Shirley Murphy - Christmas Cats - A Literary Companion

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice low.

Mother had often told me about how great her neighborhood was and how everyone watched out for each other. It wasn't quite the greeting I'd expected.

"Hi, I'm Margo, Marcella Finney's daughter. She lives down your street?" Pointing for emphasis.

He showed no sign of recognition.

"Mother has lost her cat. A Himalayan named Beamer. I was wondering if you've seen him?"

"No, I…"

Chewy and Sorceress pushed into his house through the slot in the doorway, straining at the leash for me to follow.

"Hey, get those cats outta here," he bellowed. "I'm allergic. They can't be in here!"

Talbot's cheeks turned bright red with anger. He grabbed for Sorceress's leash, only to have Chewy bite his hand. No one messed with Chewy's girl.

"Ouch! Your freakin' cat bit me!"

As Talbot let go of the door to examine the damage to his left hand, it swung open revealing a plush interior, fully decorated for the holiday with candles, lighted tree, cards lining the fireplace mantel, and a full dinner upon the table, similar to the one I had almost been able to enjoy, only his turkey wasn't carved yet, and there was only one place setting. He lived alone. A chair was haphazardly pushed away from an otherwise neat table as though the occupant had arisen quickly.

Did he get a call from his mother, too?

I pulled back on the Bengals' leashes hoping to draw them out of Talbot's house. Chewy struggled and twisted, his long, sinewy body slipping free of the harness. He ran into the house toward the dining room.

"Oh my God," I said. "I'm so sorry. I'd better get him. Please excuse me for a moment."

I squirmed through the open doorway, unmindful of Talbot's reaction. My only thoughts were to retrieve my cat and continue the quest for Mother and Beamer.

Sorceress screeched for Chewy, her voice ranging from a throaty growl to a high-pitched shriek. Her nails dug into the Persian area rugs along our path and left rents in the polished wood floor between. Chewy continued, trotting briskly toward the dining room. I could only hope that his goal wasn't the dining table.

I'd have a lot to apologize for.

"What the hell're you doing?" Talbot yelled. "Get your stinking felines out of my house!"

The cats took me to a closed door beside the dining room. Chewy pushed his paws under the door and hissed, his tail puffed to the extreme. Sorceress crouched low, nose quivering as she sniffed, a low growl echoing from her throat.

I looked at the dark stained wood panel door, then back at Talbot, whom I had expected to follow me. He hadn't. In fact, he had reseated himself at the table, head in his hands.

Odd , I thought. He looks morose. Why would that be ?

Yowling cats returned my attention to the door. Only, when I looked down, it wasn't my cats that were yowling. In fact, both remained crouched at the base of the door, growling and panting. The yowling was coming from the other side of the door.

Why would someone allergic to cats have them?

Again, I looked back at Talbot. He remained seated, not even looking at me.

I opened the door. Chewy and Sorceress rushed in.

As I crossed the threshold and moved into the room I could hardly believe my eyes. My heart thumped so hard I felt it would come up my throat and out my mouth.

Mother was seated on a high-back chair, arms tied at her sides with a long strip of cotton, a ball of material in her mouth, held in place with another strip of material. She squirmed from side to side, eyes bulging from their sockets. On two sides of the room were metal cages, stacked three high. There had to be at least fifteen cats in them. The room reeked from urine; I should've been able to smell this cattery from outside the door, yet I hadn't. (That might've been due to a good ventilation system.) Near Mother's chair was a small operating table of the sort used in veterinary practice surgical suites. The operating table was clean, but for a few stray black hairs, and rope restraints that lay in wait for the next feline victim.

I let go of the Bengals' leashes, and ran to Mother, immediately untying the gag on her mouth.

"Mother!" I wailed. "What the hell's going on?" I untied her arms.

"Margo," she answered, taking deep breaths. "Talbot, he…" She stopped in mid-sentence. Her eyes went wide as she stared at something over my shoulder and pointed, screaming, "Here he comes! Margo, WATCH OUT!"

I pivoted around, partially ducking as a reflex, only to miss impact with Talbot's Christmas turkey, the juices splattering my face and neck.

"Mom! Call the police!" I yelled, hoping Talbot would concentrate on braining me with the cooked bird and not go after Mother as well.

From the corner of my eye I saw Chewy with his paws on Beamer's cage. He licked his lips. Some of the roast turkey juices had hit him in his face. Sorceress sniffed the floor. They both turned away from the screaming cats in the cages, searching for the source of the delectable drippings, noses quivering, paws kneading the tile floor. Food first, screaming cats later.

Talbot raised the glazed, dripping hunk of bird for another strike.

Chewy and Sorceress looked up at the turkey, blue and green eyes locking on their goal. What's more, Talbot gave them "The Signal." (My cats had learned to climb fifty-foot ropes to reach a platform from which they would jump. Their signal: My hands held high in the air. They didn't need any more of an invitation.)

Chewy jumped onto Talbot's right thigh and dug in for the climb. Sorceress, not to be denied her just reward, jumped onto his other thigh. Together they worked their way up the doctor's body, claws leaving bloody runes in his flesh, his slacks shredded.

Bernard Talbot screamed with pain. He stood still, body quivering, turkey still held high, its purpose forgotten to all but the cats. Chewy and Sorceress didn't make any noise as they moved upward. I knew the Bengals would soon reach the turkey and by then Talbot would sink to the floor. Glancing behind me to make sure Mother was gone, I searched for a weapon. Nothing but a tray of surgical instruments. Not good. I'd be bludgeoned with a turkey far faster than I could cut the man's throat with a scalpel. As Chewy and Sorceress reached Talbot's shoulders, forepaws stretching up his arms, I ran from the operating room to the living room, where a fireplace, complete with merry flames of brilliant red, orange, and yellow, greeted me. A fireplace poker, its sharp end coated in gray ash, lay against the side.

Weapons . Far more useful than a turkey.

I had just gotten my hand around the fireplace poker when I heard heavy footsteps. Talbot had emerged from the back room, sans turkey, blood seeping through his torn clothing. I held the poker high, ready to swing.

"You stop right there, Mister. Or, I swear, I'll brain you!" I said in my bravest voice, the fireplace poker shaking as hard as my knees.

Mother peeked out from behind the kitchen door, eyes wide with fright, the lines in her face flat, cheeks red, and lips swollen where the gag had bruised her skin.

"I called 911, " she said, bolstering my courage. "They'll be here soon, Bernard. You may as well give it up." She remained half hidden behind the kitchen door, ready to bolt if Talbot decided to go after her again.

"You'd best just give up," I echoed Mother. I was so frightened I couldn't think up my own reprisal.

The sound of sirens emerged as through a distant fog. I knew the cops would be at least another five minutes. Long enough to make a difference in my life, or death, or somewhere between.

A long wail came out of Chewy's mouth, joined by Sorceress's mewl as they both sauntered into the room, tails waving in the air, faces covered in turkey juice. The Bengals stepped high with pleasure, their bellies distended from their Christmas meal. As much as they wanted to they couldn't eat more than their stomach capacity.