Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 10 Who Talked to Ghosts

"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."

Leaving Bigfoot rolled cozily in the sweater, they trooped to the bathroom and found a liquid which Verona applied liberally to the scratches while Qwilleran winced and grunted.