The masked intruder is on top of me, but only for a moment. I whirl and let loose a flurry of swats and kicks.
A sudden sharp pain in my left ear causes me to fly into a frenzy. I scream, scratch, spit, snap. We tangle, rolling around in the garbage, banging into the metal walls. The raccoon has a thick pelt, but my claws are hooked knives, and they pierce through it. The animal yelps and pushes itself away. I slash its striped tail as it retreats. It yelps again.
A rapid chirping now comes from the wounded creature. It wanders around the Dumpster, its nose up in the air. It’s finished fighting. It’s looking for a way out. I’ve won. Huzzah!
Raccoons are excellent climbers, but they can’t jump. They’re too fat and squat. This raccoon let its nose lead it into a trap. It peeked into the Dumpster to see what was inside, and now it’s inside and can’t get out. Curiosity killed the raccoon? Heh.
Still, somehow I feel sorry for the beast. It’s small. I doubt it’s an adult. Still a child. Like Zeb, or Georgie. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to defeat. Maybe I should let it be. I’ve won the battle. I’ve had my snack. I have my battle scar. Time to move on.
I give the raccoon one last hiss, then spring easily to the Dumpster’s rim. I perch there a moment, smiling down at the marooned animal. I’m sure a human will hear its chirping and release it. In time. While it waits, it can think about the mistakes it’s made, including the damage it did to the ear of Hissy Fitz, Panther of the Night.
I jump onto the closed lid of the neighboring Dumpster, then to the fence that encloses the bunch of them. From there I scramble up the trunk of a tree to a branch, to the ledge of a building, to a low roof, to a taller one, and on like this, making my way across Downtown.
I stop sometimes to groom and tend to my wound. I must keep it clean. I’ve made too many trips to the animal hospital. I don’t like it there. It’s filled with whining, whimpering pets, all ill or injured. Some are birds and rodents, which is nerve-racking. With prey all around me, I’m locked in a tiny kennel. The vet prods and pokes me and even stabs me with a needle. Humans have odd ideas about healing. I prefer just to lick my wounds.
As I near the humans’ sports field, I hear familiar voices. Cat voices. I’d guess there are more than ten of them. I can make out three: Igloo, Sid, and Quiche. Why are they all together? And why here?
I can’t see what’s going on inside, as the field is surrounded by a wood-slat fence that begins and ends at a set of concrete bleachers, so I scale the fence and perch atop it.
What I find is surprising. Even shocking. And absolutely ridiculous.