Page 22 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
The furball meows again, more insistent, pressing its whiskered face against the window. In the moonlight, its eyes reflect green, pupils wide. It glances over its shoulder, then back at me, pawing more frantically. Its tail is puffed up, not quite Halloween-cat level.
Was something chasing it?
I struggle with the window latch while the catcontinues its squeaky serenade, throwing in some deeper yowls now. Finally, the latch gives with a screech that probably carried to the next county and woke up every cow in a five-mile radius.
The cat shoots inside like its tail is literally on fire and only indoor safety will do. An orange blur streaks past my legs, nearly taking me out at the knees before disappearing into the darkness of the house.
“What’s chasing you?” I mutter, quickly closing the window and making sure the latch catches this time. “Please don’t be fleeing from a mountain lion that’s now going to eat me instead.”
Then I follow my uninvited guest to the kitchen, where the light switch is mercifully easy to find. Harsh fluorescents flicker to life.
“Oh, you know exactly where you are, don’t you?” I study the feline more closely. Definitely well-fed—actually, that might be understating it. This cat has achieved a level of round that speaks to regular meals and probably some stolen extras. Coat glossy and thick, white bib pristine despite its outdoor adventure.
The cat butts its broad head against my hand, purring intensifying to jet-engine levels. I swear the vibrations are making the windows rattle.
“Fine, but no counter surfing.” I scoop up what has to be at least twenty pounds of cat. Good Lord, what are they feeding the barn cats here, entire cows? I set it on the floor with effort. “House rules. Well, temporary house rules that I’m making up as I gobecause apparently I live here now and make rules about cats.”
The fridge is mostly empty. But there’s a can of something in the back, behind a jar of pickles and what might be homemade jam. Tuna pâté, according to the label. The expiration date is still two months away.
“Fancy food it is.” I peel open the can, nose wrinkling at the smell.
The cat winds between my legs, nearly tripping me as I search for a plate. I dump the pâté and set it down, watching the cat attack it with enthusiasm that suggests it hasn’t eaten in days. Which, given its substantial girth, seems unlikely.
“Easy there, chunk. Leave some for?—”
A different scratching interrupts me. This one is at the door, more aggressive, accompanied by what sounds like battle cries.
The cat doesn’t even pause in its eating. Clearly, whatever is outside isn’t its problem anymore.
I creep to the front door, acutely aware that I have no idea what’s on the other side. The door is solid wood, no peephole, no side windows. I reach for the door, my trusting nature way too comfortable right now when there could be anything from a rabid raccoon to a bear on my porch.
The scratching intensifies, followed by a sound that’s definitely not threatening, more like an indignant squeak.
I crack the door open an inch, ready to slam it shutif something with more teeth than I’m comfortable with appears.
Two balls of orange fluff stare up at me, kittens, maybe twelve weeks old, carbon copies of the cat that I assume is their mother, down to the white bibs. One takes the open door as an invitation and darts between my legs with the speed of a tiny rocket. The other locks eyes with me, and I swear I see its little face scrunch up in disgust before it hisses with all the ferocity its tiny body can muster, arches its back, and bolts into the bushes.
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” I shove my feet into flip-flops abandoned by the door. “Come back! You’re all alone. Do you have any idea what’s out there?”
I step outside and immediately realize how very alone I am out here. The main house is dark, maybe two hundred yards away, but it might as well be a hundred miles. The barn structures loom like sleeping giants against the star-filled sky. And beyond that? Miles and miles of wilderness where things eat other things and nobody would hear me scream. Well, maybe the coyotes would hear, but they’d probably just consider it a dinner bell.
The thought makes my skin prick with goose bumps, but the cat…
“Here, kitty kitty,” I whisper-call, following the direction it fled, which is down the path away from both houses. My flip-flops slap against thedusty ground with each step, completely inadequate for the terrain.
Every shadow could hide something with teeth. Every rustle of wind through grass sounds like approaching danger. The rational part of my brain that navigated Chicago’s streets at night without issue is screaming at me to go back inside, lock the door, and let nature take its course. But I keep seeing that tiny orange face, and I can’t.
“I’m going to die out here,” I mutter under my breath. “They’re going to find my body clutched around a kitten, and my obituary will readCity Girl Dies Trying to Save Cat, Surprising No One Who Knew Her.”
A flash of orange disappears into a patch of wildflowers to my right. In the moonlight, they’re silver, as though they’ve come right out of a fairy tale. The good kind, not the Brothers Grimm kind where everyone dies horribly. The flowers release a sweet honey scent as I push through them.
Then I spot the kitten, paused.
It watches me with eyes that glow green in the darkness. “You know if you come to me, you can live in the house,” I call, stumbling into the darkness. “Big house, no forced snuggles unless you want them. Your mom’s inside with food!”
A sound carries through the night—yipping calls answered by others at a distance. Coyotes, my brain supplies helpfully.
“Hear that?” I tell the kitten. “That’s why indoor cats have longer life expectancies. And more toys. And those fancy water fountains. You could have a water fountain!”
