Shirley Murphy: Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Telling_Tales_BookFi

But now as dusk fell, Misto rose, gave Kit a flick of his thin yellow tail, and headed away to his evening ritual. Kit watched him trot away along the edge of the sea cliff that climbed high above the sand. When she could no longer see him, when his yellow coat was lost among the tall, yellow grass, she spun around and raced for home, a dark little shadow leaping across the rooftops and branches from one cottage to the next. Her two elderly housemates would have a nice hot supper waiting, and Pedric might have his own tales to tell, as the thin old man often did. But even as she fled for home thinking of a cozy evening with the two humans she loved best in all the world, the image of the bony old woman disturbed her, the sense of a life gone amiss, of pain and worry wrapping close the lonely woman who had no home and, Kit guessed, no friends.

4

Aquarter mile to the south where the cliff rose high above the sand, a little fishing dock crossed the shore below, a simple wooden structure. A tall flight of wooden steps led up the cliff, to a path that met the narrow road above. The sun was gone now, and above a low scarf of dark clouds the evening sky shone silver. On the pale sand, long shadows stretched beneath the little dock; winding among them, a band of stray cats waited, circling the dark pilings shy and hungry, rubbing against the tarred posts, waiting for their supper, listening for the sound of an approaching vehicle. There was little traffic on the road above, though earlier in the day tourists’ cars had eased past bumper to bumper, the occupants ogling the handsome oceanfront homes on the far side of the road, homes innovative in their architecture and surrounded by impressive gardens. That was a world apart from what the stray cats had ever known; they didn’t go up there among humans to hunt, they kept to the wild and empty cliff and its little sheltering caves strung above the shore. Now, when they heard the van coming, still three blocks away, heard its familiar purr and the sound of its tires crunching loose gravel, they crouched listening, ears up or flattened, tails waving or tucked under, depending on how each one viewed the approaching human.

The van stopped on the cliff above, they heard the door open, listened to John Firetti’s familiar step approaching the cliffside stairs, the soft scuff of his shoes as he descended the wooden steps.

He was a slim man, well built, his high forehead sunburned where his pale brown hair was receding. Mild brown eyes behind rimless glasses, a twinkle of compassion and amusement—and perhaps, too, a barely concealed expression of amazement. Even as he approached the cats, Misto came racing along the cliff to meet him, lashing his thin tail with humor, beating Firetti to the bottom, looking back up at him with a silent laugh. The veterinarian carried a big, crinkling bag of kitty kibble and meat, a paper sack of scraps that smelled of roast beef, and two fat jugs of water.

Descending to the sand, man and cat moved together beside the dock, from one feeding station to the next, setting down bowls of kibble, rinsing and filling water bowls. The bolder cats rubbed against John’s ankles, and none of them shied from Misto. Only two cats kept away from the crowd, peering down from the cliff above, half hidden in the tall grass. The two young ones had arrived together, most likely dumped there, and were shy and new to the group. Dr. Firetti and Misto pretended not to notice them.

John Firetti had grown up in the village and had never wanted to live anywhere else. Vet school at U.C. Davis, and then his years at Cornell, that was a time in his life when he studied hard, got his degrees, then hurried home again to practice in his own small village, near the open hills and the sea. Returning from college he joined his father’s practice, and joined, as well, the older doctor’s care of the seashore ferals, feeding them, trapping and neutering any newcomers, giving them their shots then turning them loose again. The two veterinarians were among the first practitioners of the Trap-Neuter-Release programs that were now at work all over the country, helping sick and hungry stray cats, and preventing the unwanted tide of homeless kittens. Father and son had worked together in this venture, just as in the practice, until John’s father died of a sudden massive stroke. They had, tending to the needs of the homeless band, harbored a dream that only a few people would understand or believe. John Firetti was nearly fifty when that dream came true—though the cat he had waited for was not from the feral band as he and his father had imagined. He was not one of the new generation of feral kittens that they had hoped would be born with special talents. Often such a skill skipped generations. In fact, after waiting and watching for so many years, John didn’t discover the cat of his dreams at all.

The cat found him.

The good vet was only sorry his father wasn’t there to share the wonder of their visitor. That meeting was the best Christmas present John, or Misto himself, could have imagined. John and his wife, Mary, were still amazed to be sharing their home with the talkative old tomcat, they never tired of hearing Misto’s adventures. As for Misto, what could be more comforting than sharing his true nature, and his stories, with a pair of humans he knew he could trust? Having found his way back to the village after a lifetime of wandering, he’d received, from Joe Grey, a history of the Firettis more complete than any cop’s background report; moving in with the Firettis, he felt as if they had always been family. Evenings before the fire, the three of them trading stories, was a dream answered for all three of them.

This evening Misto watched the wild little cats eating nervously and glancing around to make sure no dog or human came up the beach; but when John went back up the stairs to approach two humane traps that he had hidden in the forest of grass, Misto followed him.

The doors of both traps were bound open with bungee cords; Misto sniffed at them, then looked up at John. “They’ve been inside,” he said, his whiskers twitching at the scent of the two half-grown kittens. “Been in again, licked the plates dry again.”

John pulled out the empty dishes. “I think it’s time.” He put in new dishes that smelled of freshly opened tuna. He removed the bungee cords from the doors, so they would slam shut the instant a cat moved deep inside and stepped on the flat metal trigger that looked like part of the cage floor. The slamming door would scare the captive but in no way would harm him; he’d be deep inside, two feet away, when it sprang closed.

“They’re only kittens,” Misto said. “Maybe you’ll find homes for them, maybe the people who dumped them will find a place to live and come back for them.”

John turned to look at him. “Would you give them back?”

Misto lowered his ears. “I guess not, I guess they wouldn’t take any better care of them the second time around.” Man and cat shared a comfortable look, and headed away together where they could watch the traps unnoticed. They were halfway to the van when Joe Grey came trotting over the roof of a sprawling clifftop home, and paused to watch.

Having left Dulcie among the roofs of the village shops, he’d watched her head for the library where, during the busy evening hours, she would preen among her admirers, always dutiful as the official library cat. He had to smile at the number of pets and hugs she’d receive from patrons all unaware that, moments earlier, the tabby’s sweet face and dainty paws had been grisly with the blood and gore of freshly slaughtered rats.

Too full of rat himself to go home for supper, he’d headed for the shore, for the little ceremony of the evening feeding. Moving over the rooftops, he had appeared as only a gray shadow within the shadows of the sheltering oaks, his white markings dancing along like pale moths, white stripe of nose, white paws and apron as disembodied as the Cheshire cat’s fading smile.