It was quiet, but I knew something was hiding. The silence was perfect because I would be able to hear the critter move. I crawled my old body painfully further under the wild ferns. I grinned. The wild thing would soon be mine. A black foot padded by, only five feet away. I heard its fur brush against dry leaves.
“Not quite as sneaky as me, are you?” I inched forward just a bit more, very close to the striking position I knew I needed to be in.
I wiggled the fingers on my extended hand just a little. Enough to be noticed but not enough to frighten. Curiosity was my best weapon to catch a cat. A light pounce and a victorious meow, plus new scratches on my fingers, told me the cat thought it had won.
Remaining still, I let the cat tell me what its next move would be. I didn’t have long to wait and even I was surprised. Kneading paws on my back and a head bonk to my head and I knew the cat was mine.
“Alright, you little rascal.”
I slowly twisted myself onto my side so I could see my attacker. My chin was promptly rewarded with a head bonk and a soft meow. I slowly raised a hand and gently stroked the black fur, not yet ready to make my final move.
“Atta boy, I got ya.”
Meow.
“And a good morning meow to you, too.”
Now eyeball to eyeball, we contemplated one another and then blinked at the same time.
“Comfy?”
Meow.
“I’m not.” And with that, my hand went from petting to grabbing the cat by the scruff of its neck. I pinned the cat to my chest while I sat up as quickly as a seventy-year-old could. I glanced down, surprised the cat wasn’t fighting me.
“You have no intention of going anywhere, do you?”
Meow. Purr. Bonk.
I leaned on my free hand and slowly twisted myself to my knees, the right one popping like it often does. I stood up, almost squishing the cat in the process. While waiting for my vertigo to quit spinning the forest around me, I quickly flipped the cat around and lifted its tail. Another boy. At least there won’t be any kittens to go in search of.
“Okay, little one, in you go.”
With no further strokes or slow movements, I whipped the cat into the carrier I always rolled along behind me. I banged the door shut. Another cat caught that would be properly cared for by the only one who knew how.
“Not purring now, are you?”
Grr.
I glanced right and left before letting any watchers know where I was going and then shuffled to the dirt path across from me, pulling the carrier on wheels holding a now angry cat behind me.
The town did a good job at the creation and upkeep of the many trails that wound through it, around the small lake, and even built strategic bridges where they were needed. Some of the trails were paved, others weren’t. I always traveled the dirt trails because others didn’t and I would be left alone.
“Off we go, kitten.” I called all rescued cats by this name until I could give them a proper one later based on their looks, personality, or actions. This one would probably be called “Bonk.”
Careful not to bounce the cat too hard over the tree roots, I hurried down my familiar path, smiling at each protesting meow that came from the caged creature. He didn’t know yet that his life had just improved and that he would soon have unlimited companions when he joined all the other cats I had hidden away.
The cage door into the cat sanctuary was still hidden. No one had entered or, worse, got out since the last time I was here. My stomach growled louder than the captured cat, which reminded me that supper was soon and I had other mouths to feed.
Click. Grab. Grr. Hiss. Click. Bang.
The cat was out of the carrier and shoved through the cage door before he had time to scratch or bite. I’ve done this a few times while the cat was still on the first of its nine lives.
“Go on now. There’s food, water, and company yonder.” We glared at each other through the chicken wire for a minute. Bonk’s tail flicked. Oh, he was mad.
Double-checking that the cage door was latched, I then gave it a little shake to ensure it was locked and to scare the cat away.
“Go on,” I said. I’ll be back tomorrow to see how you’re making out.”
We both heard the sound at the same time. Something, or likely somethings, was coming through the trees. Bonk dared a look but saw nothing. I knew better.
“You’re fine. Goodbye.”
Not wanting to get in trouble at home, I turned away, grabbed the carrier handle and left without another word. A final glance over my shoulder showed me that the new cat was now more interested in whatever was coming. Interested but not scared. He meowed a thank you back at me. I chuckled. I knew he would be fine.
My cats don’t think I’m crazy. Everyone else does, but my cats are not everyone else. They are all I need and all I want. Except for one thing, I want more of them, for there are so many who need me and only me.
A streak reflected in the darkened window was quickly followed by the expected second one. The boys were at it again. I turned and gave my big fluff-of-a-cat, Queenie, an accusing look. Stretching, she seemed to say, “They’re your cats. You control them.”
“Crazy boys.”
A whistle from the kitchen meant my instant coffee was ready for brewing. Head down, fearful of stepping on a resting cat, I went into the kitchen, grabbed the coffee jar and scooped some into my stained cup. Screeching and hissing told me the bigger brother had caught up with his smaller sibling, likely the one who instigated the battle in the first place.
“Here kitty, kitty. Come here you two lunatics.”
Without waiting, I returned to the living room and sat on my garage-sale recliner, right below her royal majesty, the queen. Setting my cup down on the old card table I had also picked up at the same garage sale I waited, knowing.
Big Woody easily jumped into the middle of my lap, black hair flying and whiskers vibrating. Anticipating the worst, as usual, I watched for the klutzy orange cat whose smaller size would make his leap less graceful. Unfortunately, Mickey chose to come from the other side of the chair from where I was looking and landed on Woody, who, with a hiss and a spit, catapulted onto the table, sending the cup of coffee to the four winds.
“You crazy cats have got to quit doing this.”
I stood up and looked at the coffee splattered everywhere. The boys skedaddled under the couch and looked at the mess with arched backs and whipping tails. Queenie hadn’t budged, refusing again to acknowledge the boy’s existence, including the chaos that usually followed them.
“I don’t imagine one of you brats is likely to lick the place clean.” Three pairs of bored green and orange eyes told me all I needed to know.
I could only chuckle and grabbed the extra large roll of paper towels. With three cats, there were frequent accidents. I got it cleaned up, dumped more instant coffee and added water from the still-heated kettle. I finally sat down again in my old recliner, placing my coffee on the table. This time, my babies were a little more cautious when they swarmed my lap again, with Queenie moving to her royal and reserved spot on my chest.
Glancing through the large living room window, I saw nothing had changed in the neighborhood since I last checked. Taking a sip, relishing the purrs, I took up my pen and began working on my fourth letter to the Town Council this year.
“Dear idiots. Once again, I know you likely won’t even read this, let alone do anything about it. But the Cat Bylaw must go and I will continue with my letter-writing campaign until it is gone. Who are you to say that I can only have three cats? That is one of the most ridiculous things about you, you lying pack of goons. Thinking you have the power to tell the people of Lilly how to live our lives and what we can and can’t do. Shame on each of you. Now change the bloody Bylaw because there are stray cats who need me. Yours in shame, Tucker Harley .”
“Not bad. Not bad.” Queenie looked at me in agreement while Mickey and Woody wrapped their legs tighter around each other. Brothers or gay, I didn’t know.
As usual, I finished my coffee and fell asleep with my babies.
All was quiet on my morning patrol of the house and yard. None of the traps on the front porch had been sprung so no one had dared trespass where they knew they weren’t welcome. I ambled over to the front gate and saw that the padlock was still on and the wires twisted from post to gate were still tightly strung the way I liked them. Glancing up and down my street, I considered writing another letter about the Bylaw that made it a crime to have a fence over three feet in your front yard. Another injustice imposed upon the citizenry of this run-down old town.
The boys watched me intently from the window; surely the old guy would come back in and sleep some more. Leaping out of sight when I came up the stairs and through the door, they greeted me with spinning-tail pets and pathetic meows. I knew in an instant why they were being so chummy when I saw the Cat Bylaw papers scattered around the same area as the coffee had been the night before. One of them, more likely both, had gone careening across the table where I had left it after rereading it for the thousandth time.
“I was only gone for two minutes.” I threw an accusing look at Queenie for again not controlling the two younger cats. She blinked and yawned.
Cleaning up the latest mess, I warned all of them. “I gotta head out and I expect the house to be still standing when I return.” All of them blinked, yawned, and stretched out to sleep. Never let it be said that a cat needs a lap to get in their eighteen hours of shut-eye.
“Good. Now be good.”
With that, I picked up my letter from the night before and headed out to mail it, even though the Post Office was attached to the Town Office. I always thought it carried more weight when complaints arrived in the mail; the writer must be truly agitated to spend the postage on a well-crafted letter.
Lilly should have been named ‘Cattsfull,’ most people thought. Over the years, the shenanigans of a few feral felines had erupted into hundreds of cats who pooped in everyone’s gardens and terrorized the butcher and pet shops with impunity at night. The name and the cat overpopulation are what drew me to the town years ago.
Queenie was my first rescue, and she was quite easy to capture because she simply strode up onto the deck where I sat and plopped her royal self with authority onto my lap. And we’ve been together since.
But fifteen-year-old Queenie was also quite demanding and correctly believed the whole house was her domain. Unable to keep up with her demands, I figured I had better get another one to make the beast leave me alone, especially at night. But when I went to look for Queenie’s new companion at the Town Kennel, I was told that there were only two cats and they were bonded brothers and, therefore, a matched set. The sucker “S” on my forehead ensured I would fall for this. I think they lied, but the boys became mine.
On my way to the Post Office, I passed again the most painful of spots on the trail. Refusing to let myself dwell on this, I clutched the handle of my rolling cat carrier and carried on, the usual tear shed for an unnecessary life lost.
Why does a Post Office always sound so hollow? I thunked my way across the floor, tossed my envelope on the counter, and raised an eyebrow at the lazy guy with his feet on a table. Judging by the pile of mail stacked up around him, not much mail was being delivered today.
“Ahem.”
“I see ya.” He didn’t move.
“I wanna mail this.”
“Go ahead. Whaddya need me for?”
Ignoramus. “Is sending mail free now?”
A heavy sigh. Why does everyone sigh and not just do what they’re supposed to when they’re supposed to? But at least he took his feet off the table and began to get up until he looked at me.
“You again? What now, you wanna be on Town Council and not just pester them all the time?”
“I don’t have time for their foolishness.” I held up the envelope. “This is how we hold that bunch to account.”
He finally ambled over, threw my envelope on the scale, and announced, “A buck nineteen.”
“It was a buck nine last week.”
“That was last week. This week it’s a buck nineteen.”
I out-glared him for two seconds and he finally did his job. Purposely waiting until the last minute, I then took out my change and counted out a dollar and twenty cents in quarters, dimes, and nickels. “You owe me a penny.” He could darn well work for my money.
He managed a four-second glare this time, impressive. Without another word, he dug into the cash register and slid my penny across to me.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Yeah, get a haircut.” Two could be equally insulting. Not caring if he said anything else and making sure my letter made it onto the outgoing delivery pile, I turned around and walked across the marble floor. I reached the door and banged my boots on the floor to leave behind any Post Office dirt I may have walked through. I could see his disgusted reflection in the glass. I won again and could go home.