Cat Striking Back

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  As Kit and the pale cat silently regarded each other, Sage’s look made Dulcie uneasy. Clearly he didn’t want Kit’s flighty and irresponsible ways to infect his sweet new lady, he didn’t want his chosen mate to be a dreamer. He wanted her to be an obedient wife, he wanted a family, he wanted a steady female cat who could give him kittens, a stolid, matronly cat, a cat he could understand and who would understand him. How sad, Dulcie thought, that he had chosen this cat who seemed not like that at all, who seemed so like Kit. Another dreamer, another impetuous rebel he might never be able to make happy? Sage had tried to change Kit, and had failed. Did he think, now, that he could force this little scruff to his wishes?

  Dulcie didn’t think so.

  As the buff-colored cat reared up to look at Kit, as the two stood staring at each other across the blowing grass, Sage fluffed himself up to twice his size and lashed his tail, his ears back, his eyes narrow, and growled fiercely at his lady.

  Kit looked startled, then turned away so as not to make matters worse, and headed down the hill, her glance at Dulcie hurt, and very sad.

  The pale cat remained where she was, looking after Kit longingly. But at last, at Sage’s prodding, the bony little waif turned away and obediently followed the bleached calico tomcat back up the hill toward the fallen walls and crumbling mansion of the old and ruined estate.

  Dulcie, hurrying home beside Kit, down the hills through the rising dawn, had no idea where this meeting of the two young females would lead, but she knew a friendship had been formed-and, she thought uneasily, knowing Kit, she wouldn’t be surprised to see this meet ing turn to trouble. To some kind of trouble, as the tortoiseshell’s enthusiasms so often led.

  They were halfway down the hills, were just passing a newly framed house, skirting its skeleton of raw timbers, stepping carefully to avoid dropped nails, when Kit said, “I’ve seen her before. When Lucinda and Pedric and I walk up here, sometimes I see a pale little shadow slipping away among the broken walls. Once, for a second, she stood atop a wall looking down at me, but then she turned and ran.” Ever since the weather had turned warmer, and the tourists were returning to crowd the shore on nice mornings and late afternoons, Kit’s two housemates had abandoned walking the beaches and sea cliffs and taken to tramping the hills. Tall, slim, eighty-something Lucinda Greenlaw had always been a walker. She had, during a long and abusive first marriage, escaped from her pain at the hands of a philandering husband by indulging in solitary rambles over the Molena Point hills. Now she was wed again, this time happily, and Lucinda and Pedric were both enjoying the world anew, including their long and pleasant rambles accompanied by their tortoiseshell companion.

  But Joe and Dulcie, too, sometimes glimpsed the clowder cats as they hunted, saw them like swift shadows flicking away among the hills or into the ruins. Because of the dry weather, the clowder had moved back within the walls of the old estate, wanting the water that ran in springs there and wanting to be safe in its shelter from the coyotes that had drawn closer to the village to quench their thirst-ever since the weather turned hot, Dulcie and Wilma, her human housemate, tucked up in bed at night, could hear coyotes on the hills, ever closer to the village, yipping and yodeling.

  Some people called their noise singing. Dulcie and Wilma, knowing how dangerous the beasts were, called those cries bloodcurdling. When the yipping was near, neither of them slept well. The three cats, until just this past week, had kept their hunting to the daylight hours. When sporadic rains had begun, leaving puddles for the wild creatures among the far woods, and the coyotes had moved away once more, the cats began their night hunting again, though they stayed near the scattered houses or near boulders where they could race for shelter.

  Now, descending the hills, suddenly Kit broke into a run, wildly circling Dulcie then skidding to a stop inches from the older cat’s nose, Kit’s yellow eyes blazing with laughter. “Free,” she mewled. “I’m free!”

  Dulcie puzzled over this, as she so often did over Kit’s behavior. Had Sage, taking a new cat for his mate, cut the last painful thread that bound Kit to him? Did she no longer feel responsible for having hurt him, having spoiled his life as she had once thought?

  But then, just as suddenly, Kit sat down in the tall grass, looking so sad that Dulcie thought she might weep.

  “She’s not the one,” Kit said, looking forlornly at Dulcie. “She feels as trapped as I did. She wants…Didn’t you see? She wants…Before she settles down to raising tangles of kittens, she wants to see what the rest of the world is like. Oh, I feel so bad for her. Didn’t you see…?”

  “No,” Dulcie said crossly. “I didn’t see anything! Leave it, Kit! Leave it alone. It isn’t any of your business.”

  “But-”

  Dulcie faced Kit, her ears back, her teeth bared. This would never do. Kit’s concern screamed of trouble. “Leave it alone, Kit. You will not entice her away. They’re happy, Sage is happy.”

  “She’s not happy, she-”

  Dulcie raised an armored paw to slap Kit. “You will not ruin Sage’s life again! Why would you do that?”

  “Because…,” Kit said miserably, “because…” She glared at Dulcie, and turned and trotted away, tears running down her tortoiseshell nose. Dulcie shouldered her to a stop, her teeth gently in the nape of Kit’s neck. For a long moment they stood looking at each other, Kit so upset that if Dulcie let go, she thought Kit would fly at her with all claws bared.

  But at last Kit backed away. “She won’t be happy,” she said grimly, “thinking about all the wonders she’s never seen. And so, Sage won’t be happy.”

  Dulcie said nothing. She moved away, heading on down the hill. They were quiet for a long time, padding toward the village, Kit’s sadness like a weight that pressed on Dulcie, too. But then suddenly, Kit came to life again.

  “I know what to do,” she said, leaping away. “I know exactly!” And she raced like a mad thing through the gardens of the first scattered houses, skidding to a stop beneath a porch, looking back at Dulcie.

  Padding under the porch beside her, Dulcie said not a word. She didn’t want to hear Kit’s harebrained idea, she didn’t want to contemplate what kind of trouble this would stir to life.

  Seeing Dulcie’s look, Kit didn’t offer an explanation. She licked her fur and her dusty paws, and they went on at last, in a tense silence. The rising morning smelled of rain, the clouds overhead throwing changing shadows across the crowded cottages and shops.

  Coming down into the village, the two cats took to the rooftops. Below them, early cars were on the street as locals and tourists set out to attend church and then Sunday brunch or, despite the threat of rain, to play golf or to hike along the coastal cliffs. Soon they parted, both cats, having hunted all night and feasted on rodents, heading for their own homes and housemates, longing, now, for “people” food, for a little something to settle a cat’s digestion. Dulcie’s Wilma had promised a rich quiche, and Kit looked forward to Pedric’s paper-thin Swedish pancakes with Lucinda’s mango syrup, which was, in Kit’s opinion, the best breakfast that a cat ever licked from her whiskers; and for the moment, the plight of the pale little feral was set aside, at least in Dulcie’s mind. Whatever Kit was thinking, she kept to herself.

  5

  JOE ARRIVED HOME, over the rooftops, to the welcome smell of pancakes and sausages, the heady scent rising up to him as he leaped from the neighbors’ shingles to his own. Landing on the wet, slippery shakes, he could hear Clyde ’s and Ryan’s voices from the back patio. The rain had been short and light, only a few showers and then one serious effort, and even that didn’t last long. Now the sky was clearing, the June sun brightening and warming his damp fur. Pausing beside the second-floor skeleton of the new construction that would be Ryan’s office, he crossed to the edge of the roof to look over.

  Below, in the big, walled patio, the two lovebirds were kissing and Joe backed away, unsure how much of this newlywed mush he could take. Ryan had put the big umbrella up over the patio tab
le to keep their breakfast dry, a nicety that Clyde wouldn’t have bothered with. Ryan Flannery was, Joe thought smugly, the best thing that had happened to Clyde since Joe himself had come on the scene to brighten his life.

  Looking over the edge, his paws soaking from the wet shingles, he watched Clyde move back inside the house, presumably to flip the sausages that he could hear sizzling in the pan. He could see, beneath the umbrella, a corner of the patio table carefully set with clean place mats, fresh napkins, and a centerpiece of flowers. Clyde ’s bride might say she wasn’t domestic, that she was more used to a hammer and saw than a mixing spoon, but she had a nice touch around the house. In the four months they’d been married, life had taken a real change from his and Clyde ’s rough bachelor ways. No more breakfasts with their two plates slapped down carelessly on sections of the morning paper. Now the household reeked of domesticity, sometimes as cloying as a rerun from the fifties, but, more often, just as comforting.

  Leaping from the roof down onto the high garden wall and again to the top of the cold barbecue grill, he dropped to the paving beside Ryan’s big silver Weimaraner. The sleek, handsome dog lay stretched out on the rain-damp bricks, soaking up the brightening sun. Lying down beside Rock, Joe rolled over, presenting his own belly to the warm glow. Rock huffed at him in greeting, and with an inquisitive nose began to smell Joe’s four extended paws, sniffing the mouse smells, the rat and rabbit smells, maybe a hint of kitten smell, and the heady scents of the wild hills. The big dog gave Joe a look that said, Why can’t I run free like you? Sighing, he rolled over and drifted into a light sleep-with one ear cocked for the first sound of plates being set on the table. Joe watched Ryan as she crossed the patio to finish planting a flat of begonias, gently tucking the little, delicate nursery flowers into the rich earth of a raised container, an occupation that, again, seemed out of character for the dark-haired, green-eyed beauty. He was far more used to seeing her running a heavy Skilsaw or dipping her trowel into a bucket of plaster, wearing jeans and muddy boots instead of a flowered housecoat.

  Rock woke the minute Clyde began dishing up. Casting Joe a look of urgency, he trotted across the bricks to stand expectantly beside the redwood table, his chin on its corner, his eyes never leaving the kitchen window. They watched Clyde push through the screen door backward, letting it slam. Turning, he descended the steps bearing a huge tray laden with plates piled with pancakes, eggs, sausages, and all the fixings. As Clyde laid out their breakfast, Ryan moved to the barbecue sink to wash the dark earth from her hands. As she and Clyde took their places at the table, Joe leaped to the end of Ryan’s bench where, now, he and Rock stood shoulder to shoulder sniffing the good smells and drooling with equal greed-he watched Ryan turn away, hiding a grin.

  IT AMUSED RYAN greatly that Joe Grey and Rock looked like mismatched twins, their sleek gray coats exactly the same color, their eyes the same pale yellow. And, a source of gentle humor, Joe Grey’s tail was docked to the same jaunty length as Rock’s, both tails sticking straight up when the animals were happy.

  In Rock’s case, the short tail was the correct style for a Weimaraner. Joe’s shortened appendage, however, had been the result of a kittenhood accident when a drunk had stepped on his tail and broken it. Clyde had found the sick and feverish kitten in a San Francisco gutter, had rushed him to the vet where the infected part of the tail was amputated, and then had taken Joe home to nurse him back to health with antibiotics, love, and plenty of rare filet. The two hadn’t been parted since.

  But what tickled Ryan the most about the similarity between the two was that dog and cat were so very alike in spirit. Rock’s wild, defiant, adventuresome view of the world had enchanted her from the moment she first encountered the valuable but abandoned stray. And then when she’d met Joe, his attitude, even before she discovered that the cat could speak to her, had been just as bold and brash. The big difference, of course, was that only the tomcat had use of the English language.

  When she’d first suspected Joe’s ability to speak, when she’d finally convinced herself that this impossibility had to be true, and then when they’d had their first conversation, that had been a time of spine-tingling amazement, an experience from which she was sure she would never quite recover. And surely she’d never be the same after her first conversation with Joe and Dulcie and Kit all together, an impossible communication between their two species that had left her with permanent goose bumps.

  But, while Rock didn’t speak, while her good dog knew only command words and hand signals, knew the names of the humans he loved, and the names of everyday items that she and Clyde had taught him or that he had absorbed on his own, the Weimaraner was so clever and such a quick study that he didn’t need to talk to her. Body language was enough; they understood each other very well. The trouble with Rock was, he was often too clever. He knew how to climb a six-foot chain-link fence as skillfully as any cat. And with only one afternoon’s training, he had learned to track a scent trail on command. For most dogs, reliable and unfaltering tracking skills took many months of training.

  The fact that Joe Grey himself had taught Rock, that Rock had not learned from her own slow teaching but under the skilled tutelage of the gray tomcat, had impressed her considerably. She didn’t know whether she was more proud of Rock for his quick mastering of the valuable tracking skills, or of Joe for the clever patience with which he’d tutored the big Weimaraner.

  Serving the animals’ plates, she set them on the bench, side by side. Dog and cat exchanged a glance of understanding that neither would steal from the other, and dived into their breakfasts. The issue of gourmet rights had been settled some time back, Joe laying down the rules with teeth and claws, and Rock with a gentle but insistent growl. Rock didn’t seem to mind that his breakfast was mostly kibble, with sausage and egg crumbled in for flavor, while Joe was treated to exactly the same fare as the humans.

  On the other side of Ryan, the white cat hopped up silently, her gentle eyes on Ryan as she lifted one soft paw. Crowded onto the bench, against Ryan’s leg, she looked up trustingly, knowing that her own small bite of the human’s breakfast was forthcoming. It saddened Ryan that the other two Damen cats, who had been far up in years, had succumbed to separate illnesses not a month apart, shortly after she and Clyde were married-saddened her, and stirred her, that the two lifelong friends had gone within weeks of each other. As if somehow deciding, with their mysterious feline connection, that their closeness in life would not be broken by death, that they would move on into the next world together.

  She glanced across the patio to the high back wall, its white-plaster surface still shaded from the rising sun. In the shadow at its base marched the little row of graves: two markers for the cats, two markers for their two departed canine friends, each marble plaque attesting to an urn of ashes buried beneath. Scrappy. Fluffy. Barney. Rube.

  Barney, the golden retriever, had died before Ryan and Clyde met. Rube, the black Lab, had died just this last year. Ryan had suffered with Clyde over Rube’s illness, had tried to comfort Clyde and Joe when the vet put Rube to sleep. Afterward, she had tried to comfort the little white cat. She had held Snowball for hours, talking to her, trying to soothe her over the loss of her doggy companion. With Rube gone, Ryan herself seemed to take Rube’s place in nurturing Snowball; the white cat came to her far more often even than she sought out Clyde or Joe for tenderness and reassurance.

  As they all tucked into breakfast, there was near silence at the picnic table. Only the scrape of a fork on a plate, Rock’s eager slurping, the occasional car passing out front on the street and, from half a mile away, the rhythmic pounding of the sea against the cliffs and sandy shore. When the animals had licked their plates clean, Clyde looked across the table at Joe.

  “I have an announcement.”

  Joe looked back warily, his claws involuntarily stiffening at the implication of some portentous, and probably unwelcome, decision. Whatever was coming, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.

/>   Ryan, watching the two of them, was both uneasy and amused by the tomcat’s possibly well-founded suspicions. She was still wondering herself if Clyde ’s decision had been a wise one. This particular resolution would be life changing for Clyde. Another big adjustment even after bringing a wife into the household-and that meant one more upset in the tomcat’s life. Ordinary cats didn’t like change. In that respect, she thought that speaking cats weren’t so different.

  The moment she’d moved into the house, when they returned from their honeymoon, the household had morphed from a casual bachelor pad to the more complicated involvements presented by an added resident, particularly a female partner. Now, if she and Clyde pursued this new endeavor, their newly established routines would change yet again, and that would change Joe’s routine.

  How would that affect the tomcat? Would further disruption of Joe’s comfortable home life complicate his other, secret life? That mustn’t happen, she thought, watching the gray tomcat. Joe Grey’s undercover investigations were far too unique and valuable to let this new venture get in his way.

  6

  JOE WATCHED CLYDE warily, waiting for the bomb to drop. Whatever Clyde meant to tell him, obviously Ryan already knew; her green eyes hid a smile but also a hint of worry. Certainly any statement coming from Clyde and begun in this serious vein portended nothing good, such serious pronouncements could easily end in disaster. One case in point would be Clyde ’s purchase of a derelict apartment building, which he’d intended to remodel for rental income. A project that had ended in a tangle of embezzlement, identity theft, and murder, to say nothing of the complications resulting from Clyde ’s inept carpentry skills.

  Another example would be the time Clyde decided that Joe should visit the old folks’ home on a regular basis in order to cheer up the needy elderly. That seemingly charitable endeavor had not only put Joe and Dulcie in considerable danger, but had resulted in the discovery of a large number of anonymous dead, buried and forgotten in a garden of hidden graves.