The Adventures of Young Elizabeth and Rollo, the Wondercat* (*Who thought he was a dog?)

by Les Cohen

Episode 2:

  Personally, I Would Have Preferred Using The Bridge After They Finished Building It

  Okay, I’m back. When last we left our heroes, things didn't look all that good for either Elizabeth or Rollo. If you remember, the two of them had been on their way to meet Elizabeth's father, when an old, black, iron safe someone was trying to lower to the ground from the fire escape outside her father's third story office window dropped – “Kersplat!” – onto a mime performing on the sidewalk below. Needless to say, passersby were duly impressed with the mime's performance. Some people walking by actually thought the whole thing was staged. Arms and legs flailing about, the mime's imitation of someone hit by a falling safe was flawless, and contributions tossed into his cigar box were way up.

  About an hour later, after the police had gone, the safe, which had been left to Elizabeth's father by his father (Elizabeth’s grandfather) when he died, had been taken upstairs and into her father's storeroom. Elizabeth, with Rollo peering over her shoulder, leaned into the open door of the old safe to read some of the papers they found inside. Suddenly, a large, dark form pulled Rollo away and pushed Elizabeth into the safe, closing the door behind her. That left Rollo outside in a fight for his life and, as if he didn't have anything more important to do at the time, to go for help while Elizabeth tried desperately to remove the screws from the panel inside the safe door before she ran out of air and... well, needless to say, that would have been it for Elizabeth. Whew!

  Two screws out of eight later, Elizabeth began to feel faint. There was no noise outside, at least none that she could hear. The man who shoved her into the safe may have had a bad leg he had to pull along with him when he walked. Maybe that was it. In any case, there was no more of the dragging noise she had heard before. No more sounds of a struggle or of shelves and boxes crashing down. Worst of all, there was nothing from Rollo. Nor should there have been because, even as we speak, Rollo was squeezing his way out of the office, on his way to rescue Elizabeth.

  The floor-to-ceiling window that led onto the fire escape had been left open a crack, just enough for Rollo to weasel under it. Out on the metal platform, he heard the sound of Elizabeth's father's voice, talking for a moment to the police Lieutenant on the sidewalk below. Making it down to the second story was easy enough, but Rollo was fresh out of stairs. To go the rest of the way, you needed to use the metal ladder, but he didn't weigh enough, even if he could hold on, to make it fall to the sidewalk. No luck using the ladder, but Rollo knew what he had to do. There was a railing, but the support polls were only a few inches apart. He’d never squeeze through them on the run. He looked up, the fur over his left eye rising as he spied the railing. “No sweat,” he thought to himself, for a professional cat with his experience – which was only a figure of speech, of course, because we all know that cats, especially Rollo, never perspire.

  Peering over the edge, Rollo saw a police car pull up and Elizabeth's father just starting to walk toward the curb. They were already maybe five or more feet from the building, and farther away every step they took. Backing up as far as he could against the brick wall behind him, Rollo got set, tensed his muscles, looked left, then right, like Sam taught him before crossing the street... “Rollo!” Elizabeth would have said, “Are you going to jump or what?!” Squinting, Rollo brought his eyebrows together and down, paused for a second to set his focus, and then leaped almost straight up onto the rail, barely an inch wide. In one smooth motion, his body stretched and then came back together as he landed, a loaded spring of fur covered muscle compressing itself for what was about to happen next. His forepaws touched down first, the rest of his body following close behind – which is what you’d expect, of course, because, well, it’s attached to the front part. (Where else would it have gone?) And then, planting the toes of his powerful rear legs perfectly on the front edge of the railing, “Boiiing!!” He was airborne.

  What a leap! Worried that he might miss, Rollo actually jumped too far, almost overshooting Mr. Coleman completely, landing smack on his bald spot. “MOomph.” The back of Mr. Coleman's head caught Rollo right in his stomach. “Meeee-eh,” was all he could manage. The wind almost knocked out of him, Rollo could barely say hello as he slumped and slid down my father's... That's right. I'm writing this myself. ...neck, clinging as best he could to Mr. Coleman's sport coat on his way down.

  “Whoa!” The policeman swayed to his side, as Mr. Coleman staggered, knocked down to his knees by the force of Rollo landing on his head, barely stopping himself from rolling onto the sidewalk by extending his right hand palm down onto the brick.

  “What the...?!” Elizabeth's father cried out, more surprised than frightened, reaching up and behind him with his other hand. “Something's hit me on my neck!!” Whirling around, he was just in time to see his daughter's trusty, furry companion slump to the sidewalk, looking up at him with a pathetic “Mee... urk,” – a sort of cat burp, if I didn't know better – to get his attention.

  “Rollo! What are you doing?!” He picked Rollo up, both his hands under the cat's powerful forearms for a face-to-face discussion. “Rollo?!” ...and then he paused, Rollo still hanging there in mid-air. Mr. Coleman looked quickly toward the building and to his left and right. “Rollo,” turning back, his tone was serious now and very quick, “where's Elizabeth?”

  “MeeeooaarrrrkkKK!” This time Rollo’s bark meant business.

  Looking up at his third story window, Mr. Coleman stuffed Rollo under his left arm, the way he did whenever they walked around the house together, Rollo's arms wrapped around Mr. Coleman’s left hand. “Lieutenant, something's wrong,” and they both took off toward the front door of the building. Up two flights of stairs, two steps at a time, they were inside my father’s office in a minute – which, as it turns out, was just about all the time I had left.

  “Elizabeth!!” Mr. Coleman shouted. No answer. “Rollo.” Mr. Coleman looked right at him, nose-to-nose. “Find Elizabeth! Now!!” Dropping him to the ground, Rollo turned in his own length and bolted straight for the storage room where he reached up and pulled at the old brass lever on the safe's door as best he could, scratching at the metal around it.

  “Elizabeth! Elizabeth!!” Not waiting for an answer as he ran to the front of the safe, Mr. Coleman turned the handle, taking two hands and most of his strength to do it. Fortunately, no one had spun the dial, or there would have been no opening it without the combination. Handle down, he pulled and then reached around to push the door wide open. Rollo leaped over Mr. Coleman's arms on top of Elizabeth who rolled out onto her father and the storeroom floor just barely conscious, her pocket flashlight and Swiss army knife still in her hands.

  Rollo's sandpaper tongue licking her face, Elizabeth opened her eyes. “Hi Daddy,” she said softly, looking up at her father. “Nick of time, Rollo,” her voice getting stronger as she rolled her eyes toward the feline. “Good to see you again.” She reached up to grab and rub him behind his neck, listening to Rollo make that gurgling purring sound he made whenever he was glad to see her, the sound that Elizabeth had been worried she might never hear again.

  Well, I'm back. It's me, Elizabeth, breathing again and ready to continue telling this story on my own. A few minutes sitting up on the couch in my father's office, and I was feeling like my old self. The police had returned by then and were looking for fresh fingerprints in the storeroom. The man who I thought might have been dragging one of his legs had apparently entered the storeroom through a rear door that had been used when the storeroom was part of the vacant office next door.

  “Looks to me, Mr. Coleman,” the Lieutenant shook his head slightly up and down, “that there were at least two people here, maybe three. I don't think your cat could have caused all this ruckus. The way these shelves have been knocked over, these boxes tossed around, it looks to me like at least two people fighting.”

  “But over what, Lieutenant? What's going on here?”

/>   “Haven't the slightest idea other than the obvious. Got to be something about the safe or these papers,” pointing to the documents still lying on the floor of the safe where Elizabeth and her backpack had been balled up together. “We'll know more when you've had time to study them.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Coleman,” it was one of the other policemen, a woman dressed in street clothes, “but we'll need another hour or so in here before we can let you straighten up.”

  “Don't worry about it. We'll get to it Monday morning.”

  “Hi guys. Exciting day, huh?” Elizabeth's mother, on her way through the door of her father’s office, had a fondness for understatement. Stress, she taught Elizabeth, was mostly what you made of it in any difficult situation. Stay focused. Keep your problems in perspective, and use the energy of any stress you’re feeling to get out of trouble. Good advice Elizabeth remembered when she’d been locked in the safe – not that it would have done any good under the circumstances, but good advice nonetheless. “Sorry I'm late,” she apologized, followed by the “chunk” and rattle of the office door when she pushed it closed behind her.

  “You have no idea, Mommy.”

  “Hi, honey. You okay? Dad left a message for me. Told me it was real close, but that I wasn’t to storm over here like it was the end of the world. ...How’m I doing?” She was trying to be cool, but I knew she was worried.

  “He wasn't kidding. Rollo saved me,” I told her, wrapping my arm around his back to tickle Rollo's stomach while he sat there next to me on the couch.”

  “Com'on. Let's get out of here.” It was my father talking, turning toward the Lieutenant. “Detective, how ‘bout if I give you call early Monday to set up an appointment? If it’s okay with you, I’d like to call it a day and get my family out of here.”

  “Of course Mr. Coleman. Can’t say I blame you.”

  “Mr. Ranks, the attorney on the second floor, has a key. Just tell him or his assistant that you’re leaving and he’ll lock up for me. And Lieutenant,” he added, extending his hand, “thanks for all your help.” They shook hands and we left, two accordion binders under my father's arm, with the papers from the safe, and a third I was holding in both hands – the four of us, including Rollo of course, taking the stairs, just in case.

  “Let’s all go home in the wagon,” my mother suggested. “I found a space just down the street. Honey,” talking to my father, “you can leave your car in the garage and I’ll give you a ride tomorrow morning. Okay?”

  “Sure. Good idea,” my father answered, and we were off, no one talking, catching our breath as we walked across the little plaza and down Main Street toward the water, past a couple of stores to where my mother had parked.

  “Daddy,” I asked him as my mother, behind the wheel now, pulled out of her parking space, “just before I got pushed into the safe...” I was in the back seat behind my mother, leaning forward to talk to my father who was sitting up front. Rollo had his paws on the door across from me, staring out the window. “I found a deed to some property in Colorado. What's that all about?”

  “I'm not sure, Elizabeth. Years ago, when he first immigrated here and got his start in business, Grand Daddy was poor, at least until World War II when he and a partner went into real estate development, out west somewhere. I’m not sure what they did, exactly, except that they were buying or optioning vacant land, and then “flipping” it, selling it later, as soon as they could, for a quick profit. Years later, they had a falling out and broke up the business. Your grandfather came back east when I was born, but his partner didn't. Grand Daddy used go back to Denver now and then on business, but never took me with him. He said he still had some interests in property back there, but never really wanted to talk about it.”

  “Did Grand Daddy and his partner ever see each other again?”

  “I don’t think so, honey, but I don’t know for sure. Grand Daddy never really trusted Manny. That was his partner’s name. I’ve never met the guy, but there are some pictures of him around in Grand Daddy’s stuff.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not what, honey?”

  “Why didn’t Grand Daddy trust him?”

  “Your grandfather was a straight up guy. Totally honest. Someone you could always count on to do the right thing. Manny, I gather, didn’t mind bending the truth or taking advantage of people.”

  “So what finally broke them up?”

  “They were struggling,” her father reached between the front seats with his left hand to squeeze my hand, still thinking about how close he’d come that day to losing me, “and Manny got impatient. Manny started to reach out for money from some people, Russians they had known before they came over here, that Grand Daddy didn’t trust, bad guys that Manny wanted to be their partners. Grand Daddy bought out Manny’s interest in some properties. Manny bought him out of some others, and they walked away.”

  Turning to look back at me, he could see I wanted to hear more. “Look, I'll go through these files,” he said to reassure me, glancing as he did at the binders piled on the back seat between where I was sitting and where Rollo was leaning up against the door. “..over what's left of the weekend, and I'll let you know what I find. Okay?”

  “Okay, Daddy,” I smiled back at him.

  “Meeeeoooowwwrrr.” Rollo had jumped back into the “way-back” which is what we called the part of our wagon behind the back seat, his nose right up against the back window. He was making one of the long whining noises he does whenever he's sees something he thinks is important – usually another cat, a dog or raccoon prowling around our house.

  “Rollo, put a lid on it,” I told him, but he persisted, coming back to me twice to growl in my face and then returning to the rear window to continue his whining the way he does sometimes when he's upstairs in my bedroom and wants me to open my dormer window. “Com'on Rollo.” I was beginning to get annoyed. “Cut it out. We're trying to talk up here. Get away from..,” I started to say, turning back to talk to him eyeball to eyeball, but then I saw what Rollo was seeing. “Daddy. Look out the back.”

  My father turned to look between the front seats out the back of the car at the two men in the cream-colored van behind us. “Honey,” talking to my mother now, “look in your mirror. How long has that van been behind us?”

  “How should I know? Why, what's wrong?”

  “What's wrong is that it could be...,” he strained, as if squinting a bit could help him see better, “the same van some witness saw out in front of my office when they tried to take the safe this morning.”

  “Okay.” I love it when Mommy takes charge. We were just outside the city now, on our way down a winding road that would soon be running along a stream that would widen as we got closer to home and to the river. “There's a grocery store just up ahead, past the new bridge construction. We'll pull in there and call the police if the van comes with us. They won't bother us there. They're too many people coming and going.”

  We drove into the parking lot past the front of the store where all the carts were lined up waiting for customers, where cars were stopping to pick up their groceries. The lot was full and busy with last minute Saturday afternoon shopping, so my mother pulled up, past the grocery store, along the curb in front of the dry cleaner next door. I remember that there was a kid I recognized from my neighborhood who was working at the grocery store that summer, helping a woman, holding a baby, to load groceries into her trunk. My dad got out immediately, just as our car was coming to a stop, closed the car door behind him and walked quickly into the lot where the cars were parked in front of the store, looking for the van we thought might be following us. We stayed in the car, the engine still running, my mother watching my father out the front window, Rollo and me looking out the side and back of the wagon.

  A few second later, the cream-colored van pulled off the road and into the parking lot but, to our surprise, drove around the back of t
he grocery store. “Elizabeth,” my mother turned around quickly to tell me, “you wait here. Keep the windows up, doors locked and stay in the car. No matter what, stay in the car. I'm going to talk to Daddy. Don't you move.” She was talking fast, but carefully, the way she did when she wanted to make perfectly sure I understood something. (I think that technique has it’s own chapter in the “Users Guide for Parents” they give people at the hospital when they have babies.) “Got it?”

  “Got it,” I responded, nodding my head slightly.

  “Your father has his cell phone with him, and I’m leaving mine in my purse if you need it. ..We’re calling the police if Daddy hasn’t already.” My mother got out and hurried to catch up with my father, excusing herself for almost running into an older man pushing a cart. Rollo was sitting up in the way back behind me, not laying down, but up on his rear end, front legs fully extended, and quiet too, stretching his neck and looking around the way he did whenever he could smell the scent of danger in the air. “Me too, Rollo,” I thought to myself.

  And then from behind me, from between the cars along the curb... It was a sound Rollo and I had heard before, the uneven gait of a person dragging one leg as he walked closer toward us. I pushed down the button on the driver's door hard to make sure all the doors were locked. Closer. “Where is he?!” I turned back to look for him again, at the people walking near the wagon, hoping it was only my imagination. And then, out from behind a car that had just coincidentally pulled up next to us, the man from the storeroom dragged his bad leg out into the open, his ruddy, weathered face turning toward us, looking me right in the eye.

  His tall and stocky body seemed way too strong for a man who looked much older than I had expected. Closer to the car. “Rollo,” I told him, as much for my sake as for his, “get up here with me.” And he hopped over the back when I patted the seat next me, craning and turning his neck just enough to see the old man still coming behind us. I thought about yelling for help, but then the windows were up, it was noisy out – and, well, I wasn’t entirely sure it was anything more than somebody with a bad leg. You can’t let fear get the best of you.

  Suddenly the old man stopped. Looking past the car, he took one more hesitant step with his good leg, and then turned unexpectedly and began hobbling away as fast as he could. Turning to look over my shoulder, I wondered what the old man had seen, and then back out the rear of the wagon just in time to see the old man looking at me, his eyes trying to say something, a look of fear plain on his face. “Rollo,” I whispered my thoughts out loud, turning again in the direction the old man had been looking, “what’s scared him away?”

  Seeing nothing to worry about, I couldn't let the old man get away that easy, just in case he was the one from my father’s office which was seeming pretty likely under the circumstances. “Rollo...”

  “Meoarrrk.”

  “Right. You wait here.”

  “MeeeeeeoarkK?”

  “No. I know what Mom said, but I've got to see where he's going. Stay put.” Popping the door lock, I pulled the handle, pushed open the door, and had one foot on the pavement, on my way to… Uh, oh.

  “Get back in the car.” Whoever he was, his voice was deep and deadly serious. It was one of the two men from the cream-colored van, had to be, his gloved hand wrapped around my left arm, while his partner went around to the other side of the car. “Do it now.” Now this would have been a good time to scream, but somehow that wasn’t happening. I struggled for only a moment, instinctively I guess, but then did what he said. I’d always wondered how easy it was to kidnap someone. Now I knew.

  Not that I was scared, mind you, although even if I was, I wasn’t going to let him know, but he wasn't letting go of my arm. Grip of steel. Besides, running for my life would have entailed moving my legs which, at the time, weren't responding to messages from my brain. I got back in our car, aided in no small way by my kidnapper who stuffed me into the back seat and shoved me over, getting in next to me, never letting go of my arm. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Rollo peering over the back of the seat from the safety of the way-back, his ears almost horizontal. Low profile. Thinking about his next move. Smart. Meanwhile, I was in big trouble and would have preferred that he stop thinking so much and actually do something.

  “The papers are on the back seat.” It was the man in the driver’s seat, the one with red hair, turning around to make sure they were there, as he closed the door behind him. “Let's get out of here. We’ll drop the girl somewhere if we need a distraction to help us get away.”

  “Elizabeth! ELIZABETH!!!” My mother, having just turned around to see what was happening, was screaming from where she was standing next to my father, still on his phone with the police, but not for long.

  Looking up to see what my mother was yelling about, he shouted, “They've got Elizabeth!” into the telephone. “Get a car over here. They’re taking her in our wagon!” and he took off after my mother, just in time to hear the engine start. (My mother had left the keys in the ignition, and they tell me I'm forgetful!) Lurching forward, the red haired man behind the wheel tried to peel out, but cars and shoppers crossing in front of us kept getting in his way. Looking out the window past my captor, I could see my parents running between the cars in the lot, more or less parallel to where we were driving, thinking they might cut us off, but wondering if that was really a good idea, not knowing what the men in the car might do to Rollo and me if they were trapped. And then we were clear of any foot traffic, the sound of our wheels screeching on our way out of the parking lot.

  Forget the stop sign, we were gone, heading back the way we had come, tearing out onto the road to town just as a police car came speeding into the parking lot at the other end. They were headed toward my parents who were running to meet them, my father’s hands hitting the hood of the police car as if it needed help stopping before it ran them over. My parents got in, pointing frantically in the direction we were going, the policeman behind the wheel not bothering to wait for the rear car doors to shut before starting after us, siren blaring, tires burning.

  Coming out of the parking lot, the man at the wheel turned so sharply to our left, I was thrown across the back seat against the right side door. Papers were all over the seat and floor. And Rollo? Well he was somewhere in the way-back, rolling and sliding across the carpeting, trying to recover his balance. Me, too, when we heard a second police siren coming from in front of us, and the big man sitting next to me stuffed himself over the console between the front seats to sit next to his partner. It was the one chance I had to grab and stuff the papers that had fallen out onto the floor back into their binder, because I wasn’t leaving the car without them or the two other binders that were still tied and hadn’t come open. My mother’s purse was on the console, and the two men weren’t paying attention, so I grabbed that too.

  Frightened at the thought of being caught between two police cars, the man at the wheel decided to make a sudden turn. “Good thinking,” I said to myself, as if it was me driving. (What am I, rooting for the bad guys?!) “Calm down, Elizabeth,” I told myself. But did they turn right, back toward the shops and homes? No. They turned left toward the water and the new bridge over the river that was nowhere near done. The bridge, that is. The river’s been there forever. (You’ll forgive the sloppy grammar, but I’m under a lot of pressure here.) “Hey!” I shouted, orange traffic cones flying as we made the turn, as if these two criminals were really going to pay attention to me. “This is a dead-end!” emphasis on the dead part. Probably a mile or more to go. Two police cars barreling right behind us. “Plenty of time to stop,” I thought to reassure myself. Right? Yes. Plenty of time. Noooooo sweat.

  Well, forget the construction and dead-end signs, not to mention the wood and concrete barrier in front of us at the foot of bridge. Forget common sense. Forget everything. These two guys were driving like they'd left their brains back in their
van. Just where did they think they were going? Unless, of course, they were from out of town and had no idea where they were. (I think even in Russia they must have construction cones, don’t they? Did I tell you these guys were talking with accents that sounded Russian to me?)

  “Rollo,” I said, looking over the back of my seat, “do something!”

  “Meeeeek.”

  “Oh fine.” I was beginning to babble, a sure sign of losing it. I turned and leaned forward over the back of the seat, to talk to him without screaming. “We're in trouble, Rollo, deep trouble Rollo. We need a plan,” as if the two men in the front seat behind me really couldn’t hear us. The water was less than half a mile ahead.

  Rollo raised one eyebrow. He's the only cat I've ever seen do that, but then he’s the only cat I’ve ever seen that had eyebrows. Not just a few whiskers. I’m talking big, bushy eyebrows. “What?” I recognized that look. “You've already got one?” And then I realized, Rollo wasn't scrunched down, glued to the floor because he was scared. Are you kidding? Rollo doesn’t know the meaning of fear. I mean that literally. He has a great vocabulary, but I don’t think he actually knows what “fear” means. Okay, so I’m babbling. Of the two of us, I’m the one who’s afraid of stuff. Rollo, on the other hand, was thinking, thinking what his old friend and mentor, Sam the beagle, would do. Take the initiative. That's right. Even when you're scared – especially then – take the initiative. That's what Sam would have done.

  I looked forward. We weren't more than a hundred yards from the construction barriers at the foot of the bridge, and then maybe fifty yards more at most to the end of what they had finished on this side. After that, nothing but water, just some rocks and deep, crummy, scummy water. Dirt, some trees and scraggly brushes on either side, sloping downhill sharply. At the speed we were going, we'd be there in only a few seconds.

  The man in the passenger seat had been looking frantically over his shoulder at the police cars closing behind us. Shouting at the driver, he pointed desperately to what was left of an old dirt road just to the right of the barriers in front of the bridge. “That way!” (He was screaming in Russian, of course, but I got the point in English just fine.)

  “Uh, excuse me,” I said politely, not wanting to make a negative impression, just tapping the driver on his shoulder. “Sir, that old road goes up a hill and then over... well, over a cliff actually. There used to be a house there, but the ground around it gave way years... “ There I was, jabbering again, my hands flat against the seat on each side of me while our car began bumping and rocking on the broken road surface just before the bridge. At this speed, I was surprised it didn't rattle apart.

  “Rollo!!” I shouted, whirling around just in time to see him crunch his eyebrows, tense his rear legs and leap, onto the top of the back seat and then go airborne.

  “MeoooowwaaaarrrRRRKKK!!” Right at the driver. “Plooofff” on and over his headrest, Rollo's arms and part of his chest wrapped around the driver's eyes. “MURRK!” Even Rollo was pleased with himself.

  “Oh yes! ...Oh no!!” Rollo hit him just as the driver was making a last chance, swerving turn to take the dirt road, so fast that the rear of the wagon lost its footing and hit the right edge of the concrete safety barrier. Barely a moment ago, I had reached up and grabbed the seatbelt with my right hand, bringing it across my chest just in the nick of time. It held, first on one side, and then the other as the force of our glancing off the barrier threw the rear of the car back the other way just as violently. The driver could hardly control the car as it was, but now, with Rollo's paws over his eyes, rear feet kicking at his earlobes. (Sam would have been so proud. I know I was.)

  Well, the driver did, in fact, lose control and, yes friends, there went the car, sliding in the loose dirt and mud sideways up and over the crest of this old dirt road. Uh oh. “No it doesn't look good for our heroes,” I thought to myself about Rollo’s and my own prospects. Not this time folks.

  “UrrkKKK!” Even Rollo was more than a little worried as he looked forward from his vantage point, still hanging on to the side of the driver's head, the driver’s hands too busy holding on to the steering wheel to do much more than shake his head in a desperate attempt to lose the furiously furry hat he was wearing. Looking at the lack of road in front of us, ignoring an occasional swat when the driver dared to take one of his hands off the wheel, even Rollo seemed a bit tentative. (Mind you, this was all happening in just a couple of seconds, although it seemed a lot longer at the time.) Fortunately, the passenger was too engaged in holding on to the dashboard and the door for dear life to worry about Rollo. Like my mother always said, “It always pays to wear your seat belt.” Perhaps I’ll talk to my kidnapper about that later, assuming there is one, a “later” that is, although I remember doubting at the time that he would appreciate a lecture on vehicle safety. “Rollo, get back here!!”

  “Meee.” Rollo scrunched up his face to close his eyes just as the wagon began rolling on its side, rolling over once before sliding, tires down the rest of the way toward the water.

  “Whoooooooooooooaaaahhhh!” Well, what else did you expect me to say under the circumstances?

  To be continued...

  Could this be it for Young Elizabeth and Rollo?! Can this cat swim? What about Elizabeth in the back seat? And you thought you were having a bad hair day. Not to worry. You know these serials always work out for the best. Of course, I’m stuck with this wagon – not to mention Elizabeth and Rollo in it – rolling uncontrollably over a cliff into deep water. Hmmm? Maybe I've overdone it? But then this is a true story and it's me, Elizabeth, telling it, so how bad can it be?

  Standby for another installment in the exciting adventures of young Elizabeth and Rollo the Wondercat. ..Now, let's see. What exactly did happen after I lost consciousness? “Rollo!” I looked over at the cat lying on my bed. “Give me your notes. We need to talk.”

  * * *