Блейз Клемент - Even Cat Sitters Get The Blues

Downstairs in the carport, a grumpy pelican on the Bronco’s hood gave me a yellow-eyed glare before he went off to find a more hospitable roosting place. If the parakeets in the trees noticed my passing, they decided it was too early for pretend histrionics and closed their eyes again.

My brain was still too sore to try a hard run with Billy Elliot, but I looked into the parking lot as I drove past the Sea Breeze to see if he might be taking Tom’s new girlfriend for a fast-stepping walk. All I saw in the dark lot were sleeping cars. I had to fight the impulse to pull in. Billy Elliot was probably upstairs waiting for me, all nervous and twitchy, but the adolescent ER doctor had done a good job of impressing me with the fact that a concussion wasn’t something to take lightly. I’d give my brains until Monday to finish healing, and then I’d make it up to Billy Elliot with an extra-long run.

I finished the morning dog routine early and headed south to see to the cats. It was still that waking-up time of day, when the only people on the streets are dog walkers, delivery people, and a few enterprising early risers getting a head start on the day. Starbucks was doing a brisk business dispensing hot coffee to a line of caffeine-needy drivers, and I swerved into the turn-in to get my share. Next door, Dr. Phyllis Layton pulled into her empty parking lot and went inside her office. Dr. Layton is an African-American veterinarian of uncommon courtesy to her animal clients. She would never declaw a cat.

Once I’d got my cup of hot jolt juice, I pulled into Dr. Layton’s lot and parked next to her car. She was behind a holly-circled receptionist’s window when I went in, and for a second her face showed a trace of wariness at having such an early morning visitor. Then she saw it was me and smiled.

We exchanged good-mornings and I said, “I have a formerly feral cat client who hates being inside, and he’s spraying and clawing everything in sight. Do you know anybody who lives in the country and would like a good mouser? A kind family with maybe an enclosed porch where he could sleep?”

“And give him lots of affection and protect him from dogs and see that he gets his shots every year?”

“Yeah, that too.”

She laughed. “You can add him to the list.”

She handed me an index card and pointed toward a bulletin board on the waiting room wall where cards were arranged in neat rows.

I said, “I guess you get a lot of requests like this.”

“I do, but the surprising thing is that people read those cards and take in pets that need new homes. Pet lovers are generous.”

I wrote the particulars of Muddy, stressing that he was a nice cat, he just didn’t like being cooped up in a house, and gave my number to call.

I said, “Muddy can get cantankerous. What if somebody takes him and it doesn’t work out?”

“Then they’ll bring him back. A couple of days ago a woman took a miniature bulldog who’d been orphaned when his owner died. He was such a sweet little guy that I’d put a FREE TO GOOD HOME notice out front. She came in late in the afternoon, acted like she loved him, and took him home with her. Brought him back the very next morning. Didn’t even keep him twenty-four hours! Said, being Irish, she hadn’t felt right with such a wee dog. Took me a minute to get what wee meant. I don’t think it was because she was Irish, I think she just changed her mind.”

My head felt as if it needed air holes drilled in it to keep my brains from expanding wider than my skull. I think rage does that to a brain—makes it heat up and swell. I knew before I asked the question what the answer would be.

“Was she a tall dark-haired woman?”

“You know her?”

“I met a woman like that Tuesday morning with a miniature bulldog.”

“Well, I found another home for the wee dog, so it worked out okay.”

I pinned Muddy’s card to Dr. Layton’s board and left her going through pet files.

My cell rang, and I barked “Hello!” without looking at the ID tag.

Mildly, Guidry said, “You get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

“I just found out who the Irishman was who called me. It was Jessica Ballantyne faking an Irish accent.”

“My, my, imagine that. One would almost think she wasn’t an open and aboveboard person.”

I made mocking faces at the phone. “Did you call me because you felt like being an ass, or was there some other reason?”

“We got a call from a neighbor of Kurtz’s last night. He heard gunshots he thought came from Kurtz’s house and wanted us to investigate. The officers who went out found Kurtz in the driveway. He’d been chasing an intruder and collapsed out there.”

“Ken Kurtz was chasing somebody?”

“Probably more like inching along wanting to chase somebody, but he did shoot at somebody. Or at least that’s what he claimed. He said he heard a rumbling noise during the night that he recognized as the sound of one of his garage doors going up. He got up to investigate and saw a man in the courtyard carrying his iguana. The iguana was fighting pretty hard, I guess, because the guy was having trouble holding him. Kurtz fired a shot in the air and the guy dropped the iguana and ran through a garage to the driveway. Kurtz tried to follow him and collapsed. The deputy helped him back to bed and secured the garage. He looked around, but he didn’t see any intruder or evidence of one. Do you think Kurtz hallucinates?”

My heart was racing and I could feel my face growing hot.

I said, “The yard people go through the last garage to get to the courtyard. There’s a storage room in it with an access door to the courtyard.”

“You think it was a yardman?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know who it was.”

That wasn’t altogether true. I had a pretty good idea who it had been. In my head, I heard my own voice telling the crazy fanatic with the sane eyes and the manicure and the Movado wristwatch that I was going to take food outside to a pet. I remembered the little flare of light in the man’s eyes when he’d heard it.

That’s how he’d known where to find Ziggy. I had told him.

I was ashamed to let Guidry know that I’d been played so easily. Instead, I bitched about the religious fanatics gathered outside the Kurtz house.

“Can’t you make them disperse?”

“Not unless they’re blocking traffic or harassing people.”

“They blocked the driveway and they harassed me.”

“I’ll have somebody stop by and talk to them.”

I rang off wondering why a man who only pretended to be afraid of the number 666 would want to steal Ziggy.

Rage at Jessica and chagrin at having been used by the fake monk stayed with me all morning, sitting between my ears and humming like a power line beside a country road. The cats all sensed it and stayed clear of me, which made me feel bad, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I was like a vibrating magnet, just waiting for the moment when Jessica Ballantyne or the man in the robe would pop up again so I could yell at them.

When I finished with the last cat, I took my rage and hunger to the Village Diner and slammed myself into my regular booth. Judy was immediately there with her coffeepot and a mug for me.

She said, “Why are you frowning? Did you lose that gorgeous guy that was with you Wednesday?”

“I didn’t lose him. He’s a close friend.”

“If I had a friend like that, I’d tie him down and molest him.”

She turned to give a woman across the aisle a coffee refill and left me to cuddle my mug in peace. The woman across the aisle was reading the Herald-Tribune with the front page held in front of her face, so only her short blond hair was visible. My grandfather used to hold the paper like that, sort of screening out the world with newsprint. I always fold a newspaper and look down at it. Maybe it makes me feel more in control of what’s going on in the world if I’m hovering over it.