Wild Cat (9 page)

Sixteen

I spend the rest of the weekend getting to know Princess. She’s a sweet cat and loves to sit on my lap. The minute I set her down, she goes to sleep at my feet. In my room she curls up on my cat rug and sleeps all night.

During the day, I watch her inside and outside. She seems fearless. Or unimpressed. Lion yaps at her, and she doesn’t even blink. No matter what Mustard and Ketchup do, Princess has no interest. She doesn’t even wake up when Rex and Wes storm in for lunch.

Fiona’s right about one thing. This cat is very, very strange.

Sunday afternoon it rains, so Dad declares family movie time, and everyone settles in by the TV. Dakota and I are on the couch with Mom. I’ve got Kitten in my lap, and Princess has curled up in Dakota’s, surprising both of us.

Dad stands in front of the TV, his chosen DVD behind his back. “Ready? Ta-da!” He whips out his favorite movie,
Old Yeller
.

“Not again, Dad,” Hank pleads.

“Didn’t we just watch this the last time it rained?” Dakota asks.

“No,” Mom corrects, “we watched it the last time it snowed. But Wes didn’t watch it with us then.”

Wes gets off the floor and checks out the DVD cover. “Man, this is an oldie. Did you guys see the date on this?”

“It’s a classic, Wes,” Dad says.

“Yeah? Well, not where I come from. I’ve never heard of it.”

Dad’s eyes get big. “Are you telling me you’ve never seen
Old Yeller
? Never ever?”

“So?” Wes challenges.

Rex lets out a little whine to warn Wes he’s getting close to anger.

“So, my fortunate, doubly blessed Wes,” Dad exclaims, “you are in for the treat of your life!”

Wes shakes his head. “Thanks. I think I’ll pass. Again.”

“There are dogs in it, Wes,” I say. I want us all to do this together. Rain pounds the roof. Wind rattles the windows. It’s a perfect day for a family movie.

“I don’t know, Kat,” Dakota says. “Wes would probably cry.”

“Yeah, right,” Wes says.

“Bet you tonight’s chores you can’t make it through the whole movie without tears,” Hank says.

“Are you kidding? You’re on.” Wes and Rex scoot back on the floor so Wes can lean against the couch. Hank takes the other side, and Dad sits at Mom’s feet, even though there’s a recliner empty at the other end of the couch.

When the movie’s over, Hank’s won his bet easily, although Wes claimed he had something in his eye that made him tear up like that. He can’t get outside fast enough. “I’ll grain your horses anyway,” he calls back.

Hank jogs out after him. “I’ll do the pony, Wes. Besides, I want to see Starlight, and she’ll want to see me.”

Hank always says that, even though his horse can’t see.

His horse can’t see. Can’t see . . .

Something’s stirring in my brain. What if . . . ?

“Kat?” Dakota whispers. “I need to get up, but I don’t want to disturb this cat. I can’t believe she sat on my lap the whole movie.”

“Wait,” I whisper back. I slide to the floor in front of Dakota and Princess. I’m kneeling, facing them, inches from Princess’s face. “Now jiggle.”

“Excuse me?”

“Jiggle Princess awake.”

Dakota moves her knees up and down, jiggles her legs, and jostles Princess until she opens her eyes. The cat shows no surprise seeing me in front of her. “Now what?” Dakota asks.

I raise my hands, making cat claws in front of Princess.

“What are you trying to do? Scare the poor thing?” Dakota asks.

“Something like that,” I answer. I back up a foot. “Go ahead and set her down.”

Dakota sets Princess on the carpet. The cat stretches, then starts to walk away. I move in directly behind her and clap my hands. “Scat!” I yell.

“Kat!” Dakota shouts.

Again I clap and yell inches from Princess’s tail. “Shoo! Scat!”

The cat stops and stretches again.

“Want to tell me what’s wrong with you?” Dakota asks.

I sigh. Tears push at the backs of my eyes. I turn to Dakota. “Nothing’s wrong with
me
.” I lie down beside Princess and stroke her long fur. She can’t purr because she’s never learned how. She’s never
heard
purring. She’s never even
seen
another cat. “Dakota, this cat is blind and deaf.”

* * *

That night I e-mail Catman about Princess. I’m pretty sure I’m right about this cat, but I want to hear it from the Catman himself. Even though he can’t study Princess in person, I know he’ll be able to help me. I tell him everything I know about the cat, including what Fiona said about other families returning the cat to the pet store because they thought she was dumb.

I keep checking my e-mail until I get an answer an hour later:

Hey, Kat!

Sorry I wasn’t here. I needed some follow-up footage of a Persian cat in Polk, Ohio. Far out, man!

Anyway. To cat business. Way to nail this one, Kat! You’re right on, man. Your Princess cat’s seeing no evil and hearing no evil.

You said Princess has long white hair, right? No dark fur anywhere? There’s your proof. Like half of all totally white cats are totally deaf. It’s a genetics thing, man. Like calico cats being chicks. (Okay, officially one in 3,000 calicos could be a guy.) Bet Princess has blue eyes too. Go figure, the gold or green-eyed cats have a better shot at hearing.

Come back at me if you’re online.

The Catman

As soon as I see Catman’s message, I start typing:

Thanks! Sad to know, but good to understand this cat. Poor thing’s been bounced around like a tennis ball. At least now we know why she’s so weird.

I’ve got another problem, Catman. For the cat clinic I told you about yesterday (and thanks for the vote of confidence), I’m supposed to teach this blind and deaf cat something, like a trick. Any ideas what I could teach a blind and deaf cat to do . . . in just a week?

Freaking out,

Kat

Catman’s answer comes back in seconds:

Teach Princess how to use the john.

Seventeen

Monday morning Fiona grabs me in the hall and drags me into Ms. Buffenmyer’s classroom before school starts. “Good. You’re early for once. We have six clients signed up already, and I haven’t even made the problem-cat announcement yet.”

“Wow! That’s great, Fiona.”

“I guess.” She doesn’t sound enthused. “It’s just that I’m hearing about these other do-gooder projects, like starting a soup kitchen—”

“Somebody’s starting a soup kitchen? That’s amazing.”

“Right. And we’re training cats. I’m starting to think we blew it, going with this cat thing.”

I’m catching her disappointment like it’s the flu. “So what do we do?”

“It’s too late to change now.”

Fiona and I plop into the same seats we had Friday. I was sick around five this morning, but I’m pretty good now. And I’m
not
going to miss school, not this week anyway.

She sighs. “We’re stuck with cats. Some social project. We’ll probably get a lousy grade. We’re not helping
people
. Just their stupid cats. I should have stuck with pizza. At least that would end up getting money for the poor. We won’t make a dime on this project.”

I can’t believe how fast she switched from loving the idea to hating it. She’s probably right, though. We’re supposed to help people. I lean back in my chair and wonder why I ever thought I could help people or cats.

“Anyway,” Fiona continues, “we’re stuck. We’ll have to make the best of it. Alex is bringing his cat to my house after school. And Cassie wants to bring hers today too.”

“I didn’t know Cassie had a cat.”

Fiona shrugs. “Me either. She probably bought one so she wouldn’t be left out. Before I knew what a waste this cat thing was going to be, I told her about the big finale at my house Saturday.” Fiona glances around the room until she sees someone and waves. She gets up. “I’m going to go sit with Cassie and Brett. If we don’t bump into each other before school’s out, be in the loading zone, okay? My mom will pick us up.”

I don’t get a chance to talk to Fiona the rest of the day, although several kids tell me they’re signed up for “cat therapy.” Fiona’s lunch table is filled when I walk into the lunchroom. And anyway, the second I step into the cafeteria, I lose my appetite.

* * *

After school, we meet up in the loading zone. Her mom is first in line, but I wait until Fiona comes out. I’ve met Mrs. Morris before, but I don’t think she recognizes me.

We get in, and her mother introduces herself. “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of you this week.”

“It’s nice of you to let us do this at your house, Mrs. Morris,” I say, still hunting for my seat belt. “Thanks.”

“It’s nothing, dear. I’m sure your mother wants you to get an A as much as I want Fiona to. It may seem like college is a long way off to you girls, but it’s right around the corner.”

“Brett’s coming over later,” Fiona tells her mother.

“Does he have a cat?” I ask.

Fiona laughs. “Brett? A cat? He’s trying to get rid of his little brother. I can’t imagine him with a pet. He’s coming to hang out with me.” She checks her notebook. “Alex will probably get there before we do. He’s walking. Then you’ve got Matt, who’s been trying since fifth grade to get me to go out with him. And Cassie.”

I thought I might have one or two cats to see. Not three. I’ve been praying for a second burst of energy—and a third and a fourth—since noon. Plus, I want to get back for another toilet-training session with Princess. I’m not mentioning that to Fiona. It will be a surprise if it works. And I won’t have to let her down if it doesn’t.

Fiona flips down the car visor and puts on pink lip gloss. “Watch the bumps, will you, Mother?”

“Sorry,” Mrs. Morris replies.

Fiona’s house is one of the newer homes in Nice—white brick, sprawled over two lots. I’ve been by it dozens of times. It’s right up the street from Nice Elementary. Fancy-shaped evergreens don’t quite hide it from the road.

“Your house is so nice,” I say. “I mean, beautiful.” When you live in Nice, you try not to use the word
nice
, even when it fits.

“Thank you, Katrina.” Mrs. Morris says my name wrong. I wait for Fiona to correct her, but she doesn’t. “The house is a mess right now. We’re rebuilding the pool. Workmen track in day and night. But you and the cats should be safe and private on the east porch. Isn’t that what you were thinking, Fiona?”

Fiona is already out of the car and halfway up the long drive. “This way, Kat!” she calls without turning around.

Fiona’s sister, Arianna, is watching what looks like a soap opera when we walk in. She doesn’t turn around.

“Arianna, you know Katrina, don’t you?” Mrs. Morris says.

“It’s Katharine,” I tell Mrs. Morris. “You can call me Kat if you want. Hey, Arianna. How’s sixth grade? Do you have Mrs. Albertson?”

“Hey,” she calls without taking her gaze from the TV, where a man and a woman are arguing.

I wait a few seconds, but she doesn’t answer the school questions. And she doesn’t ask about her cat, Princess.

“Kat?” Fiona calls.

I follow the sound of Fiona’s voice and find her in a sunny porch off a room that looks like a library. “This is perfect.” I step down onto tiled floor. The room forms a circle with windows all the way around. Outside, workmen are painting an empty pool. The doorbell rings, and chimes echo through the house—some classical song I should probably know.

“That’s Brett,” Fiona announces. She starts for the door, then turns back. “I’ll send the cat people to you when they come, okay?” She tosses the notebook with the names of the cats and their owners in my direction.

I grab it and nod. I’d give just about anything to have Catman here with me. Again I picture the image in that psalm, the kid holding Dad’s hand. Only I picture me holding God’s hand. And I’m holding a cat. It helps.

Seconds later, Alex walks in with a big, fat tabby cat. “Man, you could get lost in this house.”

“Hey, Alex. And this must be Bozo.”

I sit in the chair closest to the couch, and Alex takes the couch. The tabby hangs over his arm like a towel. “So this is cat therapy,” he says, glancing around the porch. “I feel like I should lie down on the couch and tell you all my troubles, doc.” He fakes lying back. We both laugh.

“Why on earth did you name this sweet cat Bozo?” I ask, scratching the tabby behind the ears.

“Pretty bad, huh? I mean, how smart is anybody going to be if he starts out life as Bozo, right?”

I shrug because I agree with him.

“My dad’s crazy about that old clown Bozo who used to be on TV. I’m just lucky they didn’t name
me
after that clown.”

Neither of us says anything for a minute.

Then Alex says, “Oh yeah. I almost forgot. Your magic’s working already.”

“No magic here,” I interrupt. “I just watch cats.”

“I know. I’m just kidding. But what you said about Bozo puking? We stopped giving him milk and eggs, although I think Dad still sneaks him scraps when we’re not looking. Anyway, the cat stopped puking. Or should I say doing the technicolor yawn?”

“That’s great, Alex.” We smile kind of lamely at each other. “Thanks again for helping me out in English.”

“Anytime,” he says. “I mean, not that you’ll do that again anytime. Not that you couldn’t if you wanted to. I mean, needed to.”

I think Alex is having as much trouble talking to me as I am to him. I wish Fiona were here to help keep the conversation rolling.

Bozo is still hanging over Alex’s arm.

“Um . . . what’s the biggest problem you need help with?” I ask. “For Bozo, that is. Is it the licking? Didn’t you say your cat licks you guys and it creeps you out?”

Alex grins, showing straight, white teeth that make me want to hide my not-so-straight, not-so-white teeth. “Everybody’s okay with the licking thing since I convinced them it was Bozo’s way of kissing. Dad claims Bozo likes him best because he’s the most licked.”

“That’s good, then.”

“Yeah. But Bozo’s still scratching furniture. He loves Mom’s best chair. And her great-grandmother’s tea table. We’ve got to get Bozo to stop scratching.”

Scratching furniture was one of the first problems I had to learn to handle when I started rescuing cats. “I think I can help Bozo with that one.”

“Cool.” He hands over the cat. “Be my guest.”

I take Bozo from Alex. “You are one big boy,” I mutter.

“Thank you,” Alex says. He laughs. “Seriously, Kat, why does Bozo scratch Mom’s furniture?”

“Cats have sweat glands between their paw pads.” I hold up Bozo’s paw and show him. “Scratching lets him leave his scent around. So he’s saying, ‘This couch? That’s mine. This expensive table? Mine. This guy named Alex? Mine.’”

He laughs again. “You’re right. He scratches us, too. Mom thinks if we’re going to keep Bozo, we should declaw him.”

I shake my head. “Terrible idea. Cats need their claws. It’s their best defense.”

“Yeah, but we don’t let him outside. Even Mom knows that wouldn’t be fair, sending him into the world without his weapons.”

“Even inside, Bozo
thinks
he needs those claws. If he doesn’t have that clawing defense, he’ll probably start biting.”

“Not good,” Alex admits.

“Declawing cats is illegal in England because it’s so cruel,” I explain.

“So how do we teach him not to scratch?” Alex asks.

“We don’t. Cats
have
to scratch. It’s their nature. What we can do, though, is teach Bozo
what
to scratch.”

For the rest of the time, I give Alex ideas on how to get Bozo not to scratch the furniture. “I wish we were at my house so you could see some of the things Dad and I have rigged up for our cats. Dad made a scratching post by covering a box with carpet. Ketchup, one of our rescues, loves that thing. Mustard, on the other hand, prefers this log we set up. It’s just a regular log, but that cat spends hours scratching at it.”

Alex actually writes down my other tips: Dangle toys from the scratching post. Smear the post in catnip. Put the scratching post near the furniture Bozo likes to scratch but drop treats near the post to make it more tempting.

“You can put balloons on furniture you want Bozo to leave alone. It usually takes only one big pop to make a cat leave something alone forever. But you have to stay close by so you can get rid of the popped balloon before he tries to chew it.”

“You guys done?” Fiona asks. She and Brett are standing in the doorway of the porch, Brett’s arm around her waist. “Because, as they say in the cat shrink business, ‘I’m sorry, but your time is up.’”

“I can’t believe how fast that hour went,” Alex says.

I stand and walk him to the door. “I hope it helped.”

Fiona takes over. “And even if it didn’t, please say it did.” She hands him a sheet of paper. “Here’s an evaluation form. Give it back to me when you’re done. It’s part of our project. I know this is a stupid project, Alex, but it’s all we’ve got.”

“Stupid?” Alex glances at me. “I thought it was—”

“Whatever,” Fiona says. “Just fill out that evaluation. And try to say something good about how helpful this was. Blah, blah, blah.” She’s still giving him instructions as they disappear down the hall.

Within minutes, Fiona brings Matt back. He’s carting a tiny black cat that looks like she couldn’t give anybody problems. When Fiona leaves with Brett, Matt stares after her so long that I have to call him back to earth. This is definitely going to be tougher than the Alex and Bozo act.