It took about six weeks for the little kitten to realize that when this quirky pair of mostly hairless ones yelled “Bridget” – or in the case of the hard one, “BRIDGET!” – they were actually talking to her or about her.
She didn’t know if she particularly liked the pair of sounds, or the way he usually spoke them, but overall, it seemed an improvement. Sure, it still opened the door for potential misunderstandings, but at least it gave her some indication that she was getting through to them – that they could be taught at least basic tricks, if not ones of limited complexity. Like which foods were a waste of time to put in her bowl, because she wasn’t going to eat them even if they crawled across the room and forced themselves down her throat. Or how these giants had better keep the pillowy couch things arranged the way she wanted if they didn’t wish to find the fluffy pads full of holes in the morning.
Of course, she might have figured out sooner what sounds they had linked to her if the two giants had been more consistent. The softer and kinder – if somewhat stranger – one did better at it than the heavy, gruff, stiff-footed one. From what Bridget could tell, that foul-tempered bull mouthed all sorts of awkward, ear-numbing noises toward her in blunt, thunderous pitches – from “Youdarncat!” to “Stopit!” to “Agh!” and “Getdownfromthere, youfleabag!” Once in a while, he included her appointed title. The more feminine one, however, almost always referred to her with the slurred, two-syllable “Bridget,” and then with soft, gentle tones that inferred love over all things.
It was strange, adjusting to it all. Bridget had been terrified when that old hairless giant had trapped her in that dark cardboard box. All her schemes for deliverance – dashed, just like that! But then she’d heard the groan of old wood, felt the thrilling rush of fresh air through the box holes, and all her perceptions changed. This wasn’t the hell she’d feared – she was being taken away, just like Quagloc-karrok! This hairless one was carrying her to freedom!
Yet that perception itself faded as realization settled around her. The stuffy box confined her tighter than did the metal string cage, she was all alone in its shadowy hold, and the only wisps of light and liberty available to her were jiggling glimpses from the paw-sized holes in the walls. Through them she witnessed brief, bouncing images of all sorts of exotic, dreamy things – leafy wooden statues that stretched far above the giants to dance in the breeze high above their heads; even larger, multicolored deadwood constructs with shiny transparent walls; field after field of green, green grass, and an endless turquoise sky. The topsy-turvy views stirred her, but as each experience built upon the next, the thrill of them grew shallow, losing substance against the reality of that dreary box. Despair crawled along her spine with each plodding step the giant took. She didn’t know where she was going. She had no way out. This wasn’t freedom – it was disaster!
As her patience dimmed, she caught the familiar strains of old wood flexed and stressed. Fears of another metal string cage overwhelmed her. In frustration, she threw herself against the walls, and found a seam in the box. With practiced tenacity, she forced her face through – only to find still another surprise. This was not the hairless giant’s dusty prison of hellhound howls! The air was fresh and quiet, the walls far apart and wide open, and there wasn’t a cage in sight!
So overcome with relief was Bridget, she didn’t notice the long, gentle digits that scooped her up – but the love that flowed from that embrace overwhelmed her. For the first time ever, Bridget sensed within herself the passion Quagloc-karrok found when she had kicked him into the grasp of the tiny giant. From deep in her heart, she purred contentment.
Bridget still remembered the joyous discovery of caressing the feminine giant’s soft neck, only to find this hairless one wasn’t hairless – she wore a surprising crown of long, auburn tresses! Bridget flicked at the thick hanging strands with her claws, drawing warm laughter from the giant, and so she clutched at them again. It thrilled the depths of her being. How she loved sitting on that broad shoulder, hearing the joy that brewed from the giant’s heart to echo through her throat! Not so hairless after all! Bridget laughed. But then her claws snagged a clump of the brown locks. Just that quickly the female giant tensed and the other one laughed, which made the female darken even more. Yet never did it cloud the love within her.
That, Bridget soon learned, was the difference between the Jessica giant and the John giant. Even though the male may have rescued the kitten from the mongrel horde, John often didn’t seem to care if she were there or not. It confused her. For while the Jessica female reflected warmth in her touch, intonation, and body contours, the John male often ignored Bridget’s presence, only to turn stormy without warning.
Like the time when Bridget crossed the deadwood panels before the couch, where he was bent over to rest on the pillows, as she understood his actions.
Bridget was sure John had known she was there. After all, she’d stopped twice to trumpet her arrival with a series of loud meows, since the giants seemed to respond more to that sound than they did her hair or tail signals. But he had offered no acknowledging signs in return, choosing instead to eye a bundle of glossy compressed deadwood leaves in his lap. That in itself no longer offended the kitten; under Jessica’s constant love, Bridget had decided to ignore these insults from John – especially since he was so hard to read, with so much of his hairless body concealed within those dry artificial skins. But the minute Bridget had leapt high onto the deadwood hall trim, sinking her claws in to climb after that hazelnut moth clinging to the ceiling, the John giant had erupted into a volcanic rage! Bridget had just waited there, curling her spine and rolling her ears to show her purpose. Can’t you see that taunting moth? Its extra eyes shuttering open and closed with each twitch of its wings? But John hadn’t cared. Screaming out in anger, he’d tossed aside his all-important paper bundle to scramble to his feet, only to think better of it and pick back up the glossy papers, rolling them into a rod that his giant hands waved like a mace. Since Bridget had learned early on what sort of blows John could give with rolled paper leaves, she’d left the aggravating moth and fled for sanctuary under Jessica’s dress skirts.
There were many things about that incident Bridget still didn’t understand. Chief among them: why the John giant would let a dirty old moth hang wherever it pleased, and yet Bridget had to stay off just about everything but the deadwood beneath them.
It helped that the John bull just disappeared during most of the daylight. It was a curious action, suggesting he might be any one of all sorts of mystical nightmarish creatures that those other fellows in the old giant’s world had whispered about when they were all curled together trying to get some sleep. But Bridget discounted such things, since the lady Jessica certainly liked curling up with him, and she seemed an ordinary enough giant, even if she did have some hair. So Bridget used his absences to hang onto Jessica’s neck, curl in her lap or just follow her around. The love aura surrounding the female giant was intoxicating! But when the lady giant was too active, or herself seemed to disappear, Bridget would find a spot in the sun and ponder all the mysteries of her new home – like the enormous transparent walls. True, it was sometimes difficult finding spots to gaze through that were clear of skin oils, smoke smears, dust beds, spider webs, and random hair nests, but when she did, Bridget could look upon a world both altogether new and strangely familiar. As much as she enjoyed prancing atop the tables, knocking off the knick-knacks, and sliding across the kitchen counters, often she found contentment just staring out those windows and dreaming of chasing the bounding robins, shredding the tulips, or investigating the high oak’s nests.
It was in the midst of such a dream that she met Scarface, and learned the sorrows of temptation.
Of course, we shouldn’t get too far ahead of ourselves in this tale. For the path to Scarface leads first through another.