Chapter 29.

The Cat was losing track of time. In his prison, nothing seemed to change. The glare from the lights over the plant tables flooded the cellar, overruling light from the windows. Rising from an uneasy doze, the Cat jumped onto a window sill and strained to peer through the vines. With his whiskers brushing the glass, he could blot out the reflection, but he could see only the vaguest suggestion of black shapes against black.

After a time, the Cat began to make out a gray scene: a stretch of shabby grass, tires, and the bushes beyond. This was the same scene he’d dashed across, once before. His muscles tensed to bound toward freedom, and he meowed, scraping a paw against the glass.

The grass outside brightened from gray to brownish green. One bird, then three, flew over the grass and hopped around in the bushes.

As the Cat kept watching, a calico cat walked into view, trailed by a line of kittens. The Cat felt a pang of envy. But he wouldn’t want a mother like this small, scrawny cat. His mother had been large and sleek.

The Cat wished his mother were here now, to lick his shoulder, which he couldn’t reach with his tongue. He could feel heat from the swelling.

Jumping down to the concrete floor, the Cat made the rounds of the cellar again. He ate a few more pieces of cat chow, pawing it out of the broken crockery. But he was more thirsty than hungry. He jumped onto the edge of the sink and licked the faucet. A little rusty-tasting water ran out.

Each time the Cat jumped, his shoulder hurt, and now he hesitated to jump down from the sink. Luckily, just in that moment a cricket crawled out of the drain. He pounced and crunched. That was something, although not much juicier than cat chow.

As the Cat began to groom himself, spitting out the scratchy cricket feelers, the door at the top of the stairs opened. He rushed for it, but the woman called Jordan shut the door behind her before he was halfway up the stairs. He hissed, whirled, and ran under the oil tank.

The young woman’s flip-flops slapped down the wooden stairs. “What’s this, you broke your dish?” She sighed heavily. “Fine. Well, here’s your breakfast, anyway.”

As she crossed the cellar toward him, the Cat slunk farther into the shadows beneath the oil tank. She set down a saucer of cat chow. He hissed, and he added a growl.

“Is that the thanks I get, Mr. Tux?” She picked up the watering can, filled it at the sink, and began watering each of the pots under the lights. She sang as she worked: “Hmm hmm hmm, row by row, gotta make my garden grow, hmm hmm hmm . . .”

But at the last row she stopped, set the watering can down, and put her hands on her hips. “What the fuck! Shit!” Over her shoulder she added, “Some bad, bad kitty messed up my seedlings. Do you know how much that’ll cost me? Cat chow doesn’t grow on trees.” Still muttering, she flip-flopped back up the stairs.

 

 

 

 

His head on my knee can heal my human hurts.

Gene Hill