Shirley Murphy - Cat On The Edge

She dodged, twisting away, leaped over his foot, and dived into a tangle of heavy weeds.

Crouching within the frail shelter, she stared out between the brittle stems.

But as he lunged at her she spun away again, fleeing away through the grass forest, heading for the street. Heading back toward houses and sidewalks where there might be people, where she might find shelter. Leaping across the sidewalk into the street, she didn't see the car. Brakes screamed, a horn blared. She dodged into the path of a truck coming in the other direction, and felt its heat as she skinned to the far curb.

The man had careened away to dodge the truck. She flashed across a lawn toward a line of bushes beside a tall yellow house. Diving into the shrubbery, she felt her heart pounding like the heart of a terrified mouse when she caught it, fast, too fast.

And again the man was on her as she plunged into the bushes; he snatched her by the tail, jerking her painfully off her feet. She flipped over yowling and dug in her claws, raking and biting his arm.

He dropped her, swearing. She twisted away tasting his blood. Racing along the perimeter of the house beside a row of basement windows, she stopped and doubled back.

One window was ajar a few inches. She flung herself at the glass. The hinged pane gave. She leaped into black, empty space.

She dropped half a story, landing hard on a concrete floor. The fall jarred her legs and shoulders and bruised her tender paws. Crouching, she turned to stare up at the window.

He knelt above her, peering in. She fled into the cellar's black depths, into the farthest corner, and hunched down, panting as he reached through.

His pale hand groped. He pushed the window wide, and swung his legs through. As he prepared to jump down, she ran blindly; and rammed her shoulder into a sharp corner.

Pain took her breath and made her eyes water. Dizzied, sucking in air, she saw that the corner belonged to a stairway. As he landed on the concrete behind her, she leaped away up the steps.

High above her, the basement door stood ajar. She careened up and through as he hit the stairs, her frantic paws slipping on the bare wood.

She stood in a hall. To her left, sunlight blazed through the glass of the front door. But the entry was too light, too open. As she swung away toward the next flight, the basement door slammed behind her. He had blocked her retreat. Running, she hit the next flight of stairs.

The pale tweed carpet was thick, and gave good traction. Her claws dug in, sent her flying up two flights, then three. The stairs slowed him. She could hear his labored breathing.

At the top of the third flight a door barred her way. The stairs ended. A high little window in the door was filled with blue sky.

She leaped at the knob, grabbed it in scrabbling paws, but it wouldn't turn. She swung and kicked, but thought it was locked. He was on the flight below her. She jumped higher, against the glass, and could see a flat roof stretching away.

He exploded up the last flight and lunged for her. She flew at his face raking and biting, kicking, clawing. He grabbed her trying to pull her loose. She bit him harder and jumped free, fled past him as he clutched at his face.

She hit the steps halfway down, flew down the treads hardly touching them. Down and down, with the man crashing down behind her, the thud of his weight as he hit each step seemed to shake the whole house. At the bottom she swerved past the closed basement door into the bright entry.

A parlor opened on her left, and she glimpsed wicker furniture, splashes of green. To her right, tall double doors were closed. She could hear kitchen sounds beyond, could hear pots and dishes rattling.

The front door had no knob, but a latch one would press, and a long brass handle below it. She was crouched to leap for the latch when she heard children laughing, pounding up onto the porch. The door flung open.

She careened out between their legs amidst surprised shouting, felt little hands on her back, then she was through, diving into sunlight, then into shadow beneath a parked car.

She heard him shout at the children, heard him running, watched his feet approach the car. She ran again, doubling back between the yellow house and a white one, and scrambled over a fence.

She dropped from the fence into a tiny yard full of scattered toys abandoned among the rough grass. Behind her, he came over the top of the fence sucking for breath. She glimpsed his eyes, pale brown and glistening with rage. His face was red with his efforts, and bleeding. She streaked away over a second fence and through another yard, taking heart from the wounds she had inflicted. On she ran through uncounted fenced yards, not looking back. She heard him for a while running, and then silence.

She slipped under a porch and looked out.

She thought he was gone. She heard nothing. The yard before her remained empty, its deep flowerbeds and neat lawn tranquil and blessedly vacant beneath the warm sun. She was nearly done for, panting and heaving. Cats were made for short spurts, for the quick chase. Long endurance was a dog's style. When she was sure she had lost him, when he did not appear from around the side of the green frame house, she trotted quickly away toward home. Longing for home, for the safety of home, her ears turning back to catch any small sound behind her.

Soon she was on her own street-she could see her own house, its pale gray stone rising so welcoming and solid from Wilma's lush English garden. Once she was inside those walls, nothing could reach her. She fled the last block mewling, passed the front porch, and flew up the back steps and in through her cat door.

Wilma was in the kitchen. She stared down at Dulcie, and grabbed her up, holding her close, stroking her. Dulcie trembled so hard she couldn't even purr, could only shiver against the thin old woman.

Frowning, Wilma stepped to the window and stood looking out at the street.

"There's nothing out there," she said, staring down at Dulcie, puzzled. "Was it a dog? Did a dog chase you? I've never seen you so afraid." She set Dulcie on the kitchen table and examined her, feeling along her body and her legs looking for wounds. When Wilma's probing fingers touched bruises, Dulcie winced. She examined each hurt more carefully, gently feeling for broken bones.

"I don't think anything's broken." She said at last. She looked at the dried blood on Dulcie's paws, then pressed so Dulcie's claws were bared. She grinned at the amount of blood. "Looks like you got in some licks of your own, my dear."

She carried Dulcie into the living room, to the couch, and wrapped the blue afghan around her, cuddling and stroking her.

Under Wilma's tender ministrations, Dulcie began to relax. This was so nice, so safe and comforting. She was home. Wilma loved her. She nosed into Wilma's warm hand, and a purr started deep inside her, the same deep, reverberating thunder she'd experienced as a kitten when she was totally protected and loved.

Purring, curling down wrapped in the soft wool, she didn't stir as Wilma left her and returned to the kitchen. She heard Wilma open the refrigerator, and soon she could smell milk warming.

Wilma brought the bowl to the couch and held it as Dulcie lapped. She'd been terribly thirsty. She gulped the milk down, nearly choking. The afghan was so warm around her, the milk so heartening.

When the bowl was empty she closed her eyes. Her paws and tail felt heavy but her body seemed weightless, as if she were floating.

She slept.

For some time after the little cat slept, Wilma sat beside her puzzling over what might have happened. She had found no open wound, no bite mark, no real indication of a cat fight. She didn't understand what those strange, hurt places were on Dulcie's body, little areas tender as bruises.