Then we discovered that Rivers and the kittens had fleas. This turned out to be a wicked flea year in Jackson, which happens every now and then, and the kittens had more than their share. JoAnne called the vet for information about what to do. Just powder them with another kind of flea powder, the vet advised, and gave a brand name. So we began bringing the kittens out one by one and lavishing them with flea powder. Each time we did this, Rivers would move the kittens to another hiding place. After three or four of these moves, she located a spot we could not find. For days we would see her sneak through a cabinet in the basement, but search as we did we could not locate the sequestered kittens. She began spending more time away from them, and we became anguished. Friends came and helped us look, but the kittens had vanished.
Finally, we found her hiding place under the house. I crawled under there and looked at them. Only one of the kittens was alive—one of the white ones. I surmised it was Savannah, since little Spit had been so tiny to begin with. But she was alive just barely, only a wisp of life lingering, as if she would expire at any moment. I put her in my arms and we took her to the car to rush her to the animal emergency clinic.
JoAnne drove the three miles to the clinic. To allow the stricken kitten to breathe better, I held her up on the dashboard. She was only slightly bigger than the palm of my hand. She hardly could move there. But she extended her paws toward me, as if she desperately wanted to live, bobbing her head lightly back and forth. At the destination JoAnne was too distraught to leave the car. I took the kitten inside.
The animal nurse on duty examined the patient and declared her technically dead. Nothing could be done, she said. But then the veterinarian came in, whose name was Dr, Majure. He looked over the woebegone little creature more closely. "There's hope, " he said. "We've got a cat who gives blood transfusions to sick kittens." They called him Clinic Gat and he had already saved several kittens. He was two years old, weighed sixteen pounds, and had Type B blood, he said, the preferred type for cat transfusions.
"Your kitten's dying of anemia. Leave him here overnight. We'll fetch Clinic Cat. There's a chance we can save him. I can't promise. Come back in the morning."
I was about to leave, but tarried at the door. "Did I hear you say him? My cat?"
"Sure. He's a male."
In the car I told JoAnne about the projected transfusion, then: "But it's not Savannah. It's Spit McGee."
I spent a restless night, consumed with worry for the dying Spit. With trepidation I returned the next day. The vet brought him out to me. "He's going to be okay. The little fellow didn't want to die." The transformation from the previous night was miraculous. His eyes were bright and he moved about vigorously in the arms of the vet. "This is going to be a good cat, this boy," he surmised. "This is going to be a bad cat. See what I've noticed? He's got one blue eye and one golden eye. That's a good sign. And look who's here." A huge, furry cat with Siamese eyes and eclectic orange colors strolled into the room. I knew who this was without asking. "Thank you, Clinic Cat," I said.
Vincent
Jim Edgar
The Christmas light displays along Tacoma's Division Avenue formed the same configurations as last year, and the year before that. It was this consistency that made Vincent smile as he walked along the sidewalk admiring the various spectacles. On one lawn, brilliant diamonds formed reindeer and snowmen, while the house next door was a flashing kaleidoscopic nightmare. It's enough to give a cat a seizure, Vincent thought.
He trotted down the street to a house adorned with twinkling icicles. A year earlier, he had been standing in the same spot watching a white female kitten jumping along the sill of the house's large front window. The window's curtain was closed this year.
The velvet satchel that hung around Vincent's neck was growing heavy, its contents demanding delivery. It can wait, he thought. Christmas only comes once a year.
A soft glow exuded from the side of the house. Vincent crept across the lawn and followed the light to a low window. He jumped to the sill and peered in. The same family as last year; mother, father, son. The boy had grown quite a bit. How old was he now… six perhaps? More handsome, a bit more blond. Vincent imagined the boy playing with the kitten, giving her treats, stroking her back, opening her Christmas presents for her. The boy giggled and climbed to his father's lap on a large recliner. Vincent sighed and let his gaze wander, searching for the white kitten.
Around the far corner of the living room she came at full speed, dodging the coffee table and barely missing the bounty of gifts piled beneath the family Christmas tree. She slipped on the linoleum of the dining area and disappeared around another corner. Vincent waited for her return from the other room, wondering which gifts were hers. Finally, when she didn't appear, he jumped from the sill and crept back to the sidewalk.
He turned to look back down Division Avenue. Lights as far as he could see. Lights on houses, houses with families, some families with cats. But none of the houses were his and none of the families were his. Vincent stood alone and watched the lights blaze.
He walked away to make his delivery.
Three blocks away, Vincent was still enchanted by the Christmas lights when he was surprised by Sammy of Hilltop. So surprised that he struck out at Sammy with a six-clawed right hook.
"Hey, Vinnie, it's me!" Sammy cried, barely avoiding the potentially lethal swipe.
"Sorry, Sammy! You surprised me! You should know better."
Sammy was catching his breath as he spoke. "Rolfondo told me to find you, in a hurry too. He needs you to make one more pickup in Old Town."
Vincent sighed. Old Town Tacoma took him farther out of his way than he would have liked—all the way down to the original Tacoma waterfront. He only wanted to drop off his collection sack and go home to be with his solitary thoughts.
"The Phuong brothers?" Vincent asked, annoyed that the reverie of his evening would likely be marred by violence.
"Yeah. He said you know them best, so you'd have more luck."
Vincent nodded. When the brothers first arrived in Tacoma, the eldest, True, had struck out on his own, finding employment with Vincent's boss as an enforcer.
More muscle than brains, True had looked to Vincent for help more than once on assignments and had even shared Vincent's home for a year. Rolfondo, Vincent's boss, had finally had enough and sent True back to his own family.
"How much do they owe?"
"Dunno, probably a lot. They haven't paid anything yet."
"Okay," Vincent reluctantly agreed. "Can you do me a favor and take this back to Rolfondo for me?" he asked, motioning to the satchel hanging from his neck.
"Oh no, Vinnie. You know how that stuff messes me up," Sammy said.
Vincent knew. He had seen Sammy flip out over lesser quality catnip before. The thought of taking an almost-full sack into Old Town made him nervous, but losing it all to Sammy's instinctual feline reactions would be unforgivable. Their boss didn't accept such lack in judgment.
"Okay," Vincent said. "Tell Rolfondo I will see him in an hour."
The waterfront was fifteen minutes away, at a good clip, and from there only half an hour to the warehouse. This gave Vincent some extra time to check out the light displays on the boats docked along the old piers. They always brought cheer to his loneliest time of the year.
"Alright, Vinnie. See you later." Sammy turned and trotted down the street.
"Hey, Sammy. Merry Christmas."
"Yeah," Sammy said over his shoulder. "You too, Vinnie."