Shirley Rousseau Murphy
Cat Striking Back
Book 15 in the Joe Grey series, 2009
To the memory of Willow
She lives on in the wild clowder
It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself-to offer violence to its own nature-to do wrong for the wrong’s sake only-that urged me to…consummate the injury I had inflicted upon the unoffending brute…my wonder and my terror were extreme…I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat…I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart…which give direction to the character of man.
– Edgar Allan Poe, “The Black Cat”
1
THE SETTING MOON laid its path across the sea, brightening the white sand and the little village, picking out the angles of its crowded roofs and glancing off the windows of the shops and cottages; moon glow caressed the shaggy pines and cypress trees and pooled dark shadows beneath them along the narrow streets. The only sound, at this predawn hour, was the hush of waves breaking on the shore. But inland, all was silent. Where the hills rose round and empty, the moon’s path washed in bright curves. Between the moonlit hills, the narrow valleys were cast in blackness so dense that the tomcat had to make his way by sound and by whisker feel, by familiar smells, by the degree of the slope and the feel of the earth beneath his paws, rocky or soft or bristling with dry grass or smooth where sand had blown across the narrow game trail, each encounter marking more clearly his exact location in relation to home. The tomcat traveled alone, encumbered by his heavy burden.
Padding down toward the first scattered houses, he walked clumsily, not his usual bold gait but spraddle legged and awkward, stepping wide around the half dozen mice that dangled against his chest, their tails gripped tight in his sharp teeth.
He was a big cat, muscled and sleek coated, as silver-gray as burnished pewter. A narrow white strip ran down his nose, and his belly and paws were white, too-one paw spattered, now, with mouse blood. His tail was docked to a short, jaunty length, the product of a kittenhood disaster. His yellow eyes gleamed with the look of a fighter, but his eyes were alight, too, with a smile; he turned once to look back up the hills behind him, watching his tabby lady Dulcie and their younger, tortoiseshell friend Kit move away, trotting higher up across the open land. He had only just parted from his two companions, the lady cats not satisfied only with hunting, but hurrying off to follow their overly curious noses-typical females, he thought tenderly.
Take care, Joe Grey thought, watching the two cats moving swiftly away up the moon-washed hills. They looked very small and alone, careening close to the scattered boulders where they could find hurried shelter. He could hear, as could they, the yipping of coyotes far away, up the higher slopes. Though this yipping of adults and the answering yaps of their cubs meant, surely, that the group of larger predators was all together, preoccupied with their offspring and not wandering far afield to sniff out unsuspecting felines.
But still Joe thought again, Watch your backs, you two. And nervously he turned away, dragging his clutch of mice, hurrying down past the wooden frame that was the beginning of a new house, then past a remodel where the front garden was piled with raw earth waiting for the construction crew. He could smell, over the musty miasma of dangling mice, the fresh scent of raccoons on the trail, and of possums and coastal deer, wild creatures who had made their way down from the hills in darkness to hunt or graze or to slip in among the houses to quench their thirst at a fishpond or a leaky garden hose. As he descended, the houses began to crowd closer together. Far below him the setting moon began to dip into the sea; soon the last thin slice of gold lay reflected and then perversely drowned itself, moving on to light other lands.
Lands he had never seen, and had never longed to see. Life, for Joe Grey, was right here and right now, he didn’t long to travel. His perpetual balancing act between the normal life of an ordinary feline and his more stressful role within the human world itself was all the excitement one tomcat could handle.
Now, with the moon vanished, darkness gripped the yards and houses around him and all but hid the rooftops below, as if a black cloth had been dropped down over the sleeping village. Only a few scattered lights shone, disconnected and eerie, perhaps from the bedroom of an insomniac or the kitchen of an early riser. Farther down along the main street glowed the softly lit storefronts of the village’s upscale shops and restaurants. Though Molena Point was a small and close-knit little community, it was also a tourist town whose business folk offered high-end couture and accessories, valuable antiques and fine jew elry. None of which interested Joe Grey, in itself. But all of which attracted the more sophisticated and enthusiastic thief, who in turn did interest the tomcat.
A tail jerked in his mouth as one of the mice began to struggle. He clenched his teeth harder, but he didn’t want to further injure the little beasts. They were a gift, a gift of love and caring, and they should remain lively to be of ultimate use. One stunned mouse came wide awake, wriggling wildly as it tried to flip up, tried to see and understand where it was and how to escape, to understand why it hung upside down, and Joe felt a shock of pity for the small creature.
It had been difficult enough for him and Dulcie and Kit to trap the mice alive between their paws without hurting them, to patiently collect the half dozen mice unharmed, and the three cats had suffered considerably at the little beasts’ extended terror. One of the disadvantages of possessing human intelligence was that they had to answer to a deeper empathy for other animals than would an ordinary feline. They cared about their prey, they cared that the creatures they caught were hurt and terrified. Ordinarily they killed their catch quickly, ended the victims’ distress as fast as possible, sending the little animals on to their maker with a minimum of pain. But not this morning. This gift must arrive lively and full of fight.
Hurrying along a sidewalk where flowering bushes overhung the concrete, he crossed a narrow residential street, the macadam warm beneath his paws, a pleasant holdover from yesterday’s bright sun and the mild night that had followed. Cutting through the overgrown yard of a house that, with the declining real estate market, had stood empty for far too long, he glanced up at its stark black windows. No curtain, not even a crooked shade broke the reflection of receding night. Joe wondered at such human foolishness, to let a valuable property stand empty month after month. Even a run-down, derelict house, in this village, could command an easy million.
Yet he knew that the sale of this neglected home was delayed not only by the economy but by a marital dispute, a battle over dividing up the spoils. No one but humans could so royally complicate life. A pair of cats would fight it out tooth and claw, winner take all, loser to slink away defeated, and that would be the end of it. But not humans. Human lives were far more complicated-nuanced, some folks called it. Joe Grey called it indecisive.
The neglected property with its overgrown garden did, however, provide fine hunting for the neighborhood cats. More than a dozen cats lived on the few blocks of this short street, and for that reason, Joe and Dulcie and Kit seldom hunted here, leaving the local game, the mice and moles and gophers, to the feline residents. Though they did have one human friend in this neighborhood, a bright, kind woman to whom they felt drawn, and who was always happy to see them. It was to her home that he was delivering the captive mice.