Cat Trick

It was raining when I left the library, fat drops that splattered on the windshield of the truck. As I hurried around the side of the house, I could see Hercules’s black-and-white face peering through the porch window. I shook my umbrella before I stepped inside the porch; then I picked him up off the bench under the window. He didn’t even object to the dampness of my jacket. Instead he peered at my face and then looked over at the door to the kitchen. Something was up.

“What did your brother do?” I asked. Herc looked back over my arm as though there were something incredibly fascinating all of a sudden on the floor behind us. “It can’t be that bad.” I stuck the key in the lock. He rested his chin on my shoulder and made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of resignation.

It was that bad. It looked liked catnip-loving zombies had attacked. There were bits from at least two—or maybe three—of Owen’s Fred the Funky Chickens spread all over the kitchen. Yesterday I thought I’d found—and gotten rid of—all the chicken parts he had hidden around the house. Obviously I was wrong.

Tiny bits of Big Bird–yellow fabric littered the floor, and there were flecks of dried catnip everywhere, as though an overzealous chef had been flinging herbs wildly into the air. A yellow feather was floating in Owen’s water dish. The end of his tail was in Herc’s bowl. Owen himself was on his back, gnawing on what I was guessing was part of a chicken head, held in his two front paws, while his hind feet circled lazily through the air as though he were aimlessly pedaling a bicycle.

Hercules made a sour face as I set him on the floor. He didn’t like mess and he didn’t like catnip, either. He headed out of the room, working his way around the mess, stopping twice to lift up a paw and shake it.

I set down my briefcase and the cardboard boxes of cupcakes, crossed my arms over my chest and glared at Owen, who hadn’t seemed to register that I was actually home. “Owen, what the heck do you think you’re doing?” I said.

He looked over at me, his eyes not really focusing. He shook his head, rolled over and got to his feet, the chicken head hanging out of his mouth. He looked like a drunken sailor after a raucous night of shore leave.

“Bring that over here,” I said.

He squinted up at the ceiling as though I hadn’t spoken.

I walked over to him, bent down and held out my hand. “Let’s have it, Fuzzy Wuzzy.”

He made a growly noise and bit down even harder on the bright yellow fabric.

I leaned sideways, looked past him and said, “Whoa, big mouse!”

Owen’s furry head whipped around so fast, he had to take a step so he didn’t fall over. The dismembered chicken head dropped out of his teeth, and I scooped it up before it hit the kitchen floor.

He yowled his anger, but it was too late. I took a couple of steps sideways and the late Fred’s head was resting in the garbage can. I turned around and crouched down so I was at the cat’s level. His eyes were almost slits and his mouth was pinched into a sour pucker. He looked liked a sulky child, and he wouldn’t meet my gaze.

“You are in so much trouble,” I told him. “Why did you do this?” He kept his focus on the cupboards. “Is this because I threw away the two chicken heads I found under the sofa yesterday?” I didn’t say I’d also tossed a whole chicken that was in my winter boots and a body minus a head that had been behind a box in the bedroom closet.

Owen made a huffy noise out through his nose. I sighed and shifted sideways so I was in front of him again. “Okay, I’m sorry I did that without telling you, but those things were covered in cat spit and they’d already been overpowered by the dust bunnies. And they smelled.”

One ear twitched, but it was the only sign he was listening. “You could have made your point without spreading catnip and chicken bits all over the kitchen.” I reached over to stroke the fur on the top of his head with one finger. “I’m going to get the vacuum and clean this up,” I said. “Then we’re going to have supper and maybe, maybe you can have a taste of that new kitty kibble I bought.”

He rubbed his head against my hand without looking at me; then he headed for the living room, walking slowly and deliberately because he still had a little catnip buzz going.