Wild Cat (4 page)

Six

Hank has the Pet Helpline bookmarked, and it takes me only a few seconds to get there. Postings are going on live, so I jump in:

KoolKat: Sorry to interrupt, everybody. But this is an emergency.

Just like that, a response comes. In seconds, Winnie and I exit the helpline and enter a private chat room:

WinnieTheHorseGentler: Kat! How are you? Catman told us what happened. Your mom said you were okay—but bruised and scraped, right?

KoolKat: I’m fine. Tell Catman I’ll write him later. Sorry I left him hanging.

Catman: Chill, Kat. I’m here. All is groovy. So what’s the emergency, man?

KoolKat: Great. Okay. Here goes. Chestnut, one of the abused horses Hank rescued, needs Butazolodine. I volunteered to give it to him. I got the pills crushed and mixed with oats. But the pony won’t touch it.

Catman: Get my cousin on the case, dude. You shouldn’t have to do it.

KoolKat: I want to do it. Hank and Dakota are so busy with the new horses. This is the least I could do . . . and I can’t even do this.

WinnieTheHorseGentler: No problem, Kat. Molasses.

KoolKat: Molasses? That sticky stuff that looks like syrup?

WinnieTheHorseGentler: That’s the one. Mix it with the oats and bute. Chestnut will eat it.

KoolKat: Winnie, thanks! I knew you’d know what to do.

WinnieTheHorseGentler: Let me know how everything turns out.

KoolKat: Thanks, Winnie! Thanks, Catman! You’ll never know what this means to me.

It takes me a few minutes to find the jar of molasses behind the cereal boxes. My head is buzzing, so I know I’m overdoing it. But I can’t stop now. I race to the barn, holding the jar up in front of me like it’s the Olympic torch.

Dakota and Hank are still out in the pasture with the horses. Chestnut’s feed trough is just like I left it. It’s a wooden trough, long enough to hold a salt block and grain.

“You just wait, Chestnut,” I tell him. He sniffs the air while I dump in a glob of molasses. “You’re going to love this. Winnie promised.” There’s nothing to stir with, so I use my fingers and mix the powdery oats with the sticky molasses. “This feels pretty gross,” I admit, “but the smell’s not bad.”

When it’s all mixed, I stand over the trough and bow my head. My fingers are sticky and disgusting. “Father, Chestnut and I thank You for this delicious food before us. Please use it to make Chestnut well again. Amen.”

I look up at Chestnut. His ears rotate back, then forward. His nostrils twitch like a rabbit’s. “Come on, boy. You know you want it.”

He’s not going for it. The memory of the awful white powder must be too fresh in his mind. Hank told me once that horses put elephants to shame when it comes to good memories. An old mare could be frightened her whole life because of something that happened when she was a filly.

Chestnut hovers by the stall door, refusing to take a single step toward the trough. I have to wonder what’s happened to this poor pony to make him so cautious.

“Please trust me, Chestnut,” I whisper. I dig my hand into the sticky, gooey mixture and come up with a handful of gunk. Then I start singing: “‘Amazing grace . . .’” I keep it soft. I’m a pretty bad singer. With my arm out straight, I edge toward the stall door.

Chestnut watches as I stick my hand into the stall. My elbow aches, but I keep my arm stiff and my hand flat. Hank says it’s a bad habit to let a horse eat from your hand, but I see him do it all the time.

Chestnut’s ears twitch. Then he takes one step toward me.

“Good, Chestnut,” I coo. I’m done with “Amazing Grace,” so I make up a song. “Chestnut, the snub-nosed horsey—” he takes a step closer—“had a very shiny nose.” Chestnut stretches out his neck as far as he can. “And if you ever saw him—” his lips barely reach my fingertips—“you would ask for one of those.” His lips tickle my hand. “All of the other horseys . . .” He nuzzles the molasses mixture, getting most of it into his mouth, until all that’s left in my hand is a sticky mess.

“Way to go, Chestnut,” I whisper. I ease back to the trough and get another handful. We replay the hand-feeding scene. Then I take a third handful, but I don’t go to Chestnut this time. Instead, I stretch my hand over the feed trough and wait.

It takes about five minutes and two songs—“Chestnut galloping in an open field. Jack Frost nipping at his hooves . . .” and “O Chestnut tree, O Chestnut tree, how lovely are your brown eyes . . .”—but he comes around. Finally the pony munches straight from his feed trough.

When the last powdery oat is gone, I feel like I’ve invented ice cream or duct tape. I could list a dozen firsts, including the first time I’ve been on the doctoring end of giving meds.

I’m still glowing when I hear a
clip-clop
,
clip-clop
crossing the barn.

Dakota walks in, leading two of the abused geldings. “You still here? Everything okay?”

“Yep. I was just chatting with Chestnut.”

She grins. “Chestnut?”

“Like it?” I ask.

“Not bad,” she admits.

Hank rides in on the gray mare. “Did that pony get the bute down, Kat?” He dismounts and unbuckles the mare’s saddle.

“His name is Chestnut,” I explain. “And he downed every last bite of the medicine. But he didn’t at first. So I mixed it with molasses.”

“Good job,” Hank says. He pulls off the heavy Western saddle like it’s no heavier than a washcloth. “It’s a big help. Thanks.”

As I leave the barn, Hank’s words stay with me.
Good job. Thanks. Big help.

Maybe I’ll make a good Coolidge after all.

* * *

“Okay!” Dad shouts over the clang of silverware around the dinner table. Mom cooked a roast, and it’s taking a lot of work to cut it. “Where does a cat go when it loses its tail?”

Wes groans. Dakota looks like she’s trying not to smile.

I start to repeat Dad’s riddle question for him, but Mom beats me to it. “Chester, sweetheart, where
does
a cat go when it loses its tail?”

Dad sets his knife on his plate. “To the
retail
store! Get it? Re-
tail
?” He’s laughing so hard he can barely get the words out. “And what is the cat’s favorite color in the retail store?”

“I don’t know, my love,” Mom says, still laughing hard from the last joke.

“What’s the cat’s favorite color?” Dad repeats. “
Purrrrrrrr
-ple!”

“Funny,” Dakota says, not laughing.

Hank’s chuckling, but I’m pretty sure it’s got more to do with Mom and Dad than with the joke. They’re clinging to each other so they won’t fall out of their chairs.

Wes is the only one who’s managed to finish his meat, although I caught Lion, his three-legged Pomeranian, snatching a table scrap from him. Wes clears his throat. “All right.” He says this like we’ve all been begging him to say something and he’s only now given in. “What’s up when you hear ‘
meow
 . . .
splat
 . . .
woof
 . . .
splat
 . . .
meow
 . . .
splat
 . . .
arf
 . . .
splat
’?”

We’re all so shocked that Wes would tell a joke or riddle that nobody speaks. He stares from one person to the next. Wes telling a riddle? Now there’s a first for my list. I can’t wait to write Catman.

Hank comes to his senses first. “Um . . . okay. What’s going on when you hear, well,
that
?”

Wes is quiet for so long I’m afraid he doesn’t have a punch line. Then he says, “It’s raining cats and dogs.”

We howl. Mom and Dad fall into each other’s arms. Dakota’s eyes have tears, she’s laughing so hard.

And then it hits. The nausea. It’s like an ocean wave rolling over me while my back’s turned. I never saw it coming.

I bite my cheek and hope it passes. But I know better. Already the room wobbles. My head feels like it could float off my body.

I push my chair back and stand. The floor is an ocean, and I’m trying to stand on it. I grab the edge of the table to steady myself.

Hank’s watching me. The others are still lost in laughter. Hank whispers across the table, “Kat? Need help?”

I shake my head. The room shakes with it. My forehead breaks into a cold sweat.

I dash to the little bathroom off the kitchen. I’m steadier when I’m moving fast. I make it. Close the bathroom door behind me. Drop to my knees.

And hurl.

Vomit.

Puke.

We have a thousand names for it in my house. I’m never sure if it’s the cancer or the medicine or what both have done to my kidneys. But throwing up is as much a part of life around here as riddles.

“Everything okay?” Mom asks through the bathroom door. I’m guessing she’s been there all along.

I’m still sitting on the cool tile. “I’m okay.” I pull myself up and splash water on my face.

“That’s good. I’m sliding a pill, a Zofran, under the door. You holler if you need us or anything.” Mom’s voice is cheery. I love that she does her best to keep things normal. They all do. They try to keep everything as normal as it can be.

I take the pill. Then I check the mirror before walking back to the table. Strands of my wig are stuck to my forehead. My pupils are huge.

I open the door and step out. My head is light, but I think I’m done being sick. Maybe.

“Hey, Kat,” Hank calls. “I was just telling them about the pony. We’ll keep him on bute for a week.”

Dakota says, “I’m getting pretty close to that gray mare. Don’t suppose we could keep all eight of the new horses?”

“I hope you’re joking,” Mom says. “So, who wants dessert?”

“Mom?” As soon as I talk, they all get quiet. “Would you save my dessert for later? I think I’ll go upstairs and set out something to wear to church tomorrow.”

“Need any help?” Dad asks. He stands.

“No thanks.” I try to hurry to the stairs and out of sight. I know they’re all watching me, even though little conversations are springing up. I’m so tired that my bony legs feel like redwood trunks as I drag upstairs.

I walk into my bedroom and am greeted by Mustard and Kitten, who fight over me. I don’t think the Zofran’s helping my nausea.

Another wave of dizziness slaps me. I dash for the bathroom.

I barf.

Upchuck.

Kneel before the porcelain throne.

Make my white-bowl deposit.

And wish I didn’t have to be such a burden.

Seven

Sunday morning I don’t wake up until everybody has gone to church. Everybody except Dad. I hear him humming hymns in the kitchen. Poor Dad loves church, and he had to miss it so he could keep an eye on me.

I don’t feel like getting out of bed. I roll over and face my window, where a tiny breeze moves the cat curtains. I hear a cardinal. To me, they always sound like they’re saying, “Birdie, birdie.”

Then I see him, a bright red male on the tree limb outside my window. He’s close enough to touch if I were at the ledge. But the most amazing thing is that on the limb directly above the cardinal sits a bluebird. We don’t see many bluebirds, and this is the first time I’ve seen both birds at once. It feels like a gift.

I sit up in bed and try to remember Bible verses about animals. I know there are some great ones. I take my Bible off the bedside table and read a few. They’re easy to find because those pages are dog-eared. Psalm 104 is one of my favorites:
“The earth is full of your creatures. . . . You open your hand to feed them, and they are richly satisfied.”

I flip back to Deuteronomy 33:26:
“There is no one like the God of Israel. He rides across the heavens to help you, across the skies in majestic splendor.”

I try to imagine God galloping across the heavens to help me.

Galloping.

“Chestnut!” I slam the Bible shut and jump out of bed. I forgot all about the pony. It must be noon by now, and he won’t have been fed yet. He needs that medicine.

I pull jeans on over my nightgown and get downstairs just as Mom walks in with Dakota and Hank, followed by Wes.

Dad greets me, then runs to Mom and hugs her like she’s been gone a year instead of a morning.

“Kat, you’re up,” Mom says.

“Sorry I missed church.” I brush past them to get outside. But my shoes aren’t by the door. “Dakota, have you seen my shoes?”

“Nope,” she answers, heading for the fridge.

There must be two dozen shoes out here on the porch, and none of them are mine. “Where could they be? I know I put my sandals out here yesterday.” I toss shoe after shoe, searching.

“Why do you need shoes?” Dad asks.

“Yeah,” Mom agrees. “Where are you going?”

“To the barn to feed Chestnut.” Frustrated, I give up and slip on an old pair of Dakota’s boots. They’re a few sizes too big, but I don’t care.

“That’s okay,” Hank says. He takes a long swig of ice water as he stands over the sink, then refills his glass. “I fed Chestnut for you. I had to feed the others anyway.”

I stop at the screen door, my back to everybody. Hank fed Chestnut? “That was my job,” I mutter.

“What did you say?” Hank asks.

I don’t turn around, but I raise my voice. “It was
my
job to feed and bute Chestnut.”

“I’m sorry,” Hank says. I hear him coming over to me. “If I’d known you’d be . . . up . . . by now, I wouldn’t have fed the pony.”

“It only took him, like, two minutes, Kat,” Dakota says. “No big deal.”

I turn to face them and hope my smile looks less fake than it feels. “You’re right. Chestnut shouldn’t have to go hungry because I slept in. He’s supposed to get that medicine the same time every day. That’s the way it is with my meds. So, thanks, Hank.”

It’s all true. I make so much sense, I almost believe myself.

I excuse myself from Dad’s Sunday dinner and go back to bed.

The next time I wake up, it’s dark. Outside I hear the faint voices of my family and know it’s a moon check. On any given night, any one of us can call for a moon check, and the rest of us have to go along. We sit or lie down under the stars. Dad points out constellations and tells the stories that go with them. Hank’s almost as good as Dad at picking out planets and constellations. I call for more moon checks than anybody.

The screen slams downstairs. I hear footsteps coming up, then a tap on my door. Wes steps in with a bottle of water. “You awake, Kat?”

“I’m awake.” But for somebody who’s slept most of the last 48 hours, I don’t feel all that awake.

“Good. Annie said you need to drink.” He shoves the cold water bottle at me. “You missed old Mrs. Coolidge.”

“Gram was here?” I take a big drink. Maybe too big. “Wes, do you know if Hank fed Chestnut for me tonight?”

Wes shrugs. “Probably. I was out walking Rex and Lion, but I saw him go to the barn.”

“Well, will you ask Hank just to be sure? Make sure Chestnut got his second dose of bute.”

“Sure.”

“And tell him I’ll take care of the pony myself tomorrow. Before school.”

“You sure you’re ready for school?” Wes asks.

“I’m not missing the first day of junior high,” I insist. I motion for Wes to sit on the bed.

He sits on the rug instead. Rex immediately curls next to him and puts his big head in Wes’s lap. “Junior high.” Wes says it like he doesn’t approve. “Nobody has junior high anymore. Hasn’t Nice heard about middle schools?”

I shrug. Wes is going to be a freshman.

“You could stay home if you wanted to,” Wes says. “
I
sure would if Annie would let me.”

Wes had a rough time in school last year. I think Nice Junior High turned out to be a whole different world from the school he went to in Chicago. “Things will be better this year, Wes.
You’re
better. And you’ll know kids already.”

“Which will be such a bonus, since they all loved me so much last year.” Wes can’t match Dakota in the sarcasm department, but he’s got his share of it.

“Okay. Here’s what I do. When you walk into school alone, or into a classroom, imagine you’re holding God’s hand. So you’re not really alone, right?”

Wes laughs, almost. “You know you’re the only person who can get away with saying stuff like that, don’t you?”

“Has Dakota said anything to you about starting school here? She hasn’t said anything at all about it to me.”

“Me either.” Wes gets to his feet. “Except she hasn’t let up complaining about Hank being a junior and her being a sophomore when they’re the same age.”

They were both born on July 4, 16 years ago, in totally different worlds. “At least they’re in the same building. Hank can be there for backup.”

“When he’s not fending off girls who throw themselves at him,” Wes says.

“True.” I start to laugh. Only here it comes again, that wave. It hits my head and moves to my stomach.

I press my hand to my mouth and race to the bathroom, making it just in time. There’s not much in me, but it all comes out anyway. I heave until my sides ache.

When I walk out of the bathroom, Wes is standing there, studying his shoelaces. “Honking.”

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “What?”

“Honking. That’s what they call hurling in Scotland.”

“Good to know,” I say, making my way back to bed. “Don’t tell them I
honked
again, okay, Wes? I want them to enjoy the moon check without worrying about me.”

He nods. “See you in the morning.”

* * *

In the morning, I’m up by 5:10 on the cat clock. It’s a good thing, too. By the time I let out the cats and feed them, then go back upstairs and shower, then get dressed, I hear Mom and Dad having breakfast in the kitchen.

I check myself in the full-length mirror I stash in the corner of my room. I’m not crazy about mirrors, but I need to check out my first-day-of-school outfit. A couple of weeks ago, Gram Coolidge bought me a new shirt and cool tan capris for my first day. Now, sizing myself up in the full-length mirror, I can see that my new clothes are way too big on me.

I change into old jeans that still fit and a white shirt. Not exactly a fashion statement, but at least I don’t look like I’m playing dress-up. And the long sleeves hide my scraped elbows.

I’ve put on my blonde wig. It’s long and straight, but this morning it looks all wrong. I try the short red wig. Too Orphan Annie. I settle on the long black wig and work on the side part.

Before I go downstairs, I have to sit on the bed to catch my breath. I feel like I’ve already put in a full day.

Kitten weaves between my sandaled feet on every step as I walk downstairs. “Morning, Mom and Dad,” I call.

“Kat?” Mom walks to the bottom of the staircase and peers at me. “We thought we heard you getting dressed up there. You look wonderful.” She’s not as convincing as she probably thinks she is. “I did think you might do better starting later in the week, honey.”

Dad joins her. “Nothing much goes on the first day, right?”

My legs are wobbly, so I hurry around them and sit at the table. But the smell of eggs makes something rise in my throat.

“Hey!” Dad shouts, checking something in the oven. “Here’s a math question to get you ready for school. Ten cats were in a boat. One jumped overboard. How many were left in the boat?”

I’m afraid to answer. My head’s light. I press my lips together to keep everything in.

Mom picks up the slack. “Um . . . how many cats were left in the boat, dear? Wouldn’t it be nine?”

“Nope,” Dad says, not very heartily. He’s sneaking glances at me. “None. They were all copycats.”

I get up. “I’m going to the barn.” I run outside and honk so hard I think I’ll never stop.