"Houdini! Where are you?"
"We’re gonna be late, you cursed cat!" I muttered, and other less fortunate imprecations as I ransacked the house. Behind the couch? No. In the laundry basket? No. Under the bed? No. On the top shelf in the closet? No. In the other closets? No, no, no, and no. On top of the bookshelves, inside the kitchen cabinets, under the bedspread, inside the dryer, on top of the water heater? No and no and no. I shook a box of his favorite treats, turned on the can opener. No Houdini. I even looked inside the cat carrier, which I had left open and sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor while I searched for my vagabond. Nope."
I gave up. Picked up the telephone and dialed the vet’s office. "Shirley, I’m going to have to reschedule Houdini’s shots. I can’t find him anywhere this morning."
"Have you looked outside?"
"He can’t be outside — he was inside last night when I went to bed, and I didn’t let him out this morning because of the appointment. No, he’s here somewhere — he’s just found a new place to hide."
Shirley chuckled. "Bren, humor me. Look outside."
"He can’t be outside, I tell you," I grumped, as I carried the phone to the back door and threw it open. "There, you see — he’s not — "
Rrrowwr, said Houdini, as he strutted in and twined between my ankles, his long tail whipping back and forth impatiently. I gaped. "How did you do that?" He sat down, stretched one leg up in the air, and proceeded to clean between his toes. Rrrrur, he smirked.
I could hear Shirley laughing on the other end of the phone. "How does he do that, Shirley? I swear I didn’t let him out!"
"Cats never tell, Bren. So we’ll see you two in a few minutes?"
Houdini got up, stretched to an impossible length, walked over to the cat carrier, and curled up inside. "Yeah, Shirley. We’re out the door now." I hung up and shook my head at the feline. "How can a cat make me feel so stupid?" He blinked at me.
‡ ‡ ‡
Halfway to the vet’s office, I braked for a red light. With a soft plop, Houdini landed in the passenger seat, sat down, and curled his tail around his paws.
"How the — ?" I jerked around and stared at the back seat. The cat carrier rested where I had belted it in; the door flopped open on its hinge. "How’d you do that?" I asked as horns blared behind me and I fumbled the car back into gear.
Houdini stood and braced his front legs against the door grip. Mmmrreep, he editorialized as he watched the passing traffic.
‡ ‡ ‡
He was the only survivor of a litter of four — at least, there were four live kittens in the box that was dumped outside the Northside Animal Clinic one chilly October night. Pam, the veterinary technician, found them when she came to unlock the office and feed the boarders at dawn. They were so young, none of them had yet opened their eyes, she told me later. She put the tiny morsels on a heating pad and tried to keep them alive. She hand-nursed them every two hours for days — and watched three of them die, one by one. Just too young, too weak, to make it.
The fourth one, a male, white with big black spots like a cow, was too obstinate to die. He guzzled his Enfamil and graduated to Gerbers, and grew long of tail and round of belly and piebald, while Pam, who already had a house full of strays, tried to find him a home.
I heard all this from my friend Nancy, who arrived with the black and white bundle on my doorstep on my birthday. "Here, you need a cat," she said, handing him over.
"What would I do with a cat?" I asked, as he settled into my cupped hands and began to purr so loudly his whole body vibrated. I couldn’t believe such a big sound could come from such a tiny package.
"I think you should call him ‘Gateway,’ ‘cause he looks like the boxes Gateway packs computers in," Nancy said in answer to my question.
"‘Gateway’? Who ever heard of a cat named ‘Gateway’? ‘Motorboat,’ maybe. Or ‘Internal Compression Engine.’ I could call him ‘I.C.’ for short." I frowned at the entity in question, who had fallen fast asleep. When I attempted to put him down on a pillow on the couch, he flexed tiny, white claws and sank them lightly into the base of my thumb, and slumbered on.
Nancy grinned at me. "Happy birthday!"
‡ ‡ ‡
For weeks I tried names on my new housemate, but none fit. He answered as well to "Hey, you!" as to "Kitty" or "Puss" — which is to say, if he felt like it and when he got around to it. I had every intention of keeping him an indoor cat. I might not have sought out this responsibility, but I intended to be careful with it. I knew the dangers of dogs and traffic, of diseases and wanderlust.
About the dozenth time he slipped eel-like between my blocking feet, eluded my desperate grab, and vanished into the flower bed, to stay just inches beyond my grasp as I tried to coax, lure, and bribe him back inside — about the tenth time I was late for work because of how long it had taken me to catch him after he got out, and my supervisor remarked upon my new habit of tardiness — I gave up. He was more stubborn than I could afford to be. "You’re a regular houdini, you know that? I just hope you’re as resourceful about staying in one piece while I’m at work." He had a name, and we had a new routine.
‡ ‡ ‡
"I don’t think he liked those drops up his nose," I said, contemplating the drops of blood that stitched a line across the back of my hand.
Dr. Pat aimed Houdini at the cat carrier and let him go. He scuttled inside and turned around to glare at me. The black tip of his nose, which looked like he’d been sniffing at the same paint pot which had decorated his ears, his tail, and large portions of his back and sides, twitched balefully. Ssstthhft, he warned.
"Right back atcha," I said as I latched the carrier’s door. I yanked on it to make sure that this time it was secure.
"Here, I’ll take him up front," Dr. Pat volunteered. "You need to wash that hand. Use the antibacterial soap, and put some of this ointment on it after. Cat scratches infect easily."
"Memo to self: Break up with girlfriend before she gives me another birthday present." I turned to the sink.
‡ ‡ ‡
Shirley had the bill ready when I got up front. While I was writing the check, I felt a familiar presence rub against my ankle. I looked down. The carrier gaped open and Houdini was polishing his forehead on my shoe.
"Hey, Dr. Pat — did you let this rascal out?"
"Not me!" her voice floated out of the back.
"Shirley, I’m not going to sign this check until you tell me how he does that!"
She just laughed and dangled his rabies tag in front of me.
‡ ‡ ‡
Houdini consented to stay inside his carrier on the trip back from the vet. When I unlatched it and let him out, he disappeared into the bedroom. I didn’t see him again for the rest of the day. Dr. Pat had warned me that the series of injections might give him a mild fever and make him feel stiff and sore for a day or two. "Don’t worry if he doesn’t want to eat anything and just hides under the bed to sleep it off," she said.
"Well, it’s not like I ever know where he is anyway," I replied.
That evening, as I watched television, I heard a scuffling in the bedroom, accompanied by tiny sliding and tinkling sounds. I walked in to find Houdini playing with something by throwing it up in the air and pouncing on it dramatically. "Oh, it’s catch-the-mouse, huh? I guess you don’t feel so bad after all. What’s that you’re playing with?" Then I saw what it was.
"Hey, no! Don’t play with that! It’s worth a lot more than your scrawny hide!" I reached for it, but Houdini slapped a possessive paw over it and growled at me. I froze. After a moment he seemed to think that he had made his point. He moved a pace away, sat down with his tail curled around his paws, and licked his shoulder as if to say, I’m through with it, you can have it now.
I picked the brooch up and dusted it off."Little man, this is not a toy! My grandfather gave this to my grandmother on their tenth wedding anniversary. It’s the only thing of hers I have." I sat on the side of the bed and let my fingers trace the curves. Antique filigreed gold, formed into a treble clef (my grandmother was a music teacher), set with three small diamonds. Instead of being mounted on a pin, it dangled from a short length of chain, with clips at each end. It was meant to clip between the points of a collar, or the sides of a sweater.
"I plan to give this to my daughter one day, so hands off!" I placed it in the small box I keep on top of the dresser which holds my few valuables, and turned the key. "That’ll keep it out of your paws. Go play with your catnip mouse."
Mrrrowwr, he sniffed disdainfully, and stalked out of the room.
‡ ‡ ‡
I stayed up later than usual reading a volume of horror stories. Houdini dozed on the bed beside my knee.
"Hey, look, Houdini — here’s one by Stephen King, about a black and white cat like you!" Houdini opened one eye and shut it again.
A few minutes later I looked up again. "On second thought, Houdini, don’t read this one. This cat is evil, and I don’t want you getting any ideas." Houdini stretched and yawned, exposing a vast pinkness. He curled back into a ball and put a paw over his eyes, but I didn’t know if it was to follow my advice or as a comment about the fact I still had the light on.
A short time later I decided he had the right idea and put the book aside. The clock read 1:45. "Whoa, I stayed up way too late. Hope that story doesn’t give me nightmares. Good thing I can sleep in tomorrow. Hey, Houdini — don’t wake me up early, okay?" He looked so peaceful, snoozing there. I noticed he had fallen asleep with a tiny bit of his tongue sticking out. I leaned over and touched it gently with my finger until he pulled the pink scrap back into his mouth, all without waking. "G’night, boy."
I turned off the light and snuggled into the covers. A moment later I felt a solid weight drape itself over my feet. "Hey — off!" I said and kicked out. Rrrrwwwr, he said, and came right back. I was too sleepy to argue. "All right, stay there. Pest."
‡ ‡ ‡
An unearthly wail woke me. I sat up and blinked at the clock. It blinked back 4:00. "Wha — ?"
The screeching came again, from the window. I turned on the light. Houdini was spread-eagled across the window screen, attached like velcro to the outside. As I watched he plucked at the screen wires and screamed again. I could only imagine some animal had gotten into the back yard and chased him up the window, but how had he gotten outside?
I grabbed my robe and shoved me feet into my sneakers. "I’m coming, I’m coming!" I yelled, as he screeched again. I ran through the kitchen, threw open the back door, and flipped on the outside light. Houdini dropped off the window and scuttled across the yard to the wooden fence. He leaped to the top and stood there, back arched, tail fluffed, and alternately hissing and howling. I couldn’t see what had frightened him.
I walked over to him, talking softly to try to calm him down. He looked out of control, and I was afraid to pick him up. Just as I reached up a hand to pet him, he jumped down, ran between my legs, and straight back into the house through the open door.
"What the hell was that all about, cat?" I complained as I turned around. "Can I go back to bed now?" I took two steps toward the door — then the sun rose early and blossomed in my kitchen. I felt myself flying through the air, then my head slammed into something hard and I fell into blackness.
‡ ‡ ‡
I live in a small Texas town but we have an excellent volunteer fire department. The first pumper truck was pulling up almost before Betty Culpepper got through dialing 911, and paramedics arrived just as Harvey Culpepper helped me stagger around the side of the house into the front yard. The technician decided I probably didn’t have a concussion about the time that Dr. Blanton, from two streets over, arrived in his pajamas with his medical bag. The fire captain found me sitting on the back step of the ambulance while Dr. Blanton stitched up a three-inch gash in the back of my head.
"We think it was a propane leak," he said, as I watched my house and all my possessions burn merrily to the ground. "Probably the water heater." I tried to nod, but Dr. Blanton said, "Don’t move your head!"
"You probably didn’t smell the leak because propane is heavier than air; it puddles down near the floor," the fire captain resumed. "How’d you happen to get out?"
"My cat was outside, screaming about something. I went out back to see what was wrong."
The captain nodded. "When you walked through the kitchen, the gas vapors would have swirled up in your wake. As soon as they get high enough to reach a source of ignition — " his hands pantomimed BOOM. He yelled at one of the men aiming a hose at the roof and motioned him to move the spray to another area. "Well, at least you and the cat made it."
"He didn’t," I said through tears. "He ran back inside just before the explosion."
Dr. Blanton finished taping a bandage over the stitches. "Don’t get that wet, and come into my office to have the stitches removed in a week."
The fire captain reached into his pocket and handed me his handkerchief. I wiped the tears off my face and the cloth came away black with soot. I decided it would be better not to give it back. The captain was frowning at something away to my left. "Is your cat white with big black spots?" he asked.
I nodded, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.
"Well, is that him sitting on the fender of that pumper truck over there?"
‡ ‡ ‡
Houdini did a little dance with his front feet as I approached. There wasn’t a smudge of soot or drop of water on him, and he looked pleased with himself. "How do you do that?" I whispered around the pain in my throat. Mmmrrrr, he rumbled.
There was something tangled in his collar. I reached up to unwind it, a task made more difficult by the way Houdini kept scrubbing his jaw against my fingers. Gently I turned my grandmother’s brooch over in my sooty hand. "How — ?"
Rrrroowwr, he answered. Cats never tell. Then he leaped down onto my shoulder, and dug his claws in to secure his balance.
— the end
© 1999, 2004, 2005, 2006 by Carrie Richerson. Comments? email: carrie@carriericherson.info