"How about drinking water? Can he have the stuff out of the tap?"
"Tap water will be satisfactory," she said with a serious nod, "and here's his sleeping basket. Put it in a warm place, elevated a foot or two off the floor... And thank you so much, Qwill! Now I must dash. Let me say goodbye to the little dear. " Tenderly she lifted Bootsie from the carrier and touched her nose to his wet one. "Kiss-kiss, sweetums. Be a good kitten." To Qwilleran she added, "Tomorrow is his birthday, by the way; he'll be eleven weeks old."
She gave Qwilleran a fond but hasty farewell, handed him the innocent kitten, and hurried out to her car. He stood holding the handful of purring fur, wondering what had become of the Siamese. They had avoided the opening ceremonies, as well they might, and until he knew their whereabouts he was reluctant to let the kitten out of his grasp.
Koko and Yum Yum, it was eventually discovered, were on top of the seven-foot Pennsylvania German Schrank, sitting side by side in compact bundles, looking petrified.
"Oh, there you are!" Qwilleran said. "Come down and meet Bigfoot."
He placed the kitten carefully on the floor. The tiny thing looked vulnerable with his skinny white neck, skinny brown tail, floppy feet and smudged nose, but once he found himself free of restraints he took a few staggering steps and then shot out of the room like a missile. By the time Qwilleran found him he was on the kitchen counter, eating the leftover meatloaf, waxed paper and all. Seeing the big man, he raced to the front of the apartment with exaggerated leaps like a grasshopper, bouncing from chair to table to desk to bed to dresser. Koko and Yum Yum were still on top of the Schrank, gazing down in apparent disbelief.
For the next few hours Bigfoot created chaos with his wild flight - slamming into furniture, breaking a piece of antique glass, leaping and falling and landing on his back, climbing Qwilleran's pantleg and pouncing on his lap. After a nerve-wracking dinner hour he telephoned Lori Bamba in Mooseville and cried "Help!"
He wasted no time inquiring about the baby's health or Nick's job-hunting. He said, "I don't know how I fell into this trap, Lori. Polly Duncan has a new kitten and I agreed to cat-sit, but he turned out to be a wound-up, hyperactive, jet-propelled maniac! He's driving us all crazy with his whizzing around and pouncing, and all the time he's purring like a Model T with two cylinders missing."
"How old is he?" asked Lori.
"Eleven weeks tomorrow. I'm supposed to sing 'Happy Birthday' to him."
"Remember, Qwill, he's very young, and he's being exposed to a strange house with two big cats. He's apprehensive. Fright causes flight."
"Apprehensive!" Qwilleran shouted. "Koko and Yum Yum are the ones who are apprehensive. They're on top of the seven-foot wardrobe and won't come down, even to eat. Bigfoot ate his own medically approved food, and then he ate their turkey loaf with olives and mushrooms, and then he swooped in and knocked a piece of salmon right off my fork!... And let me tell you something else. Instead of claws he has needles. When I sit down he pounces on my lap and sinks those eighteen needles. Propriety prevents me from describing the effect. Ask your husband to tell you."
Lori was listening sympathetically. "Where is the kitten now?"
"I finally locked him up in his carrier, but I can't leave him in that cramped box for twenty-four hours. Isn't there some kind of feline Mickey Finn?"
"With all that food in his stomach and with the security of the carrier, he should go to sleep soon, Qwill. Leave him there until he calms down. Then at bedtime shut him up in the kitchen with his water dish and litterbox and something soft to sleep on."
"I'll try it. Thanks, Lori."
She was right. Bigfoot was quiet for an evening of serenity, and the Siamese ventured down from their safe perch. The domestic peace was short-lived, however.
Shortly before midnight Qwilleran took the carrier to the kitchen, closed the door and released Bigfoot. For a while the kitten staggered about the floor like a drunken plowman, squeaking and purring at the same time. Then he became quiet and mysteriously absent from view. It should have been obvious that he was lurking in ambush.
Qwilleran was preparing the kitten's bedtime meal - three tablespoons of unappetizing gray hash smeared thinly on a saucer - when he was suddenly attacked from the rear. Bigfoot had pounced on his back and was clinging to his sweater.
"Down!" he yelled, shrugging his shoulders in an at., tempt to dislodge his attacker, but his sweater was a chunky knit pullover, and Bootsie was firmly hooked into the yarn and squealing at the top of his minuscule lungs.
"Down!... Ow-w-w-w'" Every time he yelled, the needles sank deeper into his flesh and the squeals accelerated.
"Shut up, you idiot!"
Qwilleran reached behind his back, first over his shoulders and then around his midriff. The former approach netted him a handful of ears; the latter, only a wisp of a tail. He pulled gently on the tail. "Ow-w-w-w! Damnit!"
Hearing the commotion, the Siamese ventured down from the top of the Schrank and yowled outside the kitchen door. "And you shut up, too!" he bellowed at them.
Stay calm, he told himself and tried sitting quietly on the edge of a chair. It worked, to a degree. Bootsie stopped squealing and gouging but made no attempt to disengage his claws. He was content to spend the night, suspended like a papoose.
After five minutes of inactivity Qwilleran reached the end of his patience. As Lori said, fright causes flight. He jumped to his feet, roaring the useful curse he had learned in North Africa, flapping his arms and galloping about the kitchen like a witch doctor. The curse ended in a prolonged howl of pain as Bigfoot gripped Qwilleran's back for the wild ride.
It was after midnight. In desperation he telephoned the Boswells' number. When he heard Verona's gentle hello, he shouted, "Let me talk to Vince! I'm in bad trouble! This is Qwilleran."
"Oh, dear! Vince hasn't come home," said the soft voice with an overtone of alarm. "Is there any thin' I can do?"
"I've got a cat on my back - with his claws hooked into my sweater! I need someone to pry him loose... Ow-w-w-w!"
"Oh, gracious! I'll come right away." He walked slowly to the front door, trying not to upset Bigfoot, and turned on the yardlights. In a matter of minutes that seemed like hours Verona appeared, running and clutching a flashlight. A heavy jacket was thrown over her shabby bathrobe.
Opening the door in slow motion, he warned her, "Don't make any sudden movement. See if you can grasp him about the middle and raise him gently to unhook the claws. Try releasing one paw at a time."
Verona did as she was told, but when one paw was freed, another clutched with renewed determination.
"I'm afraid it's not workin'. May I make a suggestion?" she asked in her deferential way. "We could take your sweater off over your head? If I roll it up in the back, we should get the kitten and all."
"Okay. Take it easy. Don't alarm him."
"Oh, he's a nice kitty. He's such a nice kitty," Verona cooed as she rolled the sweater over the little animal and then over Qwilleran's head. "Oh, gracious!" she said.
"Your shirt is all bloody?"
He ripped it off.
"And your back is a mess of bloody scratches? Do you have an antiseptic?"
"There's something in the bathroom, I think."