Cat On The Edge

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Half of her wanted to run, half wanted to remain still, clinging to the earth as a baby animal will cling to avoid detection.

  When she was hunched down deep in the grass, she couldn't see him. And she could hear no movement above the wind and the pounding sea, could hear no hush of footsteps approaching.

  Yet she sensed that he drew closer. Her heart seemed to knock against the bones of her chest, drowning whatever sound might come to her.

  When she could stand her apprehension no longer, again she rose up on her hind legs to look.

  He was almost on her. He lunged, reaching. She spun away and ran. He came pounding behind her, she could hear the grass swishing against his pant legs, could feel the earth shake beneath his running feet. She sped along the edge of the cliff, terrified that if he couldn't grab her, he would kick her over the edge. Running, panting, she glanced down that fifty-foot drop, and her terror fuzzed her vision so not even the ground was clear. Her sucking breath burned in deep shudders.

  4

  Joe trotted fast up the wooded hills, up between scattered houses through their lush, overgrown gardens, and up across fields of tall, wild grass. He didn't think he was followed. But he didn't pause, either, until he stood high on a ridge among a forest of Scotch broom and rhododendron bushes. There, slipping in among their thin, tangled trunks, he thought he was safe, that no one would find him.

  From the shadowed bushes he could see far down the slopes. Down beyond the tops of massed trees and roofs gleamed the sea, its bright surf spewing up white foam.

  He had come up on a long green shoulder of land which rose abruptly above a broad valley to the south of the village. He was headed toward the wild upper slopes, toward scattered, newer houses and a few rich estates. Up beyond those, beyond the last houses, rose the wild, dry mountains of the California coastal range. High above him, the deep blue sky was alive with wheeling clouds; their shadows raced past him across the dropping hills.

  He moved on again, upward, streaking up a grassy hill through running shadows.

  But fear ran with him, too. He had to pause repeatedly and look behind him down the hills, afraid that he was followed, searching for that thin, hunched figure.

  And, already he missed his home.

  Gripped by an uncharacteristic attack of homesickness, he crawled deep into a stand of tall grass and lay with chin on paws, caught in a heavy depression quite unlike himself.

  He was bitterly lonely, he felt totally cut off from the world.

  He had been forced to abandon his warm, comfortable home, his neighborhood territory, his entourage of warm and adoring females. Forced to abandon everything that gave his life meaning. He'd forsaken Clyde's comforting care, Clyde's rude, good-natured teasing, as well as the small circle of household animal friends, the dull-minded but faithful dogs, the other cats, who, terrified of his new talents, had been remarkably obedient to his wishes. The cats now backed away groveling when he took the best morsels from their food plates. They were perfectly willing to sleep in a little cluster, allowing him to stretch out full length on their bed for an occasional nap. He was more than top cat, he was exotic and inexplicable. It seemed a shame to abandon all that fun.

  But he was no longer one of the group, either.

  He was separated from his own species by an abysmal void. He was not only torn away from his home and his family, he was, as well, a veritable alien in the cat world.

  He couldn't even share his misery with another like himself.

  There was no other.

  Congealed by gloom, he crouched among the grasses, still and rigid, his white paws pressing into the earth, his eyes closed, a small bundle of cold despair.

  Not since he was a half-grown kitten had he found himself totally alone.

  And as a kitten he hadn't given a damn. What had he cared for loneliness? He'd stormed out of the cheap apartment where his tail got broken and to hell with human companionship. To hell with any companionship. He'd wanted only to be out of there. He had stalked away to challenge the world, unwise and untried, but brave as hell.

  Now he was a totally different cat. That courageous youngster was gone. He was no longer a brash and nervy challenger; he was frightened and shaky, half-crazed with uncertainty. Totally unlike himself.

  But soon a small voice nudged him. A deep disgust at his own cowardice.

  He sat up, his ears back, his eyes blazing. What kind of idiocy is this? What's the matter with me? Beaten? Uncertain? What the hell!

  The only thing wrong with him, he was hungry. He needed food. He hadn't eaten a thing since that mouse last night. His cowardly terrors would vanish the minute he took in some fuel.

  A good feed, plus the satisfying ritual of the hunt, that was all he needed.

  He reared up, scanning the tangled hillside.

  All up and down the hill there was movement in the grass, where little invisible creatures were hopping and pecking and fluttering. Fixing on a half-seen sparrow that dabbled unaware, he crouched and began a measured stalk, his lips drawn back, his teeth chattering softly, his ears flat to his head.

  Within seconds he had caught the unwary bird and torn it apart. He consumed it with satisfying greed, spitting out beak and feathers and feet. By the time he had caught and eaten a blackbird, he began to feel better.

  When at last he was filled with the rich, lean meat, he was himself again, the blood leaping through his veins hot and predatory. His cathood restored, he drank from a puddle, looked around at the bright world, pricked his ears, lifted his short stub tail, and trotted on up the hill.

  At the crest stood a broad oak hanging over a weathered cottage. Joe studied the branches for another cat. When he saw none, he took possession. Leaping up the trunk, he dug in, and climbed on up to the first good limb. It was level, broad, and perfect.

  He seldom napped on the open ground. It wasn't smart, in the wild hills, to nap where a dog could surprise him.

  In the yard below, a broken tricycle lay rusting among a patch of ragged daisies. He could hear a child laughing inside the house.

  From high in the oak he could see down the receding hills of Molena Point, the grid of half-hidden streets, the courthouse tower, the shops half-obscured by the oaks and eucalyptus. Beyond the village, the sea rolled against the cliffs in a long line of breakers, crashing up and sucking back in a rhythm as measured as his own purr.

  Up here, he was king of all he could see. He could live up here, looking down like a god on the village, gorging royally on birds and squirrels, on endless meals of chipmunks and fat mice. If he was destined to life alone, this was the place to live it. Here he could be as strange and different as he pleased, and there was no one to care. He was his own cat, in a rich and fecund Eden.

  The main street of the village, running inland from the beach, was clearly visible, with its green, parklike divider and broad, golden-leafed eucalyptus trees marching up its center. To the left of the median, the cottage rooftops snuggled close together. He couldn't quite see his own roof, but he could see his street. All was homey and familiar.

  Perched up here, he was poised between two worlds. The village and hills were a cat's paradise. But behind him to the east, where the mountains of the coastal range lifted against the sky, that was not his world. Those forbidding, rocky cliffs presented a realm far more bloody and cruel. He really didn't care to become an hors d'oeuvre for the coyotes and pumas that hunted those mountains.

  At least he had the sense to know the difference. Yawning, he stretched out along the branch, full and content. And he slept.

  The crackling of dry grass woke him. He thought immediately of a prowling puma. Something heavy moved below him at the base of the oak tree, and he shook away the sleep, staring down between the leaves.

  Dogs. Only dogs. Ugly and predatory, but just dogs. The five stupid canines circled his tree, ranging through the tall grass, nosing and huffing as they picked out his scent. Two were huge, brown shaggy beasts. One was a misshapen boxer, one a weas
el-faced black bitch. The smallest, a spotted terrier, looked up and saw him and began to yap.

  The boxer stared up, and let out a bellow that bent Joe's eardrums.

  In an instant all five were barking and clawing at the trunk. He eyed them with disgust and considered dropping down on their tender noses.

  But not even he was fool enough to take on five dogs at once, four of them the size of small ponies. He thought for a minute, glancing toward the cottage.

  He saw no movement behind the cottage windows, no sign that anyone was looking out. When he was certain that he was unobserved he slipped out along the branch nearly to its tip. The dogs went crazy, roaring and leaping.

  At the end of the branch, Joe paused. The dogs bellowed and jumped. He opened his mouth in a broad cat smile.

  "Go home!" he yelled. "Get the hell out of here!"

  The effect was memorable. The dogs jerked to attention, staring around for the human source.

  "Get out! Get the hell home!"

  They stared up at him. They backed away crouching, their ears and tails low, their lips pulled back in rictuses of fear.

  "Go on, you mangy mother-licking retards! Get yourselves home!"

  They turned as one and ran careening in a tight, frightened pack. Skidding and sliding, they disappeared down the hill.

  He smiled, licked his whiskers, and stretched. Whatever the source of his unusual talent, it had its upside. Yawning, he washed a paw, then curled up on the branch again and went back to sleep.

  When he woke at dawn, the world was drowned beneath a sea of fog. The hills were gone, all of Molena Point had vanished. He gazed out over the white surface at scattered treetops rising up in dark, shaggy islands.

  He was hungry, and he was stiff. The tree branch, though safely off the ground, was not as kind to the body as a well-appointed double bed with its clean sheets and soft blankets and the warmth of Clyde next to him.

  Clyde would be waking now. He'd feel around on the bed for him. He'd call him. When he realized there was no tomcat nearby, that he'd been gone all night, he'd stagger out to the front porch to call him, shouting across the sleeping neighborhood-as he had undoubtedly done several times during the night.

  When no cat appeared, he would swear, pull on some clothes and, unwashed and unshaven, gulp a cup of coffee and go to look for him.

  Joe had awakened twice during the night, the first time because he nearly fell off the branch. He had started to roll over, and only the jolt of the tree limb under his shoulder had jerked him fully alert. The second time he woke, the fog was rolling in, hiding the stars. He could not remember his dream, except that eyes watched him.

  He shook his whiskers, washed his face and ears, and inspected his claws. He licked his stub tail then backed down the tree to hunt. It was while hunting that he figured out, in a flash of inspiration, how to keep Clyde from worrying.

  Stalking the fog-shrouded bushes, he scented a wharf rat and tracked it. But though he was careful, he came on the rat unexpectedly. It was waiting for him, rearing up, its little red eyes blazing. He got only a glimpse as it leaped into his face.

  They met tooth to tooth in midair. Before he could claw it away it had bit and raked him. It tore his cheeks and nose, just missed his eyes. He ripped it off, biting and clawing and at last got it by the throat and killed it.

  He ate the rat, then licked the blood from his wounds, grimacing at the bitter, ratty aftertaste. Rats were never sweet like bird or mouse. He drooled cleansing cat spit onto his paws and cleaned blood from his face, and cleaned the wounds the little beast had inflicted. And he thought longingly of canned tuna, of the luxury of eating prepared tuna from his own plate, on his own chair at the kitchen table beside Clyde.

  Boy, have I gotten soft.

  But face it, he missed the little luxuries of a cozy home.

  Maybe he missed home so sharply because he'd been driven out against his will. If he'd simply left for a ramble of a few days, the matter would be totally different. Choice was the thing. The freedom to choose when he wanted to leave and to choose when he wanted to return home.

  Suddenly he wanted his own chair by the window, the chair which he had rendered over his four-year tenure into a frayed and comfortable nest overlaid with escaped feather stuffing and with a fine patina of his own gray-and-white fur. He wanted the comforting smells of home, too, the smell of Clyde's morning coffee, of frying hamburger, the ever-present smell of dog and of onions and beer. He even missed the smell of Clyde's feet.

  Right now, this minute, Clyde was out searching for him, muttering, 'Damn cat. Damned useless cat,' walking the neighborhood yelling his name, asking the neighbors.

  When he didn't show up, Clyde would phone the pound or go over there. That was what he did when the white kitten was lost, and that was where Clyde found her, locked in a cage; Clyde brought her home mumbling baby talk, and fed her on steak for a week.

  He felt bad that Clyde was worrying. He valued Clyde. He and Clyde were buddies. He was the only cat of the household that Clyde allowed in bed, the only cat who ate his dinner on a chair next to Clyde's chair. He and Clyde were pals. He knew how to get a laugh out of Clyde, and Clyde knew how to get a smile out of him. He didn't like to worry Clyde-Clyde fretted over his animals. They were all the family he had.

  He wanted to go home. And he couldn't. He was alone with this and he would remain alone.

  Until-when?

  Until he got rid of his pursuer.

  A rising wind parted his fur and nipped at his ears, and began to tear apart the fog, lifting and shredding it. One thing he could do-he could set Clyde's mind at ease. He just needed to figure how to let Clyde know he was all right. Reassure Clyde, let him know he was safe and not to worry.

  Well, so he'd phone Clyde.

  The idea exploded like a light bulb blazing on, as in the funny papers. A light bulb over the cat's head. He'd call Clyde. Tell Clyde he was doing okay.

  Fired with inspiration, he moved away from the gnawed rat bones and stood up on his hind legs, stretching up tall to study the scattered hillside houses. All he needed was a phone. Slip into a nearby house through an open window or claw a hole in the screen, find a phone, and call Clyde. Why not?

  Sure, and what if he was discovered, and the window slammed shut by an irate homeowner, trapping him inside? Trapped among strangers.

  He looked down the hills, through the last thin wisps of fog, at the toy-sized village far below, at its shops crowded along the main street. Shops with phones, shops sparsely staffed this early in the morning, shops with wide, frequently opened doors through which to escape.

  It might seem like walking back into the jaws of the dilemma. But he'd feel easier in those public places with plenty of foot traffic going in and out, plenty of hurrying feet which he could race past, to freedom.

  He set off at a gallop down the hills. Streaking down through tangled yards and across narrow little streets, he swarmed away from several roaming dogs, and narrowly avoided colliding with a delivery truck. He soon hit Ocean Avenue.

  The sidewalk was wet from the fog, the air sharp with the scent of eucalyptus from the long double row of big trees marching down the grassy, parklike center between the eastbound and westbound lanes. Trotting down the sidewalk, he wondered if he could handle a phone, if he could manage to punch in the numbers.

  The doors of the shops were just being unlocked, the shopkeepers looking out through the glass, jangling their keys. A young man in jeans ran past as if he were late for work. And Joe hurried along himself, watching warily for the killer. And watching for Clyde. Just his luck if Clyde decided to have breakfast in the village and saw him.

  He could never explain why he couldn't come home. Clyde would snatch him up and carry him home forcefully, or try to. And while the thought of home was more than appealing, he was convinced that home was now a death trap.

  In front of the little market, the greengrocer was arranging apples in a bin, the scent of apples sharp and sweet, mix
ed with the smell of celery. The scent from the fish market was sweeter. But he didn't go near; he headed straight for the pharmacy.

  Approaching the doorway, he dodged a departing woman, who pounded along in a pair of red high heels. He could see the druggist way at the back, behind a glass partition, filling orders. The shop was empty, no customers now. And he knew from listening to Clyde that old Sid worked alone, that the old druggist had solitary ways.

  He could see the telephone up on the soda fountain, near the door. He trotted on in and slipped behind the counter, stood concealed within the dim space. Glancing down its length, he could still see white-haired Sid back there, intent on his little bottles. He was filling them from big bottles, sending a stream of pills rattling through a funnel. The old man was short, thick-limbed, and Joe knew that his hearing wasn't keen. There were village jokes about Sid's fanciful translations of what he thought he had heard. The doctors of Molena Point never ordered a prescription by phone; always their messages were written, committed illegibly to little white slips of paper.

  On a shelf beneath the counter, wedged between a box of bills and a pair of Sid's white oxfords, he found the telephone book. He clawed it out, broke its fall with his shoulder to dull the sound, and let it slide to the floor.

  It took him a long time to fork the pages open to the D's, then to find the right page for Damen. He felt stupid because he didn't know the alphabet. But at last he found Clyde Damen, and, with the number firmly in mind, he jumped up onto the counter.

  Gripping the cord in his teeth, he lifted the receiver off the hook and laid it silently on the pale marble surface. The phone's push buttons were a cinch, once he figured out how to squinch his paw real small. Crouching with his ear to the receiver he listened to the phone ring.