Chapter 32.

The young woman had taken his food, but the Cat was not hungry, anyway. His tongue was dry. He wanted water, much more water than the tantalizing drops from the faucet. As much water as Jordan had poured into each plant pot.

Creeping across the cellar to the plant table, the Cat lifted his head to sniff. There was more water here somewhere . . . in the watering can, under a table. He put his forepaws on the plastic rim and leaned in. He could see the water, but he couldn’t lean down far enough to lap. He reached one paw down, then the other. They came up dry.

The Cat jumped to the top of the watering can, balancing on all four feet. Again he reached one paw down into the can. Ahh—this time, his pads met moisture, and moisture sank into the fur between his toes. Pulling the dripping paw up, he licked it dry. He dipped it in the water again and licked again.

It was a laborious way to drink, and he slid off the slippery plastic twice. But after his thirst was quenched, he felt more confident. He trotted back to the bottom of the stairs and searched out the last few pieces of cat chow, purring as he crunched. Praise to thee, Great Cat!

With fresh energy, the Cat jumped onto each window sill in turn, pressing his whiskers to the glass, and meowed for help. Climbing the steps to the bulkhead door, he pawed at the bolt. He tried to wedge his head into the crack of daylight between the metal and the concrete.

The Cat was getting angry. And every time he moved his left front leg, his shoulder hurt, which made him angrier. Had the woman Jordan seemed upset that he’d disturbed the plants on the table? All right, he’d disturb them some more.

Leaping onto a table, the Cat batted at one of the larger plants. He whacked the pointed leaves with one paw, then the other, whack-whack-whack, ignoring his swollen shoulder. Pulling a spray toward him, he tore off buds with his teeth. He attacked another plant, and another.

At first the Cat spit out the plant matter. But the more he bit, the more the taste intrigued him. Something about it reminded him of pizza, even though there was no cheese or (alas) sausage here. He nibbled buds thoughtfully, then rolled in the green wreckage he’d caused.

Now it must be time for a nap. Or at least a rest.

Stretching out among the pots, the Cat felt light and cheerful. He put one paw over his eyes to shield them from the glare. He didn’t mind waiting, not at all.

Outside the dirty cellar windows, the daylight faded. The Cat’s paws twitched; he dreamed he was leaping onto the Girl’s bed, his pads sinking into the cloudlike comforter. She wiggled her toes under the covers, and he pounced on them. Giggling, she moved her toes to poke the covers on the other side of the bed, and he pounced again.

The Girl grew sleepy and stopped playing. She had changed somehow—now she was a full-grown woman, and she smelled like coffee. The Cat plucked the top edge of the covers with one claw. Drowsily she lifted the edge. He crawled under, purring.

 

 

 

 

Who touches a hair of yon gray head

Dies like a dog.

John Greenleaf Whittier, “Barbara Fritchie”