Page 30 of Enemies in Paradise

I let the second set of cats loose in the shop, then set bowls of milk outside the door to lure all four back out. Hopefully, with whatever prey they catch. I hadn’t really thought through the part of my plan where mouse remains would show up.

While they hunt, I dial Georgia to clarify whether Bear is anti-cat because he’s a terrible human being or because he’s allergic. It’s one thing to spring surprise cats on him if it’s the firstreason, which—based on my experience with him—I suspect it is. But it would be another thing altogether to spring four cats and an allergy attack on him.

Before I can push call, someone knocks at my door. When I open it, a man in overalls and a hat withI’m Here. You’re Welcomescrawled across the front stands there, a cat carrier under each arm.

“These two are for in here.” He nods toward the studio.

“Excuse me?”

I barely have the words out before he sets the carriers down, opens the wire doors and lets the cats loose. They dart between my legs, straight inside my apartment.

“They smell something in there!” The man grins, so pleased I don’t know what to say.

Also, I want whatever they smell gone. So maybe six cats is manageable.

“The others are in the shop,” he says.

I’m trying to make sense of what he’s saying when he adds, “I’ll pick ‘em up in a couple days. That’s all it’ll take.”

He talks to me over his shoulder while I follow him toward an old station wagon backed up to the shop door. That’s when I see the stacks of cat carriers in the back of the car.

“How many others?” I rush to catch up to him as he slides into the driver’s seat.

“’Bout a dozen.” He shuts his door and starts the car while I try to process whether “’bout a dozen” means more or less than twelve.

Maybe if I knew his name, I could come up with something to say, or some way to stop him. The only words that come to mind emerge as he drives away.

“Cat hoarding is against the law.” The rumbling of his station wagon, which is missing its exhaust pipe, drowns out my voice.

The only thing I can do is go inside to assess the cat count and hope the dozen carriers I saw weren’t full when he arrived.

That hope shatters the minute I open the door.

The whole place resembles a pet store that only sells cats. Not their food, toys, beds or scratching posts. Just cats. If I were still in LA, I’d have the beginnings of one of those ridiculous cat cafes where people pay to pet cats.

Somehow, I think the people of Paradise would laugh me out of town if I tried that here.

I attempt to count the cats, but they don’t hold still long enough to get an accurate count. I guesstimate thirteen before two run outside, throwing off my numbers. For half a second, I consider whether to catch the escapees, or just shoo the rest outside with them.

Then I remember Catman is coming back for his.

Would he miss them if he didn’t get them back? Or does he have more where they came from? Surely they don’t live inside. They’rebarncats, not pets… right?

In the middle of my internal debate about the ethical responsibility of returning cats to someone who already has too many—while also pointing out to myself I’d crossed the ethics line when I’d put out a revenge call for cats—one cat dashes into a corner with something—a mouse… it’s a mouse—in its mouth.

So that’s fun.

Then I notice a second one with prey dangling from its jaws jump into the Mustang. Other cats are in various stages of hunting. Some crouching, ready to pounce. Others running back and forth across the shop. Still others curled on workspaces, licking their paws.

But it’s the four circling and hissing at each other that have me most worried.

One swipes at another. He swipes back. The other two join in, and within seconds there’s a writhing ball of yowling fur spinning toward me.

I jump out of the way at the same time the full impact of what I’ve done—and how terribly wrong it’s gone—hits me. I can’t let them stay in here.

I spend the next hour shooing cats outside and cleaning up mouse guts, both unsuccessfully. Every time I open the door to let one cat out, another darts back in. And forget about the supposedly dead mice. Half the time I’m about to sweep them up, they dash away, leaving tiny drops of blood behind.

The whole time I’m trying to clean up—and hide—the giant mess I’ve made, I plead with every power in the universe to please not let any Thomsens show up at the shop.

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