“Why does she keep doing this!” Dooley cried, since he, too, had become a victim of Grace’s latest game. So much so that we’d taken cover in the backyard, hiding behind the rose bushes, where Grace had yet to root us out.
“She seems to derive a certain pleasure from the process,” I said as I nervously scanned the horizon, just in case our newfound nemesis staged a comeback.
“But why? What’s so funny about pulling a cat’s tail?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, “but it seems there is something inherently fascinating about a tail that appeals to the youthful zeal these infants possess in spades.”
It was one more aspect of cohabiting with a human infant that we hadn’t taken into account on that fateful day when Odelia had announced that soon two would become three, and that our home was to be blessed with Kingsley offspring.
So far I hadn’t experienced much of the joy a baby is supposed to bring. If Grace wasn’t pulling our tails, she was vomiting all over our precious fur, or digging a chubby little hand into our food bowls and spreading kibble across the kitchen floor, like a farmer sowing seeds. Or dunking certain objects into our drinking bowls, such as there are: a rubber ball, a pacifier, or a stuffed elephant.
“Oh, where are the days when it was just us and Odelia,” I said with a deep sigh, as I placed my head on my front paws, without relaxing my vigilance, lest our formidable foe suddenly appeared out of the blue, as she often does.
“It’s all Chase’s fault,” said Dooley. “If Odelia hadn’t met him, she wouldn’t have married him, and if she hadn’t married him, Grace wouldn’t have shown up.”
And as we both moodily stared before ourselves, silently blaming Chase Kingsley for this horrible predicament we found ourselves in, a tiny voice suddenly sounded in my ears. It wasn’t Grace, that much was obvious, for she might be a baby, but she has a voice like an opera singer when she’s going well.
No, this voice was so weak it could have been my tummy rumbling and expressing its distress at having to drink water laced with stuffed elephant residue, or eating kibble that has been used to sweep the kitchen floor.
“Help me!” the tiny voice called out.
I glanced over to my friend. But Dooley’s lips weren’t moving, and unless he’d suddenly turned into a ventriloquist, it was clear it wasn’t him asking for help.
“Can you please help me!” the voice repeated, a little louder this time, and more emphatically.
So I glanced around in all directions, my head turning this way and that, and that’s when I finally saw it: a snail was sneaking along the branches of the rose bush we were currently using as cover. The snail was staring at me with helpless bewilderment, and repeated, “Help me, please! I’m hanging on for dear life here!”
As far as I could tell, the snail was firmly glued to that branch, as snails do, and wasn’t in any immediate danger. Still, obviously she or he—or it—was going through a personal crisis of some kind, for its feelers waved back and forth, as if trying to draw my attention, and then it said, “It-it’s going to eat me!”
“What’s going to eat you?” I asked, curious about this creature’s distress.
“What’s going to eat what?” asked Dooley, who’d opened his eyes to take in the strange scene. “Oh, hey there, little guy. How are you doing?”
“Not well, cat,” said the snail. “If I’m not careful, that big bird is going to eat me with hide and hair!”
“I didn’t know snails had hair,” said Dooley, interested. “Though I can understand how being eaten is not a fun prospect. I wouldn’t like it myself.”
“Please chase it away,” said the snail. “I know birds don’t like cats, and so if you could please do me this one little favor, I’ll make it worth your while.”
I looked around for a sign of this bird the snail was talking about, and lo and behold: there was indeed a bird, perched on the top branch of the rose bush, eyeing our slimy little friend with distinct relish reflected in its beady eyes.
“Now shoo, bird,” I said sternly, and waved an admonishing paw in the direction of the bird. “Take a hike, will you? Nothing to see here so move along.”
The bird shifted its gaze from the snail to me, and didn’t seem to like what it saw, for it frowned darkly. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t come between me and my meal, cat,” said the bird with a sort of menacing undertone.
“And what if I do?” I said, not liking the attitude of this bird one little bit.
I’d raised myself up to my full height, which, I have to say, is considerable, and to my satisfaction I saw how the bird seemed to flinch a bit when it saw what it was up against. So finally the bird—it could have been a sparrow, or it could have been a robin, my knowledge of the different bird species is shamefully limited— growled, “Oh, all right. Have it your way.” And after directing one final longing look at our new friend the snail, it spread its wings and flew off, to live and catch another snail another day, I guess.
“Phew, tanks, cat,” said the snail, as it visibly relaxed now that the danger had passed. “That bird had been following me around for quite a while now!”
“I don’t understand why birds eat snails anyway,” said Dooley. “Isn’t it difficult to digest, with all of that slime? And not very tasty either, I would imagine.”
“And let’s not forget about the shell,” I said. I couldn’t imagine trying to swallow down a whole shell. I’m sure it would feel like a brick in my stomach. Then again, birds are strange creatures. And probably possess concrete stomachs.
I’d already taken my position underneath that bush again, preparatory to taking a light nap, when the snail said, “I said I’d make it worth your while, and my name wouldn’t be Rupert if I didn’t keep my promise. So here goes, cats.”
“Here goes what?” asked Dooley, glancing around to see what other slimy creatures would come crawling out from the undergrowth.
“It’s an expression, Dooley,” I said as I stifled a yawn. “It means he’s going to do something.”
“Do what?”
“I don’t know. Something.” Frankly I was feeling a little sleepy right around then. I guess it was because of the adrenaline dissipating from my system. That and being chased around the house by Grace had sapped my strength. So whatever wisdom the snail was intent on imparting, I scarcely paid attention, and even as I dozed off, I was conscious of strange words being spoken by the snail.
“Blue moon,” he said. Or words to that effect.
If only I’d paid closer attention, and hadn’t allowed my natural vigilance to waver at that crucial moment, it might have saved me a whole lot of trouble!
CHAPTER 2
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Tex had been pottering around in his backyard, weeding the flowerbeds and thinking up ways and means of beautifying his modest little patch of paradise, when his thoughts of floral delight were rudely interrupted by his neighbor Ted, who desired speech.
“Say, Tex,” said Ted, his head popping up over the hedge that served as a natural barrier between both gardens. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Well, that’s a first,” Tex muttered under his breath, as he reluctantly downed tools. It wasn’t that he disliked his neighbor, but it couldn’t be said he liked him a great deal either. There had always existed a certain rivalry between both men, especially when it came to the fate of their respective backyards. Tex had long been a big proponent of the common garden gnome as a way of lending that littleje-ne-sais-quoi to his property, and Ted had more or less brazenly copied the idea. The result was a sort of garden gnome race between the two homeowners.
“I’ve been thinking we should pool our resources and hire a professional landscaper,” said Ted, as he rubbed his nose then sneezed.
Tex frowned at his neighbor.“What are you talking about? What landscaper?”