Cats have a unique olfactory sense organ called the vomeronasal, or Jacobson’s organ. It’s located in the roof of the mouth and connects to the nasal cavity so by drawing air through his mouth, a cat is able to perceive trace scents such as food and pheromones. Some people propose the organ also works as a “sixth sense,” helping cats predict earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and other unusual phenomena.
As planned, Frannie and I went to her apartment, a nice older suite with a gorgeous view of downtown, the Willamette River, and Portland’s east side beyond. In the forties, the building was among the city’s tallest and considered one of the most prestigious addresses. It had been well-maintained throughout the years and updated lovingly, but amid the crop of twenty-first century high-rise condos, the brick and stone neo-Renaissance structure was an anachronism. Still, it was its unique obsolescence that made it affordable to people like Frannie DeSoto, a retired widow of somewhat limited means.
Frannie had no cats; the building didn’t allow it. That was one reason she volunteered at the shelter. She did have a pair of canaries that trilled with sweet abandon in their predatorless world.
We enjoyed a nice cup of tea—no poltergeists, just as she had pledged. I filled her in on the mystery of the rearranged DVDs, the talk with my mother, and the accusations I’d made toward my granddaughter. I felt bad about that now. The idea that she had broken in with the aid of the virile Vinnie had been ludicrous, and I realized on looking back that I had clung to it only because I despised the alternatives: One, someone had raided my home with malice aforethought (whatever that means); two, aliens had landed in my living room and perused my stuff to better understand humanity; or three, I really was losing my mind. That last option was seeming more likely all the time. A slip of memory was so much more conceivable than aliens, and far more comfortable than a break-in.
“It happens to the best of us,” Frannie assured me. “No need to make arrangements with the old folks’ home just yet.”
We both laughed though neither of us found it all that funny.
I didn’t stay at Frannie’s much past the tea. I was tired and wanted to get back to my cats. I drove quietly across the river without a thought in my head, pulled up in front of my house with a little prayer of thanks that the SUV from across the street hadn’t taken my parking place again, and got out, ready for a hot bath and bed. All I wanted out of life at that moment was to curl up with my kitties and nap and purr until morning.
* * *
'Twas not to be.
The first thing I noticed even before I made it up the front steps was the light in the bedroom. Suddenly I was wide awake, adrenaline pumping through my veins. I was instantly on alert. Had I been feline, my ears would have pricked up, my pupils dilated, and my mouth opened to let the clues in the air inform me through my vomeronasal organ. But I’m human, and my substandard instinct told me only to beware.
I paused, took a deep breath, and asked myself the burning question: Might I, just maybe, by pure accident or oversight, have left that light on myself?
The question was moot, because the next thing I noticed was my front door standing ajar. Just a crack, but that inch could have been a mile. There was no doubt in my mind the door had been closed—and locked—when I went to the shelter that morning. This time there could be no other explanation—my house had been violated.
I tiptoed up onto the porch and stood there for a while, trying to decide what to do. A little voice in my head that was my mother’s said, Don’t go into a crime scene—the perp may still be there ready to kill you for catching him in the act. It was probably sound advice since she was the reigning queen of mystery television. I thought about taking it but standing aside just wasn’t in my nature. This was my home, after all. I needed to see.
Gingerly, I pushed the door open. It was old and squeaked in protest. I told it to be quiet but to no avail.
The light was off in the hallway and I could see nothing but black-on-black shadows. I reached ever so slowly inside for the switch which was just to the right of the door jamb, found it, and flicked it on. It snapped to like a gunshot, making me jump in spite of knowing the sound well. The light from the old hanging fixture blazed. I blinked briefly and when my vision cleared, I reeled in horror.
If a hurricane had swept through that small and precise space, it couldn’t have done more damage than what was before me. Everything that could be moved, thrown, dumped, or broken, had been. Books were askew on the ground, coats cast down and trodden upon. There could no longer be any doubt that my place had been tossed. With a freak sense of relief, I found myself glad I wasn’t crazy. I’d abandoned the fantasy about aliens, so that left humans. Strange, bad, invasive humans who had no respect for other people’s things.
Suddenly my mouth dropped and an even worse fear hit me. The cats! What had become of the cats?
Throwing my mother’s telepathic warning to the four winds, I ran into the house, eyes wide, searching for any sign of them.
“Harry!” I called in desperation. “Little! Red! Fluffs! Solo! Violet??” How long had the door been open? Except for Dirty Harry who had his own cat flap, they were all indoor cats. Violet and Solo had never seen outside except through a window or the grill of their carrier; though Little and Red had been strays, that was a long, safe time ago. Plus, the break-in had to have been noisy and atypical, adding fear to the mix. They could be anywhere; they could be lost! I don’t think I’d ever felt so forlorn before in my life.
Then I had a flash that took my breath away: what if they were hurt? What if the burglars were abusive or in a hurry when a cat got in their way? “Oh, no!” I cried, snapping into action to find (whatever was left of) my cats.
I crunched through shards of vintage Fiestaware and the detritus of an irreplaceable antique clock without a second thought. I threw aside ripped canvases that had earlier in the day been lovely original paintings. Nothing mattered but my babies.
I found Addison, still in his kennel in the back room, hunkered underneath his bed. I took a brief moment to comfort him, tell him it was okay now the bad people were gone, and explain that I had to go look for the others but would be back as soon as I could.
I stumbled through the house. Everywhere was the same: my precious belongings had been run through a blender and no sign of the cats. Finally, after a second round, I sank into a chair—miraculously still upright—and put my head in my hands. It was time to start looking outside, to go door to door with pictures. If I still had any pictures! A huge sob broke free and for a while all I could do was cry.
Something touched my ankle and I jumped out of my skin. “Little!” I yelped, grabbing up the black female and clutching her tightly to my breast. She squirmed in discomfort and then settled down to tell me all about it. I wished I were better at cat communication. She had seen the whole thing happen. She could point the finger—or in her case, the claw—at whoever had done this horrible thing.
But that’s not how cats think. Though she had a lot to say, her recollection of the event revolved around her own fear and discomfort, not the particulars.
I felt over her soft, small body for any sign of assault but she seemed fine. Chances were the cats had hightailed it into hiding the moment the ruckus began, and that the burglar hadn’t cared a whit about them.
“One down,” I said as I carried Little to Addison’s room, the least chaotic in the house. “I’ll be back,” I told her, depositing her on the well-scratched easy chair. Before she could follow me, I closed her in and renewed my search for the rest.
It was a miracle, but in a matter of minutes, I had found the lot of them. Solo was in her hiding place under the sofa where she had probably been the whole time. In this case, I was thankful she was shy and knew how to care for herself. I left her where she was.
Violet had hidden behind a dresser in the bedroom. I heard her soft plaintive meow on my second sweep. She was safe but had gotten her big self stuck there. I helped her out and took her down to join Little and Addison.
Harry appeared out of the ether, acting as if nothing had happened. He went straight to his food bowl, which to his disgust, was upside down and empty.
When I was calmed enough to think, I knew right off where to find Red. And sure enough, he had skipped outside through the open door and run under the porch where he had lived as a stray before I took him in.
Fluffs had taken up refuge on the highest place she could reach, a tiny plate shelf in the kitchen, only a few inches from the thirteen-foot Victorian ceiling. I would have seen her before had I thought to look up.
Once I had them all, I collapsed on the floor by my purse where I had dropped it on the way in. I took a deep breath and called nine-one-one. After reporting the break-in, and knowing that it was going to be a long night, I did what any normal fifty-eight-year-old woman would do: I called my mother.