Shirley Murphy: Cat Playing Cupid

"Stay here, Willow. If Sage needs you, if he grows nervous again, I'll come and get you. You'll be safe here." Willow looked at her uncertainly.

Charlie reached to the backseat for a soft lap robe to make a bed for her. "I'll be as quick as I can." She opened the windows enough so Willow could escape if she chose, enough so she wouldn't feel trapped. Willow nosed at Sage, and licked the young cat's ear. She gave Charlie another long look, almost of contentment, as if glad of the chance to rest, and settled down on the blanket. Charlie picked up the stretcher and locked the car doors.

John Firetti met her at the front door of the clinic, his light brown hair ruffled, his bright blue eyes turning at once to Sage. Firetti's round face, which seemed perpetually sunburned, was filled with concern. Taking the makeshift stretcher, he led her through the empty waiting room and quickly past the door to the kennel, the large, airy central room that connected the two older buildings; this was a solarium-like structure with a high ceiling brightened by skylights. Its cement floor, which could be hosed down, was warmed by hot water pipes imbedded in the concrete. The dogs were barking so frantically that it was all Charlie could do to reassure Sage as they passed. The hospital itself and the cages for the cats were in smaller rooms, away from the noise.

The examining room to which John Firetti led her was warmer than the rest of the building, a small, cozy cubicle with a metal table and two soft, vinyl-covered easy chairs where clients could sit to talk with the doctor. Firetti spent some time examining Sage, then took him back to be X-rayed, asking Charlie to help him.

"Very likely he won't hold still, Charlie. He's terrified. I'm sorry about the noise." During the day, taped music played in the canine section and an attendant was there to soothe and quiet the patients. But this was after hours, and Firetti was alone. "Mary's off at our daughter's for the week. You'll have to hold him, try to calm him."

"He'll hold still," Charlie said.

"Did you say he's feral?" Firetti said uncertainly.

"He's a stray. I don't know whether he's feral-but ever since I found him hurt, he's been so still. I suppose he's in shock?"

Firetti didn't answer. At the X-ray table, Charlie put on a lead apron and lead gloves, and held Sage the way John Firetti showed her; under her gentle hands, even though they were encased in the thick gloves, Sage remained obediently quiet-but his little body was rigid as he stared up, terrified, at the X-ray machine. Firetti watched him with growing interest as he took the pictures, moving the injured cat into several positions. He had given Sage a shot to ease the pain, and soon, despite the cat's fear of the strange room and strange machinery, he began to relax.

When Firetti was finished with the X-rays, he said, "This will be a long surgery, and I'll need to do more tests before we begin. Natalie is on her way in, to help me." Natalie had been his assistant for many years. He looked intently at Charlie. "I'll need blood."

"Don't you keep a couple of kennel cats for that? The black cats I've seen in here?"

"Their blood won't do."

Charlie frowned. "You mean cats have blood types, like humans? I didn't…"

Firetti was silent, watching her. "Cats do have blood types, Charlie. But what I need is not common cat blood."

"What other kind is there? This cat isn't some exotic breed. What…?"

"I think you know what I mean. I will need special blood. I'll need a transfusion from Joe Grey, or from Dulcie or Kit. Maybe from all three. Will you try to round up the cats while I set up for surgery?"

"But…" Charlie stared at him feeling her own blood drain to her toes.

"We're wasting time," Firetti said. "I hope they're not up in the hills hunting."

She couldn't speak. She heard the outer door open, heard Natalie call out that she would be right in. Charlie didn't know what to say to Firetti.

"I know about them," he said. "I've known about these amazing cats since I was a boy, since shortly after my father opened the clinic. I knew Dulcie's mother, I knew all about her-Genelle Yardley, with whom she lived, died keeping the cats' secret."

Charlie looked at him for a long time. How could she tell Joe and Dulcie and Kit this? How could she tell the three cats that one more person shared their secret, even if John Firetti was their friend?

But did she have to tell them?

Couldn't she bring Willow in for the transfusion, and never mention this to Joe or Dulcie or Kit?

But Willow was so exhausted. When Charlie thought how terrified she would be of the clinic, of the metal table, of a strange human handling her-of the needle plunging in-she knew she couldn't do that. Besides, such dishonesty showed only disrespect for the cats. Charlie wouldn't deceive them, that was not how she viewed friendship.

Firetti was saying, "I've never told Wilma or Clyde that I know; I didn't tell the Greenlaws when they took Kit to live with them." He laughed. "It wasn't hard to know what the kit was, with her bright curiosity, the way she listened to every word. Of course I've never spoken of my knowledge to the cats themselves. They'll have to know now," he said quietly.

"They'll understand," Charlie said, hoping she was right. Wondering how the three cats would react.

She touched Sage lightly, nodded to John Firetti, and left the clinic, greeting Natalie on her way out, wondering for a moment if Natalie knew, too.

Oh, but Firetti would have told her, if that was the case. Surely he would have.

In the car she told Willow, "He's given him something for the pain, and to rest. He needs blood for transfusions so he can operate on the leg. As soon as I take you back, I'm going to fetch Joe and Dulcie and Kit." She was going to tell Willow that Firetti knew about them, but she couldn't. Willow was already upset, and to Willow, every human who knew their secret represented an additional threat, a worry the feral band must carry with them no matter how far they traveled or how well they hid themselves among the wild, unpopulated slashes of land between the spreading towns and cities.

In the car, as they headed back up the hills, almost as if Willow had read her thoughts, the calico said, "There's been a human prowling among the ruins. We've seen him-or her?-only from a distance, someone dressed in black-black pants and a long black coat. Always the same figure, we think. But driving different colored cars. Coming up that far little gravel lane, from the houses below."

"Not the larger dirt road?"

"No, never. They drive the car into an old shed down at the end of the property, beyond the dying orchard, then come slipping through the ruins. Searching, always searching. Could they be looking for the book?" she said in a small, miserable voice.

"Where do they search?"

"Inside the house, and in the smaller buildings, too. Whenever we saw them, we stayed away, hid until they were gone. Then we went over their trail, but all we could smell was chemicals. Perfume or something like it, covering all other scents."

They had reached the ranch; before Willow raced away into the hills, Charlie fetched from the house some leftover roast and a bowl of fresh water. Willow drank and ate quickly.

"Must you go back alone? It's nearly dark."

"Our wounded aren't far away, Charlie Harper. And I'll be careful. I can smell danger, I can climb, and leap. And I have these," she said, baring her formidable claws and giving Charlie a little cat smile-and she streaked away past the barn and into the dusky woods, her pale shape vanishing among the thickening shadows.

Worrying because Willow was traveling alone, and puzzling over the prowler at the ruins, Charlie headed down the hills again. Was someone looking for the book? Or maybe for that hidden grave? Pulling into Clyde's crowded driveway behind Max's truck, she quickly grabbed her cooler and made for the front door, praying she could find Joe, and maybe Kit and Dulcie, could get them out without argument, and without anyone noticing.