longer than the rest of me. After sauntering over to the laptop and accepting some firm strokes along my back, I pressed my face closer to the screen.
“Oh, yes!” I shouted out in excitement. For a second, I reverted to a kitten and tried to bat it off the screen with my paw. While my human laughed and pulled the laptop back across the table, I jumped to follow it, keeping my beloved can in view as long as possible.
“Now, let’s see. I’ll order in a few months’ supply—that’ll give the dairy owner time to sort out the glitch with his distributor.”
I lay down and rolled over onto my back, twisting my body in ecstasy. Who knew it would take so little to get me in such a state?
“Now, for the credit card,” my human said, pretending to hum and haw as he reached for his wallet. I knew better, of course. When it came to my comfort, there was always a balance available to spend.
“Oh, no.”
I stopped mid-roll, hesitant to look and see my worst fears realized. For the second day in a row. But the truth wouldn’t go away just through my reluctance to face it.
My human was staring in dismay at the screen.
“Delivery time on item: six to eight weeks.”
The glumly spoken words sounded like bells of doom ringing in my ears. That couldn’t be possible, surely. A snail could have carried the items on its back to me quicker than the online store was promising.
From the distress on my human’s face, however, it was clear that it wasn’t a mistake or a typo clouding up the forecast.
A future with no real food stretched out in front of me—a desert lacking any exquisite tastes.
I waited until my human left for work, then slipped out of the driveway and headed for the town center. As far as I knew, my collar was still gracing the coat hooks around near the back door, so there was nothing to halt my progress.
Although there were many things above or beyond my line of sight, the delivery truck was something that I was familiar with. I’d seen the van drive up outside Old Man Jack’s dairy enough times to recognize him when he passed by my house on other occasions.
Time to find out where he went after he drove away.
My human might be able to pull things up on his computer, but that wasn’t an option available to me. When I needed to know something that I don’t already, then a trade had to be on the cards.
As my stomach grumbled angrily, I could only hope the price wouldn’t be too high.
Remembering the previous day, I walked the same route into the center of town, the one that took me past the back of the bakery. Approaching there, I slowed my pace, nosing amongst the old cardboard boxes and plastic trays that were stacked beside the dumpster. “Get out of there,” a man called out, flicking a bar towel in my direction. I skittered off, turning back when I thought it was safe. A few minutes staking out the rear of the bakery couldn’t hurt.
Alas, although eventually a woman emerged from the back door, it wasn’t the same one as yesterday. Even when I wandered close, standing my ears up as high as they could go for maximum cuteness, she wasn’t swayed.
“Get out of here,” she said, an echo of the fellow from earlier. I skittered away. Fine. If I wasn’t welcome and I wasn’t going to be fed, then she didn’t need to worry about my fine feline form hanging about all day.
I’m not given over to self-pity, but it did seem a cruel turn of events that I’d put in so much effort the day before, yet still hadn’t come up with the anticipated reward. I didn’t begrudge Old Man Jack getting his wife Agnes back, but I’d hoped it would end better for me. If things turned out so poorly again, then I didn’t know if I’d be able to take the rotten news so equably.
I gathered up what was left of my courage—the stuff that hadn’t been squandered to such little effect the day before.
Perhaps there would be other cats in town from whom I could gather the required information. If there were, I didn’t know them. Their fame hadn’t spread to my door.
No. If I wanted to trade for information, then it was going to be a hard proposition.
The only cat I knew in town who kept eyes on the comings and goings was a big stray. One with a knife slash across his face. One whom I’d come close to leading into the council clutches the day before.
Fat Bobby.
I saw him long before I let him see me. Considering how painful the next few minutes might be, I wanted to get the chance to size him up first.
He didn’t look very different than he had the day before except that he was on a hair trigger. When a cat shot out of a trash can ten yards away, Bobby was halfway to him before he got free of the lid.
Something was up. I guessed that something might be related to One-Eared Whitey and the abrupt departure of his humans. I slunk back out of sight, sheltering beneath a bush on the opposite side of the road, and kept watch.
He was collecting food. It only took a few minutes of observation to work that one out. The small stash in front of him, a lovely melee of rodent and a selection of the larger variety of insects, were being guarded while Fat Bobby kept his eyes out to add to the stash.
The food also wasn’t for him.
Although he peered down at the growing stash with longing, Bobby didn’t allow himself a single bite. That wasn’t the cat I knew and loved—or feared. Only a massive threat could possibly lead him to pile the tidbits in front of him, rather than gulping them down as soon as he had the food in his claws. The hunger in Fat Bobby’s eyes showed how much he wanted that stack for himself, but instead of gobbling down the load, he showed restraint.
When Whitey himself showed his disfigured face a half-hour later, I wasn’t surprised. He took the food as his due and ate it all down while Bobby watched.
Afterward, he offered up a few curt words and wandered off, his full belly swinging from side to side. Fat Bobby’s lips pulled back as his leader stalked away. I guess the instructions hadn’t been any good to him.
If it was food that Fat Bobby needed to keep in good with his boss, then food I could give him. There was an entire shelf at home clogged up with cans that weren’t fit for cat consumption. Fat Bobby had been on the streets so long, I bet he wasn’t picky.
I turned and slunk away, still under cover. Now that my reconnaissance was finished, I needed to start off my plan.
Back home, the pantry door was stuck on something, or the catch was failing. Either that or my two-day bad-food diet was catching up with me and eating away my strength.
It took a good fifteen minutes of tugging to get that door open. If I hadn’t been such a couth example of the species, I might have been tempted to let off a few fruity meows.
The shelves stretched high above me. A few well-timed leaps and I scrambled onto the fourth one up from the floor.
My shelf.
Except the dingy cans clinging grimly onto its base weren’t the ones that should be there. I pushed one off, closing my eyes and laying my ears flat in distaste as it bounced on the tiled floor. Even the sound of it was distressing. I hoped that Fat Bobby was hungry enough that he could overlook that and the taste.
That was one of the advantages to being a street cat, I remembered it well. After spending weeks or months taking what you could get, every bite of food—no matter the source—started to taste like manna from heaven.
It didn’t take me more than a few days living with my human to adjust, but the previous state had some distinct advantages. If I’d still been a street cat, I wouldn’t have needed to rescue a kidnapped woman, for instance, or to chase down a distributor not doing his job.
Still, I wouldn’t change a thing. Living on the streets was a harder option for most necessities. Sooner or later, another cat would have taken exception to my beauty and dealt me a disfiguring blow.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but I was a cat who deserved better.
From the moment I curled up next
to him on the sofa, my human heartily agreed.
The can might now be down at floor level, but there was still the problem of getting it to Fat Bobby.
There was no chance that I’d be able to entice him down here, and I didn’t really want him knowing exactly where I lived, even if there was. That meant taking the food to him. Not the easiest proposition.
Although it added another level of foul-tasting to my tongue, I decided, in the end, to use a similar method for transport as my human. He had a sock hanging on the wall stuffed full of little plastic bags. He brought them home and topped them up with glee after every trip to the superette or another store. Old Man Jack still used paper but the others? No sense of the refined.
I tugged out the lowest one with my claws and then attempted to maneuver the can into it. A harder job than I’d expected as it was now full of little holes which grew bigger with every tug.
I batted it aside in disgust when I tried to drag it along the floor, only to find that the can had escaped from the other side. In a more careful frame of mind, I walked back to the bulging sock. This time, when I grabbed hold of the bottom bag, I got hold of it in my mouth. I tugged the plastic loose with the same care as a mother transporting her kittens.
The can was just as frustrating to fit inside the bag the second time, but at least when it was inside there was no rip for it to escape back out of. I grabbed the handles of the bag in my mouth and walked backward. The bagged can followed along, obedient.
Giving a meow of satisfaction, I increased my speed, heading out of the cat door backward. Halfway through, attempting to navigate the can over the lip at the base of the door, a bark tore through the air.
I tried to scurry back through the cat flap, but the can had caught at an angle, blocking me.
Instead, I turned to face my foe. The dreaded terrier from down the block.
Chapter Two
One-Eared Whitey might be the most feared of cats but the terrier—Beam me up Scotty, or Beamer for short—wasn’t the most terrifying display of its kind. It was, however, a dog who knew how to get out—of his kennel, his collar, his yard.
Cornered by the back door, I froze as he bounced closer to me, ripping the world into shreds with his bark. Teeth at least three times longer than mine appeared with every yap, the saliva gleaming on them in the sunlight.
To gain myself time to think, I ran like a bolt of lightning across the backyard and zipped up to the top of the fence. My balance was still off, I’d lost more talent through long months of captivity than I’d thought possible, but the grip of my claws made up for that.
Too late, I saw that my decision had been the wrong one. Now Beamer was happily scouting out the entire backyard, tail swishing like a dragon’s as it sniffed, its butt sticking up in the air.
Foul creature. The stench of its matted fur should have warned me of its approach, but I’d been too distracted by the tainted plastic filling my mouth.
Any other time, dog, I would have been lying in wait.
The terrier took great delight in seizing hold of as much bag as it could reach through the cat door. I glared down at Beamer, trying out a test hiss for size.
The dog jerked back, tearing the bag open, and he looked around, cocking his head to one side when his eyes alighted on me. I hissed again, and he barked in joy, apparently mistaking it for a game.
Fine. Game on, Beamer.
I jumped down from the fence and barreled toward him, baring my teeth and hitching every hair on my body, so it stood on end. The dog just stood there, didn’t even brace for impact. I ran headfirst into its side, and it rolled over, kicking its stumpy legs for a minute before self-righting.
It yapped at me, bouncing up and down on all four legs at once, like a doggy pogo stick. The noise was horrendous, the smell was sickening, its general appearance caused a flood of dismay.
I bit into its front leg.
All the fun immediately stopped.
Beamer yelped and took off across the yard, shooting through a hole that he must have dug earlier. With one wriggle of his stumpy tail, he was gone, never to return or so I hoped. Given his terrible memory, though, that wasn’t likely.
Now. What damage had the dog done?
The bag was in strips, each tangled end coated in a disgusting slime of doggy saliva. If this was what those creatures had in their mouths, it was no surprise they spent their days with their noses stuck up other dogs’ butts. It would be my preference, too.
The plastic had jammed in the side of the cat door. When I pulled at the plastic, it just pulled into long strands, thinning yet becoming stronger at the same time.
I gave up for a moment, having a rest and exercising my jaw both to loosen it up for future activity and shake the dog out of it. Instead of taking the bag in my teeth again, I batted the side of it with my paw, then inserted a claw to gently coax it from the very edges of the door.
By the time I got it free, everything was covered in small flecks of plastic, but at the least the cat door opened and closed again. Stiffer than usual, but usable. My human would surely be able to fix it right up when he got home, maybe even before he sat down for the night.
The bag was a no go, though the can inside had escaped unhurt. I pushed back inside and fetched a new one, experiencing a flash of déjà vu as I performed the trick of getting the can into the bag once again.
Finally, I was outside, the can was in place, and I could head off to bring my offering to Fat Bobby.
My only hope was that he was receptive, given the trouble he’d already caused me.
There was no way to slink up behind Fat Bobby this time. No option for casually strolling into his line of sight when I deemed the timing right.
Nope.
I was visible from halfway down the block, dragging my plastic bag of vile pet food along behind me. Or in front of me. At least, I was reversing up while pulling it along, so it seemed that way.
I dropped it when I was still a few yards away, too late to gather up much dignity, but I did the best I could.
“I’ve got something for you,” I called out to him. “There’s plenty more where it came from, too, for the right price.”
Fat Bobby glared at me, perhaps remembering the close call with the council worker the day before, possibly thinking of my nasty jibes. Whatever went through his mind, it didn’t seem to bring him any pleasure. He scowled and peered at me through his one good eye.
After a minute, curiosity won out as it always does with our kind. Bobby tipped his head forward, the best concession that I’d get to a nod. Turning back to the bag, I dragged it as close as I could without the risk of accidentally bumping him.
“I thought you looked a bit hungry earlier.” I pushed aside the top of the bag to reveal the can inside. Fat Bobby’s eyes lit up, and he gave a reflexive purr before he gained control of himself.
Too late, Bobby pretended indifference, licking his paws clean and refusing to look at the offering in front of him. “What’s your price?”
“Just a tiny piece of information.” I sat down, curling my tail around my front paws in a pretense of nonchalance. “I have an interest in delivery vans.”
Fat Bobby sniffed. “From what I’ve heard, your interest is in things that you should be keeping your whiskers out of.”
I could offer up explanations and excuses, but I judged it was a better choice to stay silent and keep my gaze level. What did Fat Bobby care what my business was? It wouldn’t involve his boss again.
I hoped.
“This all you got?” Fat Bobby patted the side of the plastic bag, the gesture more possessive than just a simple tap for reference. “I’m a big boy. I need a lot more feeding than the average cat.”
I nodded, starting to feel the first threads of hope twining through my system. “I told you. I can get more.”
“What’s your question?”
“The delivery van with the orange stripes down its length? I want to know where it comes from and where it goes, a
fter here.” I swept my paw around in a circle to encompass the entire township.
Fat Bobby stared at me for a long time, the milky coating on his lousy eye seeming to evaluate me with the same fervor as his good one.
“Fine,” he said at last, turning away to look along the row of shops on the main street—the cafe, the barber, the pizza parlor, and the ice-creamery. “I’ll give you what you need, but you’ll have to satisfy me first. How many cans you got?”
I quickly thought of how many I could easily carry and subtracted two for negotiating room. “Three.”
“Six.”
“Four.”
“Five. Or you can seek your answers someplace else.” Fat Bobby turned back to me with a grin, then. He knew very well that there was nowhere else in town for me to go. Only one cat kept an eye on everything. The rest spent too much time with their eyes peeled for the council worker to pay enough attention.
“Five it is. Give me an hour. The can’s are a bit hard to wrangle.”
“Take all the time you need, Wilber. I’ll be waiting right here.”
The automatic retort to his jibe about my name sprang to my mouth, but I swallowed it back down. There’d be time enough to debate who was called what when I had the energy. Until my food bowl emergency was sorted, though, everything else had to take a back seat.
Even my pride.
It didn’t take nearly so long to fetch the remaining cans as I’d spent with the first one. My technique with the plastic bags was now down to a fine art, and Beamer hadn’t shown his face again.
Apart from a few hitches as I got used to the increased weight and the drag that caused with the dips and rises of the sidewalk, I got the bag to Fat Bobby intact.
“Here you go. Five cans.”
He nosed and pawed at the contents for so long that I thought he was reneging. That fear came out of nowhere and raged through me, setting every hair on edge.
Bobby noticed. “No need to get all fluffy, Wilber. I’m just checking that everything is as we agreed.”
Food Bowl Mysteries Books 1-3 Page 6