Shirley Murphy - Cat Seeing Double

Abandoning the newspaper and his empty plate, Joe dropped off the table. If the police had further information about the bombing, it wasn't in the Gazette. But, of course, Garza would keep any new leads strictly within the department. Nipping out his cat door and up a neighbor's pine tree, he stretched out on a branch where he could watch Ryan tear up the roof, and could think over the two cases.

As to evidence in the church bombing, he knew the county lab was backed up for months and that they made very few exceptions. But couldn't they try, for a case such as this? Harper said every department and every court had to wait its turn. So why wasn't there more staffing? Joe scratched an itch that was definitely not a flea. All kinds of people were out of work, yet these high-tech jobs were going begging. Why? Humans were adaptable, they were smart. If a cat couldn't catch rats, he'd go after other game.

Still, he guessed it was hard to make a change in your life.

He watched Ryan and a young, long-haired carpenter cut and nail plywood flooring. Above them on the attic roof the other carpenter knelt, ripping off shingles, dropping them down to the yard and sidewalk. In a moment Clyde wandered out of the carport with a rake and went to work down at the end of the yard where shingles already Uttered the grass and cement. Sometimes, all the banging and hustle that accompanied busy human endeavor wore a cat right out.

Dulcie would say all that hustle was what humanity was about. Build, invent, improve, and move on. Push the envelope. The ingenuity of the human mind was no longer involved simply with hunting. A billion possible scenarios now waited, to be deftly harnessed. She would say, only when that eager creativity was twisted into negative channels, into destruction, did mankind falter and slide back to the cave mentality.

Now that old man, old Gramps Farger. There was a cave mentality, with his bombs and drugs.

Gramps had disappeared completely from the little house where he and Curtis's father had run their original meth lab. Harper's men hadn't found a sign of life when they went back after the bombing, again looking for Gramps. The lab had been out back, a quarter mile away from the house, in a rough shack. Harper said it stunk so bad that the officers had to wear masks. Those chemicals got right in your lungs. Maybe the house would have to be burned down, Joe thought, and the earth turned under like some atomic waste.

And now Gramps was running free, letting the kid take the rap, letting a ten-year-old boy cool his heels in jail.

Joe watched the carpenters tearing out the two end walls, preparing to cut loose the apex of the roof. Eight huge, businesslike jacks stood ready to lift the long halves of the roof straight up, turning them into walls. He wondered how dangerous that would be, jacking up those two forty-foot sections. Wondered how Ryan was going to secure them in place while she built the new roof on top and built the end walls. He'd hate to be underneath if one of those mothers gave way. Talk about a cat pancake.

But watching the dark-haired young woman swing her sledgehammer knocking out two-by-fours, Joe didn't doubt that Ryan's plan would work, that it was efficient and professional, and as safe as any construction operation could be.

Still, though, he thought he'd keep his distance during the jacking up. He was just wondering if Ryan planned to do that after lunch, when Rock's booming challenge filled the morning, echoing from the backyard where Rock had been confined with old Rube.

Leaping to the next tree between the neighbor's house and his own, Joe watched Rock cavorting and dancing around Rube trying to get the old black Labrador to play. The two elderly cats and the young white female looked on from atop the trellis, not yet comfortable with the big energetic weimaraner. Poor Rube seemed willing to romp, ducking his gray muzzle and pawing at the paving but his limbs and joints didn't want to cooperate. Joe mewed softly, knowing how much Rube hurt and feeling bad for him, knowing that even with the wonders of modern medicine Dr. Firetti couldn't turn off all the pain of arthritis.

At least Rube had a nice backyard. And the patio's heavy Spanish-style trellis provided fine aerial walkways for the cats. To say nothing of the warmth-the high stucco wall at the back trapped the afternoon sun so the patio was warm as a spa, holding the heat well into evening where an animal could stretch out for a luxurious nap.

Ryan had even provided a decorative tile border around old Barney's gravestone. The golden retriever, Rube's lifelong pal who had died last year, was buried just beyond the oak tree. Ryan had, with tenderness, retained the small sentimental elements that were important to their little family while, in more practical terms, pursuing a remodeling regimen that would make the house worth twice its present value.

Clyde's "building money" for this project had been, just as when he bought the old apartment house, cash earned from the sale of his restored antique cars. The latest vehicle, a refurbished 1942 LaSalle, Clyde had purchased in a shocking condition of rust and neglect. Now, renewed nearly to better than its original state, the antique car had sold almost at once for more than enough to complete the upstairs project, a sum hard to comprehend in terms of kitty treats or even in confections from Jolly's Deli.

Watching his contented housemates, Joe was glad Clyde hadn't sold their little home. As for the house next door, it had not been turned into a restaurant after all, but had been sold again. The one property alone, apparently, hadn't been large enough to make the venture cost-effective.

Listen to me, Joe thought, alarmed. Cost-effective? Worth twice its present value? Sometimes I worry myself, sometimes I sound way too much like a human. Next thing you know, I'll be buying mutual funds.

It was well past noon when Ryan and the carpenters broke for lunch, when Clyde's car pulled in. The sudden silence of the stilled hammers and power tools was so profound it left Joe's ears ringing. Any sensible cat would have left the scene hours before to seek a quiet retreat, but he didn't want to miss anything-and now he didn't want to miss lunch. He watched Clyde come up the steps toting a white paper bag that sent an aroma of pastrami on rye like a benediction, watched Ryan hurry down the makeshift stairs and around to the backyard to see that Rock had water and a few minutes of petting, before she ate her lunch. As she returned, Joe settled beside Clyde, where he sat on the new subfloor, opening the white paper bag. He felt sorry for the household cats, that they couldn't have gourmet goodies. The vet had warned Clyde long ago about the dangers of such food to felines. Dr. Firetti had no idea of the delicacies in which Joe and Dulcie and the kit indulged, apparently without harm. They all three checked out in their lab tests and exams with flying colors. "Healthy as three little horses," the doctor always said, congratulating Clyde and Wilma on their conscientious care. "I see you're sticking to the prescribed diet." And no one told him any different.

Listening to Ryan's soft voice, Joe tied into his share of Clyde's sandwich, holding it down with his paw. Far be it from Clyde to cut it up for him. Glancing above him, he saw that Ryan hadn't yet cut loose the roof along the peak. All was solid up there over their heads. The two carpenters sat at the other end of the room, their radio playing some kind of reggae, turned low. Both were young and lean and tanned, one with a rough thatch of hair shaggy around his shoulders, the other, Wayne, with dark hair in a military trim that made Joe wonder if he was moonlighting from some coastal army camp. Ryan's uncle Scotty hadn't yet arrived.

Ryan was saying, "When I got home last night, Rock took one sniff at the stairs and the door and charged into that apartment roaring. He knew someone had been in there. He raced around looking for him, pitching a fit. Took me a while to get him settled. I didn't want to discourage him from barking but 1 sure don't want the neighbors on my case."