Shirley Murphy: Cat Playing Cupid

"I am now," she said shakily.

"You did good," Mike said, tenderly touching her face.

"Ryder's dead," she said woodenly.

Mike held her away, looked deep into her eyes, looked at the blood smeared across her tank top, Ryder's blood. She looked down at herself where she'd held her sister for an instant before Ryder went limp-before she turned and fled, to follow Gibbs, wanting to kill him.

What Ryder's life had been, and then her senseless death, only added to Lindsey's rage, to fury at herself that she'd done so little to change Ryder's life. Hiding her face against Mike's shoulder, she let him lead her out of the shop. She felt weak and hopeless, wanted only to be quiet, to be alone, just the two of them, Mike holding her close. Out on the street she stood within Mike's arms, oblivious to the cops and the staring tourists, stood in a world where there was no one else, where there was no cruelty, no murder, where there was only safety and love.

AS LINDSEY CLUNGwithin Mike's embrace, some miles away the gray tomcat felt equally safe in the secure embrace of Mike's daughter. The feel of Ryan's shoulder against which he lay, the clean smell of her hair against his nose-and the fact that he was full of a burger and fries-filled Joe Grey with a deep sense of well-being. The team of Flannery and Damen was all right, the tomcat liked this new sense of belonging within a real family.

Where his relationship with Clyde had rocked along on good-natured male confrontation and wisecracking, Ryan added an amused tenderness that Joe hadn't known was missing, she added the gentle understanding that Clyde, too often, didn't like to exhibit.

Though back there in short-term parking, Clyde had stood up for him. Had laughed at the angry mother when she threatened to sue him, threatened to call the dogcatcher and have the cat quarantined-as if Joe had flayed that kid alive.

It was Ryan who'd retrieved the phone. Having double-parked her pickup behind the woman's white van, she'd glimpsed the phone on its roof and, hiding a grin, had put it in her pocket while Clyde fetched the first aid kit. And before Clyde fished out the bandages, she'd fetched her camera and taken pictures of Joe's minute claw marks in the kid's hand, and then of the pudgy mother doctoring the scratch and bandaging it. She made sure to photograph all aspects of both arms and hands, and of the child's face, to prove there were no other wounds.

"The cat didn't bite you?" Clyde asked the child as her mother bandaged the hand.

"I saw that cat-" the mother started to say, but the kid screamed, "It didn't bite me! It scratched me! Can't you see it scratched me!"

Taping the wound, the woman clutched her own cell phone, ready to call 911 and animal control. Until Clyde pointed out that if she did that, the authorities would take the cat away, and he, Clyde, wouldn't be able to give her the five hundred dollars he had intended, to cover her inconvenience. He told her Joe had had his rabies shots. He gave her their vet's name and address and, of course, his own address. When the woman stopped shouting, to accept the money and to sign a release that Clyde hastily wrote out on a scrap of paper, Ryan turned her attention to Joe, taking him in her arms.

"Does this mean a lawsuit?" Joe had asked her when they were alone, slipping into the passenger side of the truck.

"I doubt it. But between Dad, Max, and Dallas, we'll come up with an unbeatable lawyer if we need to. Personally," she said, grinning, "I think she'll drop it. Maybe try to hit us up for more money later." She looked deep into Joe's eyes. "Clyde and I aren't worried. Neither should you be."

Clyde slid into the driver's seat, cutting her a look, but said nothing. Heading home, Ryan kept telling Joe over and over, "It's all right." Holding him close, looking down into his worried face. "It's all right, Joe. You didn't hurt the little brat. We have pictures. Don't sweat it."

Joe had listened, hiding a smile, as Clyde explained to the woman the many steps she would have to go through if she sued him, the forms she would have to fill out, the time she would have to spend with an attorney, and in court, and the probable cost of an attorney. This, and the whining of her restless kids who were hungry and had to pee and wanted to go home, had at last induced her to accept the money, load up her unruly family, and leave the three of them in peace.

One thing for sure, Joe thought, purring against Ryan. He never wanted to see the San Jose airport again. Not in all his nine lives. For a while there, he'd thought if he didn't starve in that oversize concrete crypt or get run over by some hurrying driver racing to catch a plane, he would be picked up by animal control, imprisoned behind bars for maybe the rest of a very short life.

Now, Ryan's concern went a long way toward dispelling that icy fear of abandonment. And as the three of them hit the freeway, heading home, he snuggled down in her lap, smugly comfortable, filled once more with macho confidence.

MUCH EARLIERthat evening, Dulcie had stood on the roof of Clyde's house watching the red pickup pull out of the drive, watching Clyde and Ryan head for San Jose. They didn't want me! Clyde and Ryan didn't want me . She had been left behind. She was hurt, she was worried about Joe, and she was mad as hell. Where else should I be when Joe's in danger?

"Please, Dulcie," Ryan had said, "Rock's so upset and nervous. When I'm upset, he gets like this. I'll have to shut him in the house so he won't try to climb out of the patio and follow us, but…Please stay with him until he calms down. A Weimaraner can tear a whole house to pieces when he's frantic. Please, stay for a while. Later, when he settles down, if you go somewhere, please come back and check on him. Or call Charlie."

She knew they were trying to keep her out of trouble, that they didn't know what kind of danger they were heading into. But when Ryan asked like that, what else could she do? And Rock was upset, he was a basket case, pacing and panting and pawing at the doors.

Who would guess that a big strong dog like Rock could get so undone, could be so sensitive to Ryan's distress? Pacing nervously from room to room, he reared up to peer out the windows and to paw at them until Dulcie backed him away, hissing at him.

"Sit, Rock!" the tabby told him. "Sit, now!"

Rock sat, with that puzzled look he got when any of the three cats gave him a command. Dulcie kept talking and talking to him, to calm him. She'd seen him upset before, when Ryan was stressed over a job, but never this bad. The Weimaraner's sensitivity to human feelings showed his intelligence, but it made him a challenge to live with. Rock would never be a phlegmatic house dog who easily rolled with the punches.

But talking to him helped. He was always attentive when she or Joe or Kit spoke to him, he had never gotten over his amazement at the wonderful talking cats. At last she got him to lie down on the rug, and she stretched out close to him.

"They'll be back soon, Rock. It's all right, everything's all right."

He turned to nose at her; he was still shivering. Could he be upset not only because Ryan and Clyde were distressed, but because of some elusive canine sensitivity that told him Joe was in trouble? No human really knew the extent of an animal's perceptions. She could tell animal researchers a number of stories they'd find hard to believe.

Rock was still for a while, but then he rose nervously again, heading for the kitchen. He pushed and pawed at the locked doggy door, then looked at Dulcie angrily, as if she was the one who had locked it. She tried to get him to eat some kibble, but he turned his face away. At last he headed back to the living room, gave a sigh of deep resignation, climbed into Joe's ragged easy chair, and curled up tight, his nose hidden in his flank.