Рита Браун - Sour Puss

No one spoke as they ran hard. They sped past the old black-birch stand—white birches couldn't grow this far south—then darted through a pocket meadow.

Mrs. Murphy skidded to a halt. "Hold up!"

"Like hell."Pewter kept running, turned her head, saw that Tucker had stopped, her nose down in the high weeds and grass.

"Pewter, look for a den or something. We won't make it home in time,"Tucker instructed the cat, whose pupils enlarged.

Pewter didn't protest. She wanted shelter. She dashed to the edge of the pocket meadow, circumventing it in hopes of finding any old den. "Nothing," she shouted.

"We'd better run, Tucker. There's a den in the big rock outcropping a quarter mile further on. It's our only chance,"Mrs. Murphy called over the wind.

"Come on!"Pewter was really scared.

The three ran just as huge raindrops smashed into freshly opened buds. Higher up, spring came later. There was no shelter from emerging leaves. Raindrops hit the ground like wet minie balls.

They reached the boulders, now black and slick, jutting outward. They dashed inside the small cave.

"No!"Pewter puffed up like a blowfish.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stopped in their tracks, the rain firing like a fusillade outside. Too amazed to speak, they bumped into each other as they put on the brakes.

Sitting on her haunches was a four-hundred-pound brown bear nursing two cubs, much as a human would nurse a baby. Her poor eyesight could make out the three small intruders. Her nose told her it was two cats and a dog.

Pewter trembled. What was worse, the storm or the bear?

The cubs, born in January, had been the size of rats. Their amazing growth filled them out to the point where they looked like teddy bears. They blinked, trying to make out the little visitors.

Mrs. Murphy bravely stood her ground. She realized the nursing mother couldn't spring to reach her, and bears shambled anyway. Only at a trot or a run could they move along. The cat determined she had time to talk, and if conversation proved discomfiting, she'd brave the lightning.

"Excuse us. We got caught in the storm."A searing flash of lightning underscored her words.

"/ can see that" The gravelly voice betrayed no anger.

"Bears eat little mammals,"Pewter unhelpfully blurted out as she backed away.

"I'd much rather eat berries and honey. Say, you don't know where there are bees' nests, do you? Close by. Can't range too far with the children, although they're growing like weeds."

"If you go down to where Potlicker Creek feeds into Harry's Creek— that's what I call it — right on that corner is a dead oak, really big, and the woodpeckers have been at it. Huge nest of bees."

"Goody."She smiled, revealing fearsome teeth.

"Wild bees are so aggressive. Don't they hurt you?"Mrs. Murphy thought it best to keep her engaged in subjects interesting to her.

"They can't sting me. And I know how to protect my nose and eyes. Did you know that wild-bee honey is much stronger than that of domesticated bees? Now, I like both, I can tell you, but the wild-bee honey packs a powerful sweet punch."

"How's fishing been?"The intrepid tiger cat remembered how much black bears like to fish.

"Good. Crawfish haven't been bad, either. Sometimes they taste like nuts. I Just love them. I love to eat."

"Me, too."Pewter relaxed a little, but she kept one ear cocked, hoping the storm was diminishing.

"/ can see that." The bear laughed.

"See or smell anything unusual lately?" Tucker asked, to keep the ball rolling.

"Smelted a human at the peach orchard couple of nights ago. They have such a rancid odor, poor things. So easy to track and bring down. Not that I want to kill and eat humans, mind you; even if I did, think of the chemicals. They eat all that processed food. They're a real health hazard."She wrapped her arm around one of the twins, who'd stopped suckling, falling asleep on her breast. "/ don't mind humans. If they leave me alone, I leave them alone. The world is big enough for all."

The rain kept coming down, but the lightning and thunder moved down the ridge.

"Do you have twins every year?"Tucker inquired.

She laughed. "No, I only have a litter every other year. I couldn't bear it," she giggled at her own pun, "more often. Being a mother is an awful lot of work."

The rain softened.

"Did you see what the human was doing the other night at the peach orchard?"Tucker asked.

"Burying another human,"the bear simply said. It was no concern of hers. The three domestic animals looked at one another but said nothing.

"Well, we'll be on our way. Thank you for giving us shelter,"Mrs. Murphy politely said.

"Yes, thank you." Pewter and Tucker both remembered their manners.

"My pleasure. I love my babies, but they prattle on. I enjoyed our conversation."

The three scampered out, running the whole way to the stable. Although soaked, once they scurried into the center aisle they were exhilarated.

"We've got to go to the peach orchard," Mrs. Murphy said.

"Not in this rain,"Pewter replied.

"She's right, Murphy,"Tucker agreed.

Harry tromped in from the opposite side, water coursing off her trusty old Barbour coat. "Where have you been? I looked all over for you all. I was scared to death."

Tucker ran up, sat down, and looked adoringly at Harry. "Mom, we need to go to the peach orchard, if it ever stops raining."

"You all look like drowned rats." Harry took off her coat, hanging it on a tack hook to drip. She picked up a thick barn towel and wiped down Tucker. She tossed it in the Plastic wash bin, fetched another, and cleaned both cats with it. As she was rubbing down Mrs. Murphy, Simon leaned over the hayloft. "What a mess."

"Thanks,"Pewter grumbled as she sat on her rear end, stretched out a hind leg straight, flaring her claws. "I'll never get the mud out"

18

The next day sparkled as though the thunderstorm's dark gray clouds, like giant S.O.S pads, had scrubbed everything clean. Fields glistened, the late dogwoods bloomed even as the regular dogwoods lost their blossoms. Lilacs opened. Fresh air filled lungs, invigorating everyone.

Up at 4:30 A.M., Harry knocked out her chores by noon, hopped in her 1978 Ford pickup, and cruised over to Alicia's to see how her foal crop was doing.

When she drove along the long, winding driveway where the massive trees lent their authority to the place, she noticed the yearlings racing about in the front pasture. Last year's group of Thoroughbreds showed such promise. Harry was eager to see how the foals of two and three months were doing. She'd been so busy she hadn't much time to visit around, although she did manage to see Burly. How funny to see the long-eared little mule nursing on Keepsake, an elegant Thoroughbred. If Keepsake was embarrassed by her offspring she chose not to show it.

Alicia's colors, green and gold, were painted in a band around the middle of the white gateposts to the stable. Once at the graceful white clapboard stable, the colors, in a small band, encircled the posts, which supported the eight-foot overhang. The stable, built at the turn of the twentieth century, evidenced all the charm of pre-World War I America.

"There's Max."Tucker, on her hind legs, joyfully noted the appearance of Alicia's beloved and impressive Gordon setter.

Max, unlike Irish setters or English setters, actively guarded his human. He happily hunted, too, but at a more conservative pace than his ribald Irish cousin or his stately English cousin.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter liked Max well enough, but they were more interested in bolting out of the truck to chase the barn swallows swooping in and out of the stable.