Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Wife and the Weapon

I couldn’t be sure Finn had the strength to keep up with the dog, so I took the leash as we got out of the car. Once we reached the back door, I disabled the security system.

Taking a deep breath first, I led the way inside. Or should I say I led briefly before Yoshi raced into the house, his leash nearly slipping from my hand.

We were greeted by a trio of loud hisses.

I wrapped the leash around one hand, shortening it considerably, and flipped the utility room light on with my free hand.

Syrah and Merlot, their fur standing on end and their backs arched, guarded the entrance to the kitchen. Chablis was nowhere in sight. Wispy cat hairs drifted around us—a result of all three cats’ agitation at this invasion by, of all things, a dog .

Finn stood so close behind me his head was next to my ear. He said, “What cool cats.”

“They’re not always this, um, fluffy ,” I said. “Can you handle Yoshi? Because I get the feeling that though your dog is small, he could pull me to the floor.”

“Yoshi, down,” Finn said loud enough that I nearly jumped.

The dog obeyed instantly, but he didn’t take his eyes off my cats. And they didn’t take their eyes off Yoshi.

“Do you think he’ll stay put for a few minutes? Or maybe we could attach his leash to—”

“He’ll stay until I release him. We did obedience class and he took the prize for best student.” I turned and saw Finn smile again, with pride this time.

“I have to say, though there may be an obedience class for cats, mine have never attended. They do what they want to, when they want to. Pretty typical behavior, I’m afraid.” I unwound the leash and handed it to Finn.

“You apologizing for your cats being cats?” Finn said with a laugh.

I grinned. “Shouldn’t do that. You’re right.”

“The big one is almost Yoshi’s size,” Finn said. “What’s its name?”

“He’s Merlot and the other one is Syrah. Syrah is my protector, just like Yoshi is yours.”

“Funny names,” Finn said. “French or something?”

“I’ll explain later. Right now, I have three cats to tame,” I said.

Syrah would be the biggest challenge. I could tell from his laid-back ears and the wide-mouthed hisses that just kept coming, he was very unhappy with what the humans had dragged in.

“Maybe it’s the concussion, but I only see two cats,” Finn said.

“The other one is hiding. She does that. If you’re sure Yoshi will stay, we can go into the kitchen.”

“He’ll stay. He likes cats, by the way. We have a few in the apartment complex and he…” Finn’s voice trailed off as if sadness had taken hold. Leaving home is never easy, even if home is a miserable place.

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten in ages.”

“You got that right.” After Finn ordered Yoshi to stay one more time, using a hand signal with the command, he took a spot at the breakfast bar.

I filled a bowl with water and set it near the dog. He hadn’t been offered a drop since we’d first met. Finn said, “Take it,” and Yoshi lapped water like he’d been left in the desert. As soon as he was finished, Finn repeated his command to stay.

I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and gave Finn a bag of potato chips and a glass of milk. After he downed the milk in several long swigs, I set the remaining half gallon next to him. While I knelt and petted my two boy cats, I heard about Finn’s hitchhiking trip to find Tom. He did not, however, mention his mother or his stepfather. I wasn’t about to tell him that the man he might have once called Dad was dead. His journey to this point had been difficult enough.

When he was done telling me about the truckers who had given him rides, as well as one teenage girl who he said was “cute” but talked too much, Finn said, “Can you call Tom now?”

I’d been thinking the same thing, but then I remembered I couldn’t. Tom’s phone had been found with Nolan. I said, “He’ll call us when he’s free. He had some business that couldn’t wait.”

“Okay. Cool,” Finn said. But I read disappointment in his eyes.

Meanwhile, neither of my fur kids had moved. Syrah and Merlot would not be dissuaded from their vigil at the utility room door, not by offers of catnip or cat food or treats. They’d settled into what I called the “meatloaf position”—hunched up like I’d just patted them into a football-size oven-ready meal. They kept their intense stares on Yoshi, resting patiently like cats tend to do while watching prey—and waiting for their chance. I decided to leave the animals to sort this out. My interference might make them more nervous than they already were.

I said, “I’ll bet Yoshi is hungry. But I don’t have any dog food.”

“No problem,” Finn said. “I have some in my backpack.” He’d set his pack on the floor by his stool at the breakfast bar and now he went to get it.

The minute Finn got the food out and released Yoshi with an “okay,” the dog came racing by the cats. Syrah took a swipe at him and Merlot stood and arched his back. Yoshi ignored them and ran to Finn’s side. The dog barked repeatedly, but his eyes were focused on the food.

“I’ll get a bowl,” I said.

Finn set the baggie of dog food on the counter and held out his arms. The dog jumped up into them and started licking the kid’s face. What a bond those two had. From what I’d learned from Tom about Finn’s mother and latest stepfather, he probably needed his dog as much as I needed my cats.

Before I could even retrieve the bowl from the cupboard, Syrah leaped onto the counter, his whiskers and nose in action. A cat’s sense of smell is nowhere near that of a dog’s, but it’s still about fourteen or fifteen times stronger than a human’s. Syrah approached the kibble as if all things edible in this house needed his inspection and approval. He was the alpha around here, after all.

Then Syrah spotted the backpack and withdrew a few steps as if surprised by this strange new object. But his whiskers kept twitching. Syrah liked anything remotely resembling a bag or a box and I was sure he was contemplating whether this was a safe item to thoroughly explore—like, climb right inside and explore.

By the time I poured the food into the bowl, Merlot had joined Syrah in his fascination with the backpack. Their focus made me remember the gun, the one Tom put in his safe back at his house. Seemed like a long time ago. Heck, this day seemed like it had lasted a hundred years. Did Finn really have no idea where the gun came from? Might as well ask.

“Do you remember anything about the gun?” I said.

Finn shook his head vehemently. “Not my gun. No way. I hate guns. But Nolan sure had enough of them. My preferred weapon is a sword in a video game.”

I nodded. “When was the last time you looked inside your pack?”

He squinted, as if trying to imagine when he might have done this. “Besides just now? I fed Yoshi last night. I can’t remember any time today—but there’s a lot about today I don’t remember.”

“You didn’t see the gun last night, wherever you spent the night?” I asked. “Gosh, where did you spend the night?”

“This guy let me and Yoshi crash in his truck. But I never saw any gun. Something like that kinda grabs your attention, you know?” I detected strain in his voice, perhaps born of impatience with my questions.

Yoshi reacted by licking Finn’s face again.

“Yes, they certainly do. Sorry if I’ve upset you,” I said. “You’ve been through enough and I want you to know I’m your friend. At least we know someone put the gun in your pack between last night and when we picked you up.”