Shirley Murphy - Cat Breaking Free

Right now, was Chichi asleep over there? How deeply did the woman sleep? Frantic for distraction, Joe rose and leaped off the bed.

What was the best way inside?

He considered the tried-and-true methods: check all the windows; if he couldn't claw one open, then try a roof vent and go in through the attic.

Except that moving those plywood doors that opened from an attic could get noisy, and they were heavy as hell. Most weren't even hinged, and you had to lift them away Usually, Dulcie was there to lend some muscle.

But who knew, maybe Chichi had left a window unlocked and he could claw right on through the screen. Worth a try. He wasn't doing himself any good lying there fretting, listening to Clyde and Snowball snore.

Trotting across the little Persian rug into Clyde's study, he leaped to the desk, so preoccupied he sent the stapler clattering to the floor. Cursing his clumsiness, he sprang to the rafter and pushed out through his cat door.

Scorching across the shingles to Chichi's roof, he backed down the jasmine vine and dropped to the scruffy yard. First thing, he tried the front door just to make sure, swinging like a monkey with his paws locked around the knob. When the knob turned, he kicked hard with both hind paws.

But it was bolted, all right. The door didn't budge. Well, what did he expect? Trotting around the side of the house he peered up at the evenly spaced roof vents.

They all looked pretty solid, as if they were not only nailed but sealed with several generations of paint. Circling the house, he pawed at the eight under-house vents, shaking them as hard as he could. All were screwed down tight. His nose was filled with the damp smell of earth and moldy wood, and of the dusty old bushes that pressed around him.

Making his way around to the door of Chichi's bedroom, he swung on that knob, kicking vigorously while trying to make no noise. Of course it was locked. But hey! From the power of her sleeping scent, and the tiny sounds of her slow, even breathing that came from the far window beyond the door, he knew that window had to be open.

Leaping up onto the narrow sill, Joe smiled. She had locked the window open six inches, a space no human burglar could breach. Pressing his nose to the screen, he looked in sideways at the bolt that locked the sliding glass in place. Lifting a paw, claws rigidly extended, he ripped down the old, rusty screen wincing at the dry scraping sensation as it gave way under his pad. The long, jagged tear jerked and caught at his paw, then at his fur as he slipped through.

The room smelled of dust and of Chichi, that distinctive sleeping-woman smell, as rich as baking bread. In the dim room, Chichi lay curled up around her pillow. She slept naked, with the covers thrown back, even on this chill night. She was tan all over, no strap or bikini marks. Maybe a salon tan. Or maybe sunbathing on her San Francisco rooftop? When he and Clyde lived in the city, Clyde always hurried home on sunny days, to enjoy the view from their apartment window.

Stepping down onto the dresser among a mass of bristly hair curlers, loose change, and wadded tissues, he reached down a paw, to pry gently at the top dresser drawer. Not likely she'd hide anything of value in the first place a burglar would look, but you never knew. Silently he slid the drawer open.

A jumble of panties and panty hose, a box of tampons, an open box of Hershey bars with almonds. He pawed underneath the clutter but found nothing of interest. Dropping down to the carpet he reared up to close the drawer, then clawed open the next two. His search netted him a pile of folded T-shirts, more panty hose, a lacy slip, balled-up socks. No little black bag, no package, mysterious or otherwise. No precious jewels tucked beneath her lingerie. No faintest scent of metal, no hint that such items had been there and had been moved. The drawers smelled only of old, sour wood, of Chichi's sweet perfume, and of Hershey's chocolate.

Making quick work of the lowest drawer, rummaging between and under half a dozen folded sweatshirts, he checked the undersides of all the drawers, then squirmed inside the dresser itself, to paw around behind the drawers. Maybe the jewelry was taped inside the back.

He found nothing but dust. He was growing edgy. He crawled beneath the dresser to look up under the bottom.

Again, nothing. He tackled the rest of the room, the cushions, the underside of the upholstered chair, the undersides of two straight chairs, the small drawers in the little dressing table, and, carefully, the night table, working not a foot from Chichi's face. She slept on. The deep sleep of innocence? Or of someone without conscience? Stopping to scratch his shoulder with a hind paw, he had turned toward the closet when suddenly she came awake. He had his back to her when he heard a movement of the sheet, a tiny hushing that jerked him around, wanting to run.

She was sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled tight around her. She stared down at him, frowning. She looked at the torn screen, then looked again at Joe. In her eyes he saw fear and rising anger. He was starting to pant, he had to get out of there. He was crouched to leap to the dresser, but then thought better of that. Instead, he smiled up at her.

"Meow?" he said weakly, trying to look cute. "Meow?" He tried hard not to glance toward the window. It took all his willpower to roll over on the rug giving her the round-eyed innocent-kitty look. He purred as loud as he could manage, given the way his heart was thundering. Something about Chichi scared him, scared him bad. He had the feeling that this woman would grab him, that she didn't like nor trust cats-that Chichi Barbi could hurt a little cat.

Her hands looked strong. Long, capable fingers. Lean, well-muscled arms. Chichi Barbi was, Joe thought, not all curves and bleached hair and girlie giggles.

He wondered if he could make it to the top of the dresser and out before she swung out of bed. Somehow, he was afraid to try, that might really set her off. Instead, he continued his rolling-over, inane-purring routine.

"Hi, kitty, kitty. Nice kitty." Chichi threw back the covers and approached him, half crouching, her hand out as if to stroke him. Or to grab him. He didn't relish being attacked by a naked woman. She looked far too predatory, too intent. Staring into her eyes, Joe lost it. Filled with terror, he bolted to the dresser, sliding on the jumble of loose change, and flew through the screen snagging his fur, its metal fingers snatching him.

But he was out of there. Out. Free. Leaping to the grass and scorching away through the graying early shadows, his heart banging like kettledrums. Beating it for his own front porch; he crouched before his cat door, shivering and looking back, he half expected her to come racing around the corner chasing him. Above the rooftops dawn had turned the sky the color of faded asphalt. What was wrong with the woman? Why was he so afraid of her? Why was she so intent on grabbing him? Particularly when, during past encounters as she passed him in the yard or came to Clyde's door, she had avoided him as if she did not want to be near a cat-not at all like she'd been in San Francisco.

But that didn't necessarily make her a cat abuser, that didn't mean she would hurt a little cat. Did it?

Watching her house, he could see no bright reflection on the grass or in the branches of the pine tree as if a light had come on inside. He heard no stealthy sounds, no creaking floors, no stirring at the windows.

Maybe he should have stayed, kept on playing friendly kitty. Maybe he'd only imagined her cruel intent. Maybe she would have knelt on the carpet petting him and baby-talking him, even offering him a midnight snack. If he'd made friends with her, gotten cozy, he could have tossed her place at his leisure. Could have pretended he was bored living at Clyde's house, started hanging out at Chichi's. He would soon have the run of the place, have her leaving the window open so he could come and go at his pleasure.