“Your daughter?”
“My wife got custody. I try to see her when I can.” He slumped noticeably into the chair.
I thought about Snowball, and how he had behaved around me, and how he had been watching out for the other cats when he’d led them here.
I thought about the missing knives.
“Jeff, why do you think Puff killed that dog? Couldn’t he have just run away? You said you never saw Puff again after he killed the dog anyway.”
“He hated that dog. He would have done anything to kill it.”
“You tried to kill the dog, too.”
“It attacked my daughter! I loved… love my daughter.” He seemed on the verge of tears.
“Maybe that was Puff’s motive, too.”
And then he did cry, for his lost life, the lost years, and his lost family. I let him get it out of his system. I noticed Snowball standing by the kitchen door, watching.
Presently, Jeff said, “I’m afraid of them, Reverend. They’re smarter than us, I think. They’re learning too much. I’m afraid they could take the world away from us.”
“How many of the cats do you think there are now?” I asked.
“I calculated it once. Could be thousands by now.”
“And you think you can get them all?”
“I have to,” he said desperately. “I created them!”
“So you did,” I said. “From what you say I’m not convinced they are the danger that you claim. But there are now more than you can ever hope to rein in yourself. That’s the Lord trying to tell you that they’re no longer your responsibility. They’re His. Like it or not, Jeff, they have their own destiny now.”
“No,” he said. “No.”
“Go home to your wife and daughter. It’s New Year’s Eve. Why are you with me and not with them?”
“No,” he said again, weakly. “No.” But soon out of distress and exhaustion, he fell asleep.
I put another blanket around him and decided to sit up the rest of the night, maintaining a vigil lest Snowball seek to do him harm. My little friend had left the kitchen by that time. But though the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak, and I fell asleep.
I awoke with a start, sunshine was pouring through the window. Jeff was gone, but he’d left a note with a thank you, both for the treatment and the conversation.
And all of the knives were back in the drawer.
It’s been a year now since the stranger was here. I sometimes wonder about him and his lonely battle against the cats. He hasn’t come back this way since then. Maybe he did go home. It’s just as well because I’ve had no reason to regret my decision nor my deception in not telling him about Snowball and the others.
By the following spring, an odd thing happened to Snowball, Frisky, and those others that I had always thought of as the “leaders”—they grew up. By summer I had a dozen adult cats running around the church, but they continued to act as they always had, and they continued to lead the others.
They also started to procreate.
By the fall the back rooms and hallways of my church were filled with adult cats, adult kittens, and genuine kittens. Of these last, I’ve grown particularly fond of those sired by Snowball with the help of Frisky, and even now as I write this memoir they are playing amongst my things, except for one who has taken up position atop my computer monitor, and looks liked he’ll sleep there until the second coming.
It is once again New Year’s Eve and I have spent the entire evening composing this story. I had not seen the need to do so before today, but this morning something happened to put me in the mind to record the details. I do not know what the future will bring for this new race of cats, but in a small way I, too, am now partly responsible for their eventual destiny.
You see, after breakfast I went upstairs to the tower room because I recalled there was a trouble light stored away up there and I had need of it. I opened the door to the storage room and stopped.
Upon each of the desks, still in neat rows, sat attentively one of the new kittens. Snowball and Frisky were at the front of the room. I saw that the trouble light was already in use because it was lit and carefully positioned near Snowball. Snowball himself had a willow switch in his mouth, at the end of which was a marshmallow, and he was dangling it over the lamp as if roasting it in a fire.
When I’d opened the door, every kitten head in the room turned toward me. Frisky seemed amused. Snowball seemed annoyed. I muttered an “excuse me” and swiftly closed the door.
I used to teach Sunday school in that room, two sections.
I know a class in session when I see one.
Editor’s Note: This story is a sequel to “Puff” (Mid-December 1993) and “Fluffy” (June 1996).