Shirley Murphy: Cat Seeing Double

"Leaves mice on the mat? Lines them up like a pack of sausages? Come on, Clyde."

Clyde looked at her innocently. "All in a row. I haven't been able to break him of it." His look was blank and serious.

She didn't pursue it. Maybe the cat had done it on his own. This was not the day to discuss the vicissitudes of Clyde's cat.

But as she turned to pour the coffee, she glimpsed the look he shot the tomcat. A glare deeply indignant, as if the cat should have used better judgment. And Joe Grey was staring back at Clyde with amused indulgence, with me kind of silent look mat might pass between a dog and his trainer. She'd seen Dallas exchange such a glance with his pointers or retrievers, not a word spoken, or maybe a single word so soft that no one but man and dog heard it-a close, perceptive contact between man and animal.

Was such contact with a cat possible?

Well, why not? Maybe cats were as intelligent as a well-bred pointer or retriever. Whatever the case, Clyde was apparently more skilled with cats than with canines.

Stepping over the mice and into her kitchen, Clyde fetched a plastic bag from the drawer beside the refrigerator and returned to the deck to dispose of the bodies, shaking them from the mat into the bag, and carrying it down to the drive and around behind the garage to the garbage can. She heard him rinse his hands at the outdoor faucet. She listened to him come up the stairs, still wondering how many cats would line up their mice on the mat, or would think to do such a thing. Maybe she should learn more about cats. The subject might be entertaining. Clyde returned as she poured the coffee. Pulling out a chair, he glanced in once more toward Joe Grey and Dulcie. "The kit wasn't with them?"

"No. Just the two of them."

He shrugged. "She's getting big, growing up. I guess she can take care of herself."

"You and Wilma have to worry about your cats. They wander all over the village. And the hills… it's so wild up there. I can hear the coyotes yipping at night. Don't you-"

"How many times have you asked me that, Ryan? Yes, we worry." He looked at her intently. "Cats are not dogs, to be fenced and leashed. I went through this with Charlie. She couldn't believe we let the cats wander. She understands them better, now. You can't shut them in, they'd die of boredom, their lives would be worth nothing. They're intelligent cats. They need to pursue-whatever weird little projects cats pursue. They need to hunt. They're careful. I've watched them crossing the streets; they look, they don't just go barging out."

"But the coyotes. And the dogs-big dogs."

He sipped his coffee. "I'm sure they know when the coyotes are near, they can hear and smell them-and dogs and coyotes can't climb." He gave her a little smile. "Those three cats will chase a dog until he wishes he'd never heard of cats. I once saw the kit ride the back of a big dog, raking and biting him, rode him from Hellhag Hill clear into the village. She was only a kitten, then. I'd hate to see what she could do now."

The tortoiseshell kit had been with Charlie's aunt Wilma and Dulcie for nearly a year while her owners were traveling. Ryan thought she was charming, those round, golden eyes in that little black-and-brown mottled face always delighted her. The kit's looks were so expressive that, more than once, Ryan caught herself wondering what the little animal was thinking.

"You're tan. It was hot up in the foothills."

"Ninety to a hundred. Surveying, laying out foundation, and putting up framing in the hot sun."

She loved the rolling hills at the base of the Sierras, the rising slopes golden with dry summer grass beneath islands of dark green pine trees, the kind of vast grazing country that had fed millions of longhorn cattle two centuries before when California was part of Mexico, and at one time had fed vast herds of buffalo and elk.

Rising, she fetched a pack of photos from her desk, to show him the added-on great room she had just completed. "Job went like a charm. No major delays in deliveries, no really critical battles with the inspectors, no disasters. But I'm glad to be home, after living with those two in that trailer."

Dan Hall was a Molena Point carpenter who had been willing to work on the San Andreas job providing his young wife could come up on weekends. Scott Flannery was Ryan's uncle, her father's brother, a burly Scotch-Irish giant who had helped to raise Ryan and her two sisters after their mother died. Scotty and her mother's brother Dallas had moved in with them when Ryan was ten, a week after her mother's funeral. The three men had kept up the lessons their mother had insisted on, teaching the girls to cook and clean house and sew and to do most of the household repairs. Scotty had added more sophisticated carpentry skills, and Dallas, then a uniformed officer with San Francisco PD, had taught them the proper handling and safety of firearms as well as how to train and work the hunting dogs he raised. While other little girls were dressing up, learning party manners, and how to fascinate the boys, Ryan and her sisters were outshooting the boys in competition, were hunting dove or quail over one or another of Dallas's fine pointers, or were off on a pack trip into the Rockies.

"Guess I'm getting old and crotchety," Ryan said. "That big two-bedroom trailer seemed so cramped, I found myself longing for my own space. The whole time, I didn't see anyone but those two, and a real estate agent who wants me to do a remodel-and a couple of kids underfoot."

Clyde looked at his watch and rose to rinse their cups. "Neighbor's kids?"

She nodded. "I never did figure out where they lived. They said up the hills. Those houses are scattered all over. You know how kids are drawn to new construction."

Clyde picked up Joe Grey, who had trotted expectantly into the kitchen. "So did you take the remodeling job?"

"I think I'll let that one go by," she said briefly.

Slinging the tomcat over his shoulder, Clyde scooped up Dulcie too, cradling the little female in the crook of his arm..

"You're taking them to the wedding," Ryan said. It was not a question. Clyde took the gray tomcat everywhere.

"Why not? It's a garden wedding. If they don't like it, they can leave." He grinned at her. "Max has a thing about cats. I like to tweak him. I thought it would be amusing to bring the cats to his wedding, let them watch from the trees. Charlie will appreciate the humor." They moved out the door and down the steps to his antique yellow roadster, where Clyde dropped the cats into the open rumble seat.

"Bring them up front with me, Clyde. You don't want them jumping out. I'll hold them."

"They won't jump. They're not stupid."

"Bring them up here. They're cats. Cats don't…" She shut up, looking intently at Clyde and at the cats. Joe Grey and Dulcie lay down obediently on the soft leather rumble seat, as docile as a pair of well-mannered dogs-as if perhaps they had been trained to behave.

"They'll be fine," Clyde said, starting the engine. "It's a nice day, they want a bit of sunshine." And as he headed down the hills, the cats remained unmoving, seeming as safe as if they wore seat belts. Ryan was sure there couldn't be another cat in the world that wouldn't leap out to the street or stand on the edge of the seat and be thrown out. Cats riding in open rumble seats, cats attending weddings.

Dulcie looked up at her with such contentment, and Joe Grey's expression was so smug that she almost imagined they were proud to be riding in that beautiful vintage car.

Clyde had completely restored the '28 Chevy-new, butter-yellow leather upholstery, gleaming yellow paint. Old cars were Clyde's love, the Hudsons and Pierce-Arrows and old Packards that he worked on in the back garage of his upscale automotive shop. When he got one in perfect condition he would drive it for a while and then sell it. He was paying for the remodeling of his cottage with the profits from one car or another, just as he had paid to renovate the derelict apartment building he had bought. It was clear that he took great joy in acquiring abandoned relics, in making them new and useful again. Maybe that too was why she liked Clyde Damen.