The Five Lives of Our Cat Zook (2 page)

That diamond isn't even the most important thing about him. Anyway, we found out it was fake. But we'd already started to love Zook by the time we absolutely found out for sure. Actually, I began to love him the second I met him.

The most important thing about Zook right now is that he's sick, and Fred and I are waiting around on the steps of the Good Samaritan Veterinary Clinic, where Zook's getting
help. The clinic has big windows in the front, and Freddy keeps jumping up to look in.

“There he is! I see him!” Fred shouts.

I push myself up from the stone stairs. I feel like a tired old lady, even though I'm only ten.

“Where?” I say. I don't see Zook anywhere.

It's Saturday, so the office is busy. A woman is answering the phone at the front desk, a man is bending over a filing cabinet, people and their pets are sitting around on couches, and a man with a stethoscope in his shirt pocket is scratching a slobbery golden retriever's ear while talking to its owner.

“There!” Fred says, and I realize he isn't talking about Zook. Fred's pointing to the stethoscope guy. “That's Zook's vet!”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. It was kind of a blur when my mom and Fred and me rushed Zook in that morning, but that's the guy.

Fred is looking at him like he's God or something. Just like a five-year-old, to think like that. Of course, it is sort of godlike to cure a living, breathing being. Then a really SCARY question pops into my head. Even though Zook's vet is probably a good person who loves animals with all his
heart, does that also mean he's good at his job? I mean really, really good?

We go inside and stand near the vet's elbow. He's explaining to the slobbery golden's owner that the dog's medicine has to be given three times a day for the first three days, then two times a day for the next three days, then once a day until all the pills are used up.

“I'm sorry. Can you repeat that one more time?” says the golden's owner, a man who looks just as smart as you or me, except for the fact that his sweater is on inside out.

The vet takes a breath, holds up the little bottle of pills, and explains again, in a fake-patient voice, about the three times a day for the first three days, etc., etc. Fake-patient voices are always easy to spot because of the slowed-down syllables.

“Hope I remember all that,” says the dog's owner.

I can hear unhappy yipping coming from behind the big closed doors past the front desk, and you can't miss Zook's famous yowling over it all: “EE-OW! EE-OWEY!” Yes, there's lots of stuff for the vet to do back there, like take care of Zook, for instance! And when we brought Zook into the Good Samaritan Veterinary Clinic, he didn't look
one-seventeenth as frisky and healthy as that slobbery golden, who is now happily licking Freddy's shoe.

That's when, all of a sudden, I notice two things. Two important things that make me open my mouth. My big mouth, as some people (OK, my mother) would say.

Gramma Dee says I have
chutzpah
, which is a Yiddish word for “nerve,” but I only have it when the situation is serious. Which this is.

The first important thing: The instructions are right there on the pill bottle. IN CAPS.

I think it's important to notice how words are written.
Italics
tell you to emphasize the words, or that the words are new or unusual, or that someone is thinking or writing or singing the words. Quotation marks tell you when someone is talking, or that the speaker is wriggling her fingers as she says a word in order to make that word “special.”

It's as if the words have feelings. They come alive!

CAPS are like neon signs, or shouts, and they're even more important than italics. You're REALLY supposed to pay attention to them.

“The instructions are right there on the pill bottle,” I say.

The man and Zook's vet both turn to look at me. Then the
dog owner looks down at the caps on the pill bottle. The vet taps his index finger on the bottle—or, more specifically, THE VERY LONG FINGERNAIL ON THE INDEX FINGER OF HIS RIGHT HAND.

You may have guessed that the second important detail I'm noticing is the very long fingernail. Actually, all five of the very long fingernails on his right hand, which could only mean that:

1. Zook's vet is a serious guitar player. And I know exactly what that means, because my friend Riya's uncle is one.

2. Zook's vet wishes he were home, practicing his guitar or playing with his band. Zook's vet and his band want to leave Oakland and go to L.A. to get famous. (That's what Riya's uncle wants to do with his band.)

3. Zook's vet is also thinking about the chords to a new song about his love. Many guitarists—Riya's uncle, for example—sing songs about their loves, haven't you noticed? Zook's vet is thinking about all the words that rhyme with “pretty,” like “city” and “witty” and lots of others. He's thinking that nothing rhymes with “beautiful,” and it's driving him crazy. Also, should the song be sad and slow, or happy and dancey?

In other words, he's worrying and thinking about all those things. And he's NOT worrying and thinking about ZOOK!

“Excuse me, young lady,” says the vet in his fake-patient voice. “Take a seat and I'll be with you as soon as I can.”

Freddy and I don't take a seat. I draw myself up tall. I try to put on a serious face, like my mother does when she's putting unkind people in their place. I say what she would say in this situation.

“I beg your pardon,” I say, even though I'm not really begging his pardon, and tears are showing up in my eyes, which wouldn't happen to my mother.

Freddy says, “We want to know about Zook, please!”

Fred is still looking all googly-eyed at the vet, like he's God. Fred actually looks at a lot of adults like that, especially father-figure types. But God would remember who Zook is. I can tell by the way the vet pauses and studies the ceiling, like something important is going on up there, that the vet doesn't have a CLUE. Of course, the vet's memory is poor today, after a late night out playing a gig with his band, showing off for his love with fancy guitar strumming.

Then I give the vet a clue. Lots of them.

“I'm Oona Armstrong, and this is my brother, Fred,” I say. “Don't you remember us? We just brought in our cat this
morning! Zook's the big old brown cat, with faded blue eyes, with a clipped ear, and the state of California on his belly. He has bad teeth and gums, but that's not the problem. He has a BB-gun pellet on his right flank, but that's not the problem, either. We brought him in this morning because the problem is—the problems ARE—he's stopped eating and he keeps staring into space, and when he isn't staring into space, he's hiding in dark places, or staring into his water bowl, too tired to drink.”

The golden retriever's owner gives a kind of salute to Zook's vet and leaves. And now Zook's vet really looks at us. I can tell he remembers our cat because of all the clues I gave him. I guess he feels sorry for us, too, because he takes us down a hall to a door with a window. We're both allowed a quick peek, and there's Zook, a sad brown blob in a cage, a tube hooked up to his paw, and a blue bandage keeping it in place.

“Zook's kidneys are failing, and he's very dehydrated,” the vet says. “We're giving him fluids intravenously so he'll feel better. We'll call you when we're done with the treatment. There's nothing you can do now except go home.”

I don't like being told there's nothing I can do. I don't like feeling that way, either.

The vet hands me his card, and his name is Howard Fiske, DVM. And there's that long fingernail again! I'm scared for Zook's failing kidneys, so the tears roll out of my eyes, and then a whole lot of really loud caps roll out of my mouth. “WELL, YOU GOTTA MAKE SURE THOSE KIDNEYS PASS, PLEASE!” I say. Loudly.

o now I'm thinking that wasn't very smart.

“You yelled at Zook's doctor,” Fred says on our way home. He's crying, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“I know, I know,” I say. “Hey, don't worry. Nothing's wrong. Zook will get fixed.” I feel shivery inside, and I'm crying, too. I'm not sure I believe what I just said.

The vet had patted me on the shoulder and said he understood. But, as I said, that vet isn't God. He's just a plain old human, who eats and sleeps and scratches an itch, like everyone else. A human who really doesn't like being yelled at, and who may not do his very, very best work when he sees Zook. Because when he sees Zook, he will think about Zook's owner with her big mouth and feel super annoyed.

We sit down on our special bus bench, even though we're not waiting for a bus. This particular bench is about halfway between the Good Samaritan Veterinary Clinic and our apartment building on Telegraph Avenue. It's a good place to stop and hang out if you're not in any particular hurry. Also, it's right across the street from a Bank of the West. If there happens to be a bank robbery, I am in the best position to notice important details to help the authorities. For instance, what the bad guys look like when they race outside, the license plate number of the getaway car, the exact time of the event, any witnesses, etc., etc. I'm a good noticer. Not that I've ever witnessed a robbery, but you never know.

I look over at Fred. I notice some important details. He's got that Sad Fred Look, all droopy-mouthed, and I know he'll be eating air again at the next meal. That's what my mom always says, that Fred eats air—boiled, fried, roasted, and grilled. In other words, his appetite isn't so hot. And we're always so scared that he'll go back to that time when he was REALLY wasting away, after our father died, two years ago.

Then I know what to do. It's one of my four jobs. Yes, believe it or not, I have four jobs.

One of my jobs is to crank up Fred's appetite. I reach into the pocket of my shorts and pull out a little plastic bag filled
with tiny crackers. Fred likes food that's shaped like cute things. These crackers are shaped like goldfish.

My second job is helping Fred improve his reading skills. I want him to be a STAR when he gets to kindergarten next year. That's what happened to me. Also, reading will take his mind off things and make him happier. And I'm happy when Fred is happy.

I pull out a pencil stub and a little pad from my pocket, handy just for this purpose. I get inspired and draw a really good rebus, if I do say so myself. Rebuses taught me to read and now they're teaching Fred. My dad, the Great Rebus-Maker himself, was the one who taught me.

“
Cats
,” reads Fred.

“You got it. Go on.”

“
H-h-h-a-a-ve
.”

“Great!”

“
Nine. Hives. Cats. Have. Nine. Hives.
They do?”

I point to the code
RW
above my drawing of the hives. “
Rhymes with
, remember? Make
hives
rhyme with something that starts with
L
.”

“
L-l-l-ives. Cats have nine lives.
”