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Mrs. Clark knew better than to call Sir Schnortle’s name.
Wash his clean, empty food bowl, and the cat would materialize out of thin air expecting to be fed. Warm leftovers in the microwave, and she’d trip over him even though he’d been sleeping on Angus’s bed the last time she’d checked. Open the pantry, and there he’d be, sitting on the bottom shelf. Crinkle a potato-chip bag, and those amber cat eyes would follow her accusingly. The only sure way to prevent his sudden appearance when food was present was to call his name. Utter those foul syllables, and Sir Schnortle would vanish for the day.
When he was a kitten, Mrs. Clark had bragged about her brilliant feline. He walked on a leash, fetched ping pong balls, followed at her heels, and assumed the copilot position when Mrs. Clark made grocery runs. As a wee cat, Sir Schnortle had always come when called. Mrs. Clark’s friends marveled about the obedience of “that little orange puffball”, and both Mrs. Clark and Sir Schnortle basked in the praise.
Then one day, Sir Schnortle eagerly ran toward that most wonderful sound, the beautiful melody of flapping butterfly wings that was his mistress’s voice. He came when Mrs. Clark called, she snuggled and petted him, put him on his leash, buckled him into his car seat, and proceeded to drive him to his worst nightmare.
Later that day, he woke from the deep nothingness of an anesthesia nap to find that there was a bit less of him around the midsection. When he realized that the drowsy ache in his male parts contradicted the fact that those same parts had been excised, his sense of betrayal was extreme. He joined his confused and mortified hollowing to that of his desperate brethren who had also woken to this ugly truth. Mrs. Clark brought him home soon afterward, and although he never could prove it, he was convinced she was in some part responsible for this awful indignity to his manhood.
He still felt a certain affection for her, but no greater a quantity than one must for that human who fills one’s food bowl each day and provides a lap calibrated precisely to 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. But no longer did he trust her. Neither did he respect her authority. Never again did Sir Schnortle consent to wear a disgraceful rope around his neck. He refused to acknowledge Mrs. Clark when she tossed a ball in his direction. The car became a fearful conveyance, and above all, he decided, he would respond to his name nevermore.
This morning Sir Schnortle had an appointment with Dr. Shouyi. Mrs. Clark’s anxiety about catching the large cat who didn’t want to be found, prying him into his carrier, and listening to him shriek the entire way to the veterinarian’s office had motivated her to wake earlier than usual. Actually, she’d kept waking throughout the night worrying about the morning, so at some point she decided she might as well climb out of bed and begin her day. Before the alarm clocks of Angus or Mr. Clark had erupted, at 6:45 and 7:00 respectively, Mrs. Clark had sorted and run three loads of laundry, baked a loaf of bread, alphabetized the spice cabinet, and completed an upholstery project she’d started before the previous year’s Thanksgiving.
She’d gotten her husband and son out the door and on their way, and now it was time to do the same with the cat. Mrs. Clark had positioned her purse, car keys, and cell phone beside the door so as not to forget them. Her notebook with matching pen rested atop her sensible shoes: Dr. Shouyi explained procedures and animal ailments thoroughly, and Mrs. Clark liked to take notes so she wouldn’t forget anything. She had packaged up an exemplar of fresh feline excrement—it must be less than twelve hours old for best results—in a tiny half-size yogurt container she kept for this very purpose. “Worst yogurt ever,” Angus liked to joke. A plush hand towel cushioned the bottom of the cardboard cat carrier to provide her beloved cat with a comfortable resting spot.
Morning was generally the simplest time to find Sir Schnortle. Well-rested after his eleven hours of nighttime sleep, not yet tired enough to curl up for his eleven hours of daytime naps, and newly fortified from his breakfast ration of diet cat kibble, Sir Schnortle could usually be found batting around one of Angus’s foam bullets, a stray popcorn kernel, or whatever detritus he found on Mrs. Clark’s not-quite-immaculate floor. This morning, however, the cat was out of sight.
“Did you start your nap early today, my sweet boo-boo?” said Mrs. Clark in the sing-song voice that was as irresistible to cats as it was annoying to sons.
She began her search: The sofa was upended, kitchen cupboards were inspected, all doors were opened, and closet shelves were poked and prodded. Sir Schnortle wasn’t beneath her bed, snoozing in the shower, basking on the computer keyboard, or sprawling across Mr. Clark’s desk. He wasn’t sitting in the kitchen sink, climbing on the curtains, or locked in the laundry room. In short, the cat whose appointment was exactly thirty minutes from this very second was nowhere to be found.
Desperate to keep her appointment—no shows and day-of cancellations were charged a $50 nuisance fee—Mrs. Clark grabbed a can of tuna from her pantry and quickly opened it. The sound of the opener piercing the metal lid, the clink as the lid was released, and the wet thunk of the processed fish landing in a bowl was her failsafe method to find Sir Schnortle. But when mixing in mayonnaise—at least she wouldn’t have to make lunch—failed to produce the reluctant patient, Mrs. Clark had no other choice.
“Sir Schnooooortle! Come, pretty boy! Where are yoooou, Sir Schnooooortle!” she called.
A loud meow came from the vicinity of Angus’s bedroom. Mrs. Clark ran to the stairs, banging her knee on the banister as she sped around the corner. She took the steps two at a time, and then stopped before entering the bedroom, took a deep breath, and glided nonchalantly into the room. No need to spook the cat.
Sir Schnortle was surrounded by a pile of books that had somehow fallen from Angus’s bookshelves. Mrs. Clark hadn’t heard them hit the floor, but how else could they have gotten there? She walked slowly to Sir Schnortle who watched her progress with unblinking eyes.
“There’s a good boy.” She stroked his head gently. He tilted it back to reveal his neck. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” He purred in response. She rotated her hand to press down between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the floor. Then, she rapidly scooped him into her arms, being careful to support his bottom the entire time. He let out an annoyed “mwowr” and struggled to escape her grasp. She pulled him more tightly to her chest cooing soothingly.
As she headed back down the stairs holding the irritated cat, she realized that no one section of the bookcase was empty: The books appeared to have fallen from multiple areas of the bookcase. She arrived at the door and recalled that all the books had been about famous inventors, scientists, and computer programming. And as she began putting Sir Schnortle in his carrier, the insane thought passed through her head: It had almost looked like the cat had been reading.
Mrs. Clark shook off the thought and fastened the top of the cardboard box. She should spend the money on a new plastic one at the pet store. She’d had this cardboard one since she’d adopted Sir Schnortle at the cat shelter. The handles had been fortified and refortified with blue painter’s tape.
The cat situated in his carrier, Mrs. Clark draped her purse over her right shoulder and bent to retrieve her notebook, pen, and mini-yogurt receptacle with her left hand. Sir Schnortle had weighed a hefty eighteen pounds at his last checkup, and that would be dead weight in the carrier. She hoped his diet food had worked and took a deep breath before reaching down to haul her fat feline to the car.
And that’s when it happened.
With an otherworldly howl, Sir Schnortle’s head rammed through the top of the flimsy cardboard box. Still balancing the notebook, pen, and yogurt container in her left hand, Mrs. Clark grabbed the straining cat head with her right hand and shoved it back into the disintegrating box. A shoulder liberated itself, and a paw with extended claws raked the blue-taped handle off the top of the carrier.
Mrs. Clark dropped to one knee and pushed her left elbow against the cat’s shoulder, pushing it and the claws back into the box. The head appeared again, eyes wide with horror or hostility, possibly both. Mrs. Clark, still grasping the notebook, pen, and yogurt container, leaned her torso against the cat head, forcing it back into the box along with its paws, legs, shoulders, and tail.
Bent sideways and leaning against the top of the carrier, Mrs. Clark push-limped the broken box across the kitchen floor. She approached the kitchen counter where the family stapler rested alongside a cup of pens, some sticky notes, and an empty tape dispenser. With her left hand still holding the notebook, pen, and yogurt container, Mrs. Clark was barely able to knock the stapler to the floor with her right foot. Sir Schnortle yowled as Mrs. Clark stapled the remains of the cardboard cat carrier back together. Only when she had exhausted every staple in her arsenal did she release her iron hold on the cardboard box. The box jumped and wailed, but it did not fall apart.
Mrs. Clark took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from her brow, and promptly dropped the contents of her left hand. The lid of the mini-yogurt container popped off as it hit the floor.
The cat was now confined, but his poop was on the loose.
“Dude! What are you doing?” Billy struggled to get free from Angus’s mortifying embrace. “Dude—the girls are looking!”
“Sorry,” muttered Angus. He released Billy and nodded at the girls clustered across the hall from his locker. He ran his hand through his hair in what he hoped was a smooth move. The giggling and whispering that followed demonstrated quite clearly that it was not. He shrugged and turned back to Billy.
“What was that all about?” asked Billy.
“You’re just ... you know ... you!”
“Ummm, yeah.”
“It’s just ... it’s so good to see you ... both eyes, no wheelbarrow ... just you. It’s good.”
Billy raised his eyebrows. “Dude, what was in your cornflakes this morning? You’re acting really weird. I mean, weirder than usual. And that’s pretty freaking weird.”
“Yeah, my life’s been weird lately. Like, you’ve got no idea. Zero.”
“Well, I do have an idea. We all do.” Billy waved his arms wide to indicate the entire school. “You were big into that pirate thing and got suspended. Man, was your mom mad. And then, you were all about hunting and wearing fur. That was a little weird, but it was fun, too. You made me that cool cap out of squirrel furs. Really freaked out Ivy.” Billy laughed.
“BP got me suspended? Jerk!”
“Hmm? What’s that?” asked Billy.
“Get to class, guys! The bell’s about to ring,” called Ivy as she ran past.
“Mind your own business,” Billy said. “Always telling us what to do.”
“I don’t know, she’s not that bad.”
Billy stared at him. “Seriously? She’s not that bad? You’re right. Your life is weird lately. Forget the cornflakes—did you fall and hit your head this morning?”
“Dude. I’ve got a story to tell you. And it’s going to sound totally crazy. But it’s not. And I can totally prove it happened.”
The bell for class change rang.
“In science, okay? We can be lab partners.” Angus ran to his math class while Billy headed in the other direction.