And then it snatches my raincoat, right from Olive’s arms.
It just glides down and steals it, carrying it away into the woods. My raincoat! With my Yellowstone badge! There are treats in the pockets and everything.
“What just…?” Norma says.
“Hey!” Olive says, breaking into a sprint after it. Of course, I scamper by her side, my stride long, my paws barely touching the ground. Stanley howls. Really and truly howls. He pulls so hard on the leash, it drops from Norma’s hands. His eyes are intensely alert, his paws mud-flecked as he stamps the ground – thud, thud – until he’s chasing the owl alongside us. It’s darting through juniper trees, my yellow raincoat dangling from its talons.
It should occur to me that this is dangerous. That this is foolish. Not too far away is the sound of rushing water. The earth is already wet and splintering beneath us.
But that’s my raincoat, with my badge.
I want it with me to the very end.
The owl changes course, flitting sideways, and we skitter around a bundle of pines, trying to close the gap. Flecks of spittle are forming in the corners of Stanley’s mouth. He won’t stop barking. Norma won’t stop shouting.
We crest the hill in a single, pulse-pounding moment. I stagger, my paws slipping in the slick mud, and I try to grip on to the tangle of weeds, the spongy layer of moss. No use. It’s no use. Our feet are running faster than we can catch. The three of us – Stanley, Olive and me – slide forward. Slide down.
It doesn’t even matter when the owl drops the raincoat.
Because Olive is falling, her ankle twisting on clumps of thistle – bending more as she tumbles along the rocks. Before I can stop her, warn her, help her, she skids into the river with a terrible gasp, her body smacking the water. Stanley has managed to dig his paws into the hillside, and we shriek together as Olive slips below the surface. The sound is raw in my throat, raw in my ears. Everything is ringing – and it’s two seconds, three seconds before she resurfaces, black hair slick against her forehead. She’s breathing in great gulps.
Barely afloat, arms flailing, she yelps out a word: “Leonard!”
It echoes through the forest. Echoes into me.
The birds. The birds! Stanley is saying, over and over again. Now I understand, now I really do, that he’s been trying to warn me about birds, all along.
Drawing upon my memories from the summer – Olive dunking under tanks, Q swimming in the ocean – I rise on my haunches, catapulting off the shore and into the river. No, cats aren’t designed for swimming; the water reminds me with its coldness, with the heaviness of its current. My little white paws flit pathetically beneath me as my tail struggles to find something to do. Should I use it as a dolphin might? Or a sea otter, propelling myself through the water? I try to imagine that my toes are webbed, that the water is warmer – that I am, most of all, unafraid.
Olive matters more than anything else.
My lungs flatten when I realise that I’ve lost sight of her. I blink wildly, unable to wipe the water from my eyes. Everything about me swivels – my ears, my body. I’m turning and turning in the water; if I listen hard enough, paddle close enough, I might catch a fragment of Olive’s voice. But the current is sloshing water up my nose. I open my mouth, gagging at the spray, and will my legs to keep treading water. These earthly legs, that I barely trusted less than a month ago.
“Leonard!” Olive says again, sounding terribly far away.
I pivot my ears towards the sound, swimming purely on instinct. Swimming towards her with all that I have.
Relief floods me when I feel the light touch of her hand, fingers waggling through the water. She grasps on to my foreleg and, with one arm, tucks me close. “I can’t …” she says, head bobbing at the surface, “believe you … did that…”
The two of us struggle against the current, panting as we reach the shore. It’s my first experience with panting, the pink of my tongue lolling like a dog’s. It alarms Stanley; gently, he mouths my neck, dragging me safely on to the mud. Olive holds him, too, until we’re all out of breath, backs to the earth, staring up at swirling stars. My heart has never beat faster.
“I called your name …” Olive gasps, “to tell you to stay on shore… You could’ve been—”
“Olive!” Norma shouts behind us.
At the sound of her name, said with such worry, Olive begins to cry.
“You’re OK,” Norma says, catching up. Her knees sink to the mud, and she’s cradling Olive’s head, stroking her hair. “You’re OK, you’re OK.”
I believe this is a thing that humans do: trying to speak words into existence. Trying to change what is very clearly in front of them. Olive’s jaw is clenching, and her eyes are tearing, and her ankle is swelling.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers to Norma. “I wasn’t … I wasn’t thinking, and I didn’t mean to shock you, or hurt you, or—”
“Hurt me?” Norma asks, uneasy. “Are you hurt anywhere? Do we need to go to the hospital?”
“No hospital,” Olive insists, shaking her wet head. Tears slip down her cheeks as Stanley nudges his way in, trying to lick them away. “We need to keep going. We’re so close. I have to do this … this one thing right.”
Norma’s face is inconsolable, her voice tender. “One thing? What do you mean one thing? What’s this all about?”
Olive winces, attempts to sit up. “I just thought,” she says, “if I can get him there, that’ll mean something, and maybe I’ll feel better about everything else.” Her words are flowing faster now, her sobs thicker. “And yesterday, you told me that story about my dad… And I thought… Do you know what my best day on Earth is? Every day that I’ve been here. Every day at Turtle Beach, at the aquarium, talking to people about animals, having them listen and not make fun of me or tell me I’m ‘socially unprepared for the real world’.”
Norma jerked her head back. “Who said that?”
“Frank.” She chokes out his name. “He told me I was weird, and that I didn’t know how to make friends the right way. And I wanted to love him. I wanted it to be good. But who says that, Norma? How could he tell me that?”
A beat passes before Norma says, “Listen. You might not see it now, but you and I, our hearts are the same. What you did this summer? Rescuing that cat in a canoe? Helping with the penguins and the sharks? You’ve got it in your blood. You’re fearless. What Frank told you? That says a heck of a lot about him, and nothing about you. You hear me? Hold on to yourself. Because you’re good, Olive. You’re good.”
“Anyone there?” Q yells in the distance. “Hello?”
Norma’s head spins towards his voice. “We better go. Can you stand?”
“My ankle,” Olive grits out.
“Oh, Lord,” Norma says, seeing the swelling. “We’re taking you to a hospital.”
Panic spreads across Olive’s face. “No, no, we have to keep moving, get to Old Faithful… We have to save Leonard! He’s… No! Norma, stop!”
But Norma scoops up Olive anyway, murmuring something like, “I think you might’ve hit your head.”
We leave my raincoat there, in the woods outside Yellowstone. I pick my way through the muck, a silhouette in front of me: a grandmother carrying her granddaughter through the night forest, the two melding into one.
33
Most humans believe that cats only purr when we’re happy. That is largely the case. Give me a warm patch of sun and a soft blanket to knead, and listen to me hum away. But, as the ambulance arrives, as amber lights flicker across the sky, I also purr to calm myself – to make the world feel safer than it is.
My instinct is to jump into the ambulance with Olive, to take a watchful seat by her stretcher. I’m mid-leap when the driver declares, “This is a cat-free zone.” Olive, delirious with pain, reaches one hand in my direction – as she did in the river. She’s whispering urgently to me, but I can’t tell what she’s saying. Can’t tell what I’m supposed to be doing, as Norma climbs into the ba
ck and clasps Olive’s reaching hand.
“We’ll have you fixed up in no time,” Norma tells her, voice shaky. But I wonder if these are just more words. A large lump grows in my throat. I wasn’t aware that throats could have lumps, difficult to swallow down.
Seven hours and forty-five minutes. That’s all I have – and I wanted to spend every second of it with Olive.
“She’s a strong kid,” Q says, after the ambulance has left. Stanley and I are flanking his sides, the three of us wallowing along the empty highway. Q dips his chin to catch my eyes, which are glowing green in the dark. “She’ll be back soon. I think she will. If not, I heard Olive say something about Old Faithful? Is that where you need to go? Don’t worry, my man. We’ll get you home.”
Exhausted, Stanley and I gather around the camper as Q fixes the flat tyre, then drives us to a campsite seven miles from Upper Geyser Basin. It smells of ash and brush fire, and leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. All I can think about is Olive, strapped to the stretcher – even as Stanley does his best to distract me.
Three hours later, Q talks to Norma on speakerphone. Fractured, she says. Olive’s ankle is fractured. And isn’t this my fault? Isn’t worrying Norma my fault, too? We wouldn’t be here, if not for me. Olive wouldn’t have been chasing my raincoat, if not for me. This whole month, worrying about my own safety – and I should’ve been worried about Olive’s.
I’m safer on my home planet.
Maybe Olive is safer without me, too.
Under the faint light of the camper, I decide something – something I should’ve settled on days ago. In preparation, I eat a hardy meal from the kitchen tray, licking even the crumbs. I take several long swigs of water from my dish, lapping with quick flicks of my tongue. “Be back in a flash,” Q says, leaving to pick up Olive at the hospital. Then, as soon as the headlights of the cab fade away, I tell Stanley goodbye. His fur is glistening in the five a.m. moonlight.
I will miss you, I say.
Me?
Yes. Yes, you. I thank him for the mid-afternoon naps, for the way he always breathed on me, even though it smelled.
You are leaving? he asks. Now?
And I say, After one more thing.
He helps me with the laptop. Between the two of us, between his teeth and my claws, we prise the screen open.
Words spill out of me.
Dear Olive,
You are right. I did not want to be a cat. But I am happy I was your cat, even if for a little while. These past few days, everyone has been sharing their best days on Earth, so I would like to share mine. I hope that is OK.
It is the first day. The day you saved me. I might have been scared and wet and stuck in a tree, but everything changed when I saw the boat. There is always good mixed up with the bad, and the good is you.
I have learned a great deal about water on Earth. Water pushes its way through rocks. Water carves its own path. And you are like water, Olive. Some people may call you “weird”. Perhaps this word is a good thing. Perhaps it is a signal, a beacon thrown up to the sky, that you are looking for others as interesting as you.
Remember that you are a remarkable human. A kind human. I used to think that being mortal meant being afraid. Although I was never alone, I used to think that there was no one like me. But the universe is vast. And in it, I found you.
Thank you. Thank you for introducing me to your family, your life on Earth. I have promised you a goodbye, so please accept this as my farewell. I am going to protect you now, as you have always done for me. This is the only way. I must make the rest of this difficult journey alone. Please think of me sometimes, when you hold a crayon, when you are staring at a night covered in stars.
With gratitude,
Leonard
34
Three hours before the hive arrives, I leave through the camper’s back window, wedging it open with my body. The hinges creak, and for a second, the tip of my tail hooks as I hesitate on the edge. Stay or jump. Stay or jump.
Jump.
My front paws hit the ground with an invigorating jolt. Sun is already mottling the ground, yellow patches here and there, and at first, I follow the pebbly path that hugs the loop road. I’ve checked the map, my claws tracing the zigzagged route. I’m seven miles from Old Faithful. For my body, as a cat, it will feel like a hundred. But it’s better this way. Really, it is. Olive is safer without me.
Whenever fear climbs into my belly, I swallow it down. If I travel as fast as I possibly can, I’ll reach the geyser just in time – and it will take all the strength I have.
The morning is moist, the forest quiet except for the suck of my paws against the sodden floor. Every step, I think of Olive. Is she awake yet? Is Q knocking on her hospital-room door? Above me, songbirds begin to dart between juniper trees. I take a sharp right, curving deeper into the forest, reminding myself that I’m not a wild cat; not a puma or a lion. But there is something about the park, about mossy smells and the thickness of pines. I understand what brought me here, what attracted me to the idea of Yellowstone.
Before me are slow-moving streams, and I wade, tender-footed, through the shallowest parts. Cold water nips at my forelegs. I shake off the droplets as I leap over fallen trees, weave through tall grasses and brush. Two miles in, heart pounding, I crest a hill to see a field of wildflowers. A whole meadow of them, like the pictures said – yarrow and spring beauty, cow parsnip and woodland star. Gathering speed is difficult when you want to stop and sniff each petal, each leaf. I’m fulfilling something – a dream of mine – but all I can think is: I hope that Olive will see this. That she’ll step foot in this field, and I know I was here, too.
This land is untouched. This is how Earth was before the humans. I can’t stop marvelling at the immensity of it all: infinite forest, infinite sky. But time is clearly of the essence – so I try to control my breath, limit my distractions, and will myself on, on, on. After three miles, though, it’s nearly impossible to keep up the momentum. My paws stumble over rocks, skid in the mud. On my route is a small lake, with two humans fly-fishing, their green waders shining in the early-morning light. One glances in my direction as she casts her line: a metallic arc against the pure-blue sky.
“Did you see that?” she says to her partner.
“See what?”
“Oh. Guess I haven’t had enough coffee.” She shakes her head. “Thought I saw a … baby bear or something.”
This gives me so much confidence, I can’t even tell you. To be mistaken for a creature of the park! I depart from the bushes, wheatgrass thwacking my face, pushing my whiskers back. I sprint and sprint as hard as I can.
By mile six, my every muscle is aching. Even the vistas do little to soothe me. The trees and the meadows and the—
Bison!
Bursting through a pocket of shrubbery, I run almost directly into a bison. Brown, even-toed, with fur climbing all over its body. It’s enormous: enormous horns, enormous tufts of fur on its head. Half of me wants to curl immediately into a ball. I can tell that my pupils are dilating, my fur standing at attention. On either side of the path are bushes too thick to cross.
So I must speak – with courage.
Puffing each tuft of fur on my bib, I say, Excuse me, imitating its language to the best of my ability. Should I add in a few extra grunts? Why not? I scrounge for the noise, crouching with my elbows bent. In response, the bison snorts and huffs, pounding the earth with his hooves. Which is, of course, entirely rude.
I’ve been awake for over twenty-seven hours. I’ve been running for over two and a half. And I’m only a mile from the geyser – too close to stop now.
My tail frizzes as I charge, stamping out every fear left inside me. The bison flares its nostrils, bobs its bushy head. But it moves. It moves.
I skirt quickly around it, unwilling to press my luck. Once I’m safely down the path, though, I say over my shoulder, Never underestimate a cat again.
To my intense surprise, the hive’s voice answers in return
.
We found you. We have been looking.
It’s startling, a shock to the brain. To be out of contact with my species for so long. To miss the presence of them so much – then hear them unexpectedly, after all this time.
You are scared.
Noise shudders through my ears. No, not scared. You just surprised me. I didn’t think I could hear you from a mile away.
We are shouting. You sound different.
I’m not sure what you—
There is emotion in your voice. And you are a cat.
Well, yes.
This does not compute. There has never been a mistake before.
I got distracted on the way here. I ended up in South Carolina.
South Carolina?
There are beaches. Quite nice, if you don’t mind the sand. Or the water.
Listen to yourself.
I am. You are waiting at the geyser?
At your point of pick-up, yes. You know the plan.
I know the plan. You will extend yourself over the geyser. I will jump into the geyser. I will be safe.
You must do it exactly right, despite your new circumstances.
Yes.
Hurry.
I am hurrying.
You have twelve minutes left.
I run.
Half a mile from Upper Geyser Basin, I nearly slam into a group of hikers, who part for me on the trail. “Wait,” one of them says, “that’s a house cat. Should he be out here?”
I appreciate her worry, I sincerely do, but when I cross the footbridge over Firehole River, Old Faithful is looming in the distance: a steaming mound of white earth, ready to blow. The hive’s collective energy grows stronger with every stride I take. I’ll be back with them soon. Soon, Leonard will no longer be my name.
I’ve liked that name.
Even this body. It has a certain charm, doesn’t it?
No, comes the voice of the hive.
That was rhetorical.
You did not specify.
The ground rumbles beneath my paws. Old Faithful only erupts once an hour, and I must not miss it; the hive’s collective power only lasts for so long on Earth. If I botch the timing, they’ll move on to pick up other travellers. Sweeping my gaze around the rocky expanse, I spot the rangers right away – dotted about the area, mixed in with the crowd of tourists. Straw hats, green trousers, grey button-up shirts. Just like the photos. Just like I was supposed to be.
My Life as a Cat Page 13