One afternoon Bridget was awakened from her nap by a shrill, yet somewhat muffled scratching. But as she stretched against the bare windowsill, basking in the warm rays of the sun, she was too contented to bother getting up. So Bridget raised an eyelid, saw nothing going on, and went back to sleep. Or she would have, if the scratching hadn’t returned at twice its earlier pace. This time she raised her head, circling her eyes about to see what it was.
What she found made Bridget forget all about sleeping.
Sitting atop the peeling wood planks on the other side of the transparent wall was a large cat. At first glance he seemed appealing to Bridget, his frame tall and lean, his long, matted coat a patchwork of grays and black streaks on a hazel background. He sat upright, showing respect, but his tail whipped itself from side to side, signaling impatience. His fur twitched along his spine – another message of frustration – but his eyes and ears both spread wide towards Bridget, showing the newcomer valued what she had to say. Yet that didn’t last. Soon his lime green eyes squinted inward, as an accusation or judgment.
That drew out the scar along his left cheek, an old wound long since healed, though it had left a jagged patch of bare pink skin from his lips to his neck. Bridget then saw that wasn’t his only mark – something had carved a slice from his right ear. The sight brought her pain. She winced, which made him smile.
Bridget started to crawl back from the windowsill, only to stop out of stubbornness. What reason did she have to fear him? Even if he meant harm, the shiny wall stood between them!
Not that he could hurt her, in any case – or so she thought.
He rolled his head back and laughed.
“What makes you think I want trouble?” he called through the wall.
At first, Bridget couldn’t understand what he said. That aggravated him. His tail smacked into the deadwood with a loud flap.
“If I wanted trouble, I’d not have scratched the glass,” he said, his eyes glaring hot. “I’d have rammed it hard. Scared you good.”
Bridget found herself stumbling over some of his words. He chuckled at her ignorance.
“No, little one,” he told her, “I was simply wondering who’d replaced Sebastian in this prison.”
“Sebastian?” Bridget felt a sudden thrill. Pointing to the bookshelf, she called, “You mean him? Up there?”
That brought more snickering. The newcomer’s ears flattened, showing contempt.
“Sebastian,” he told her, “was the old warrior who guarded this lady before you got here. A worthy cat, that one.” Then his tone hardened. “I was his next in line.”
Bridget didn’t know what that meant. Sure, she’d found some old fur lying around, and smelled the presence of others before her, but every place she’d ever been had such things. Not that this interloper cared, of course. He read the confusion in her eyes, her tail, and answered with open boredom. His head drooped, then turned away.
“Wait!” she called. “I’m a good warrior!”
“You?” That drew his haunting eyes back, if only to scoff at her. “You’re barely old enough to draw your claws.”
Bridget didn’t understand what he was talking about, but the prideful way he said it made her envious. Now she wanted to be a warrior! The very best warrior!
“I can so!” she declared. “I got the John giant! I made him run! Several times!”
“So what? He’s a buffoon!”
Bridget added that to the list of words she needed to learn. But she didn’t have to know what it meant to feel defensive about it. His tone made that plain.
“But he’s all I’ve got!” she wailed.
“In there, maybe. But you don’t have to stay in that prison.”
Bridget sat down, drawing her tail about her. “What prison?”
The newcomer leaned back and laughed.
“You mean here?” she pondered. This place wasn’t a prison! That metal string cage she’d been trapped in, or that box – those were prisons. Not Jessica’s home!
He laughed even harder.
“But I can go anywhere I want!” she protested.
“Anywhere?”
He slapped his right paw against the clear wall. Bridget leaped back in surprise.
“Then come out here,” he demanded. “With me.”
Ever since she’d felt Jessica’s love, Bridget had never thought much about doing that. She’d dreamed about it, but never more than that. There was no need. She had everything she wanted right here! But now, with his taunting, it no longer seemed enough.
“Can you climb these trees?” he said. “Chase through the grass? Run down the butterflies? The birds? No, you can’t do any of that. You’re locked within that little house. Trapped. Never to feel the earth between your pads, the summer wind blowing warm across your spine.”
He rose, stretching his front legs, his back. With a pitiful shrug, he turned away, leaving Bridget feeling lost and hopeless as he sauntered across the porch’s old wood planks for the trees beyond. But at the splintery edge, just before he jumped away, the battle-hardened feline turned back. His eyes were as hot coals.
“And you call yourself a warrior,” he spat. “You’re nothing.”