Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

I didn’t speak for several seconds. “Shawn, are you feeling okay? Because I have never heard you talk that way about an animal before.” Shawn was often impatient with humans, but never with the animals he rescued and cared for.

He looked at his scuffed-up tennis shoes. “Allison said the same thing. I can’t keep her around anymore—the cat, not Allison. She just gets under my skin. And we can’t let her roam around the sanctuary anymore. She nearly caught Snug.”

Snug was Shawn and Allison’s wonderful African gray parrot. “Isis is probably scared. And being aggressive is her way of showing it,” I said.

Shawn pursed his lips, shook his head in disagreement. “She was scared the day I picked her up on the side of the highway. Scared for maybe a day or two after that, but now? Oh, she’s not scared of anything. And poor Allison has the teeth marks on her arms to prove it. Me? I wear my leather gloves up to my elbows when I get near her.”

“You expected me to take her back to the Longworth house, I assume,” I said. “Because you know that putting her up for adoption might not be the best idea. She might be returned to you within a few days.”

Shawn slumped back on the sofa, raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I was hoping to hear you say the cat was ready to go home. But from what you’ve told me, that Longworth woman isn’t fit to care for her either.”

He was always decisive, and yes, opinionated, so his waffling behavior was confusing at first. But then I decided I understood. “You have a set way of handling these situations, want to do right by your animals, but this particular cat is different. Am I right?”

Shawn sighed and picked up his tea, took a long drink. “Certain pets, particularly cats, need the right fit with a family. And you’re right. Isis will be hard to place.”

“Give me more time, then,” I said. “If I can talk to Miss Longworth, get a feel for—”

The most god-awful screech came from the foyer. I stood and started in that direction, worried something was terribly wrong with Isis.

But Shawn grabbed my arm and stopped me before I could get by him. “Don’t give her any attention for that outburst. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“She sounds like she’s mortally wounded.” I craned my neck, trying to see into the foyer.

“Yeah. The drama queen has spoken. Your cats are probably out there sniffing around her crate, and she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like much of anything.”

I sat back down. “Maybe she simply wants to go home, Shawn. Give me more time? Please?”

“Oh, I’ll give you as long as you want,” he said. “If you keep her.”

The minute I told Shawn that I’d gladly keep Isis for the time being, he left my house so fast I wondered if I’d dreamed the whole visit. But Isis promptly yowled and reminded me this was all quite real. My three cats sat around her crate, their ears twitching at the whines and growls coming from our new visitor.

I’d fostered cats before, and most of the time, my three are fairly easygoing with the meet and greet. Sometimes there’s hissing and stalking, but since my cats were rescued from a shelter after Hurricane Katrina, that experience made them fairly gracious hosts to other animals. But I had the feeling that might not be the case this time.

The next step in what was becoming a very long day was spent settling Isis in her new basement home. I had a guest bedroom there. My three cats followed in excited anticipation when I carried her down. They seemed eager for me to allow this noisy feline out of her crate. But my gut told me I should wait. Neither Isis nor I needed any added stress today.

I set her up with a clean litter box, fresh water and the fanciest cat food I could find—a small can of grilled salmon. I didn’t let her out of the carrier until I’d closed out my three curious friends. I heard Merlot mewing in protest after I shut the door, but this was how it had to be for now. I sat on the floor near the crate and set Isis free.

She sauntered out and slipped by, totally ignoring me. After an inspection of the room, the litter box and the food, she came back my way. Her tail twitched in irritation after she sat down in front of me. She stared up, emerald green eyes narrowed. Her gaze didn’t waver from my face.

What did she expect from me? I was beginning to think that curtseying might be the answer. I returned her stare, and we sat like that for about twenty seconds.

Isis gave in first. I considered that a good sign. Maybe she realized I was top cat in this house. Then she stood and walked regally back to the corner she’d inspected earlier. I’d lined a cat bed with one of my little quilts. She stepped in, sat and began to groom herself. She was done with me.

I opened the door about a foot and slipped through, making sure not to allow Chablis and Merlot inside. Syrah, who I assumed was bored with this nonsense, was nowhere to be seen. I’d no sooner made it upstairs to the kitchen when my stepdaughter, Kara, used her key to come in through the back door.

“Hi, Jillian.” She smiled and set down her purse on the small table by the door.

“Hey there,” I said. “I’m so glad you showed up looking all young and peppy. I need some of what you’ve got going on.” I gave her hug.

Her skin felt warm, and a bit of late-afternoon heat had sneaked in the door and still lingered. Her mahogany-colored hair was fastened with an elastic band, and the long ponytail hung over one shoulder. The recent addition of auburn highlights made her brown eyes seem more lively and inquisitive than ever. Or maybe she was simply happier these last few months. Her move from Houston to Mercy seemed to be agreeing with her. Small-town life, even for a dedicated city girl like Kara, was apparently helping her cope better with losing her dad. We both missed John, but he would have wanted to see her exactly like this: radiant and full of life.

Syrah came around the kitchen island and rubbed his head against Kara’s calf. She reached down and scratched his head. He began to purr loudly enough to almost drown out the serious squalls coming from the basement.

Kara wrinkled her nose and glanced toward the basement door. “That doesn’t sound like one of your cats. Or is somebody sick?”

“Maybe sick and tired of hearing that noise. Let’s get farther away from the screeching and I’ll explain.”

She opened the refrigerator and took out the tea pitcher. “I need a fix first. This stuff is addicting, you know. Want some?”

I nodded and retrieved the glasses from the living room. I set Shawn’s in the sink and placed mine on the counter so she could pour my tea.

She arched her eyebrows and nodded at the sink. “Someone else was loving your sweet tea today?”

“Shawn. He delivered the houseguest. One who thinks she’s more special than your ordinary cat, I might add. She is the goddess Isis, and as you’ve heard, she’s having a regular hissy fit—pun intended.”

“Isis? The cat that started this whole cloak-and-dagger-pretend-Jillian’s-a-journalist thing?” Kara finished pouring the tea, and with Syrah on my heels, we walked into the living room.

“That’s the one. Seems there’s no room at Shawn’s inn for a spoiled-rotten rescue,” I said. “And I’m betting that’s a first for him. Though Shawn can be intolerant of humans, he usually has endless patience with animals. Until now.”

John’s recliner was Kara’s favorite spot whenever she visited, and she sank into the aging leather cushions. She drew up her legs, her knees touching one arm of the chair. “My kittens are definitely spoiled rotten. Is that noise coming from your basement something I might have to contend with in the future?”