Catwalk (4 page)

six

Two hours later my
taste buds were ecstatic. Tom and I were snuggled into a corner booth at the Bight of Bangkok washing down savory mouthfuls of
pad thai
with Singha beer. I had just wrapped up a fairly detailed account of the evening's happenings.

“I saw a photo of Charles Rasmussen not long ago,” said Tom.

“Where? The post office?” Ill-tempered as the man was, it wouldn't
surprise me if he were wanted for something.

“
Connectivity
.”

“The school newsletter?” The school I referred to is the Indiana-Purdue joint campus in Fort Wayne, where the two universities join forces. Tom teaches full-time in the anthropology department and I sporadically teach photography classes in their non-credit division. “Why was he in there?”

“Donor. I skimmed the article and it was a couple of weeks ago, but he gave the school a pile of money. Golf scholarships, if I remember correctly. There was some controversy. Apparently he's trying to develop in a wetland, and faculty and students in the environmental studies program objected to the university taking his money. I didn't read the whole article, so I don't know all the details.”

I made a mental note to check the online edition of
Connectivity
for the article, but the little Janet demon who likes to poke her barbs into the left side of my brain whispered,
you will
not
remember to do that, and you know it
. She was right, of course, so I grabbed a pen and an old grocery receipt from the depths of my tote-bag-cum-purse and wrote myself a note. I looked across the table. Tom's lip was twitching. “What?”

He laughed. “Nothing.”

“Not nothing.”

“Okay, so you're going to stick that note in your bag and find it six months from now.”

“Am not.”
He's right, that's exactly what I'll do.
“I'm sticking it in my change purse where I'll be sure to see it.”

“Why don't you write yourself a note on your phone?”

I just rolled my eyes. I'd be sure to forget about it there.

I told him about the pond and woods near Alberta's house, and told him what Alberta had said about condos. “I wonder if that's Rasmussen's development.” We also talked briefly about Alberta's attempts to help the feral cats in her neighborhood, and about the kittens and how quickly Jay had done his job. I told Tom how the little calico seemed to put a spell on Hutchinson.

“Boy, he's like a new man since he met Jay and Leo, huh?”

By the time we left, the temperature had dropped and the wind
had picked up enough to make the misty air prickly against my
cheeks.

“Want to come over and play?” asked Tom as we fastened our seatbelts.

“Play what?” I turned around and stuck my hand into one of two large dog crates Tom kept in the back. Jay pushed the top of his head into my fingers.

“Backgammon?”

“I dunno
…
Doesn't sound very exciting.”

“Strip backgammon?”

I hadn't planned to be away for the night, and I don't like to leave Leo alone that long, so I made a counter offer. “How about my house? We can pick Drake up on the way.”

“Perfect.” Tom leaned over and kissed me, then turned to Jay. “Kittens all safe. Good job, my man! You're a hero again.”

“Hard to believe that jerk Charles would give anything away.” I was thinking again about his donation to the university. “You should have seen the way he humiliated his wife tonight. It was odd, though,” I said, remembering how differently Louise carried herself when she came back out to the studio. “She was like a changed person the second time I saw her.” I told him about the shift from bouffant wig to gamine-look pixie. “She was completely submissive, cringing almost, and then twenty minutes later she was almost defiant.”

“Hunh.”

“Don't you think that's weird?”

“Probably.” He paused, then spoke again. “Maybe she had a pharmacological intervention in the meantime.” Tom's professional interest in the cultural uses of plant-based products popped up at the oddest times and I half expected him to speculate on what exotic botanicals Louise kept in her cookie jar.

I started to say something, but let it go. I love Tom, but I found myself wishing I had Goldie or Peg or one of my other women friends to talk to. Even Alberta. We weren't exactly friends, but she had seen the events of the evening and she knew the Rasmussens at least a little. She might have had another take on Louise's transformation.

Tom changed the subject. “Why don't you call Goldie when we get home.”

He's doing it again
, whispered a voice in my head.
Stop reading my mind.

“It's not that late. We could have some hot chocolate. I haven't seen her in ages.” Tom and Goldie had some sort of strange anthropologist-to-shaman connection that I didn't fully understand.

“I don't think I have any milk.”

He pulled into his driveway and turned off the engine. “Be right back.”

I undid my seatbelt and turned toward Jay, letting my fingers slide through the bars of the crate again. “What did you think of that guy Charles, Bubby?”

Jay rocked his head to the side and slapped the bottom of the crate with his paw. It was probably a comment on sitting in front of Tom and Drake's house, but I chose my own interpretation.

“Yeah, me neither.” The memory of Charles grabbing that grocery bag and reaching toward the kittens made the Singha bubble in my stomach, and I forced myself to think of other things. The look on Hutchinson's face when he saw the kittens was a good counter balance. When we got the little family back to Alberta's house and set up in the spare bedroom, where they would have privacy from the dogs, Hutchinson had told us that he'd never seen newborn anythings before. He hadn't known they would be so small. I think he'd still be there gazing at them if he hadn't gotten another call. I hit Goldie's quick-dial number and issued the invitation.

“Oh, lovely! I've just baked scones. New recipe.” Goldie was always trying new flavorings, usually edibles from her own garden, in her baked goods. “You can be my guinea pigs.”

The back hatch of the van beeped and opened and Tom let Drake into his crate, where his Labrador tail whammed the side like a sledgehammer. Jay's nub was too short for whacking things, but he made up for it by bouncing and wiggling. They'd be wild men when we got them home, I thought.

“All set. Why don't you call Goldie?”

“Done. We need to stop for milk if you want hot chocolate.”

“Done.”

Of course it was.
Tom's kitchen was always well-stocked and much tidier than mine. But then he
liked
to cook.

“I've been thinking about that oaf Rasmussen,” I said. “I wonder if he's the one who wants to put in a new development by the pond next to Alberta's house.”

“Seems likely,” said Tom. “The development that has the environmental students up in arms is somewhere southeast of town.”

“He's quite a guy,” I said. “Alberta said he's the one who has riled up a bunch of their neighbors about the TNR program.”

“The what?” Tom glanced at me.

“You know. Trap, neuter, release. The feral cats.”

“Okay.”

Tom is a cat-person-in-progress. In fact, my Leo is the first cat he's ever really gotten to know, but since he met the orange guy, he's been smitten. He didn't seem to know squat about programs that work with feral and free-ranging cats, though, much less the politics surrounding them.

He asked, “Alberta is doing this? Catching cats and having them neutered?”

“Yes. Apparently they have quite a little colony hanging around the club house at the golf course out there where she lives.”

“And then she finds them homes, right? How can anyone ob—”

“Some of them. Some of them don't want to be anybody's pet, though.” I told Tom about a stray cat my mother had tried to bring in when I was a kid. “She had her spayed, and that night the cat practically took down the walls in the bathroom where Mom put her to recover. She screamed like a banshee, and tried to dig her way out the door.”

“So what did you do?”

“Me? I cried. Mom and Dad decided the cat would be better off outside where she didn't feel trapped. She'd been holing up under the back porch, so Dad put a box and blanket under there to keep her warm, and my mom cleared a path and sort of guided her to the door while Bill and I watched from the dining room.”

“I can't picture you cowering in the dining room.”

“I was really upset.”

“Afraid of the cat?”

I snorted. “No! Afraid she'd hurt herself.” I started to laugh. “Speak
ing of hot chocolate, Bill and I both needed hot chocolate therapy after things quieted down.”

Tom took my hand and we drove in silence until we stopped for the light at State and Lahmeier. Then he spoke.

“So they spay and neuter all of the cats and then turn the really wild ones loose?”

I wasn't entirely sure how the process worked, so I said, “I think they get at least a basic exam first, probably depending on the resources available to the group. And I'm sure they must be vaccinated, for rabies if nothing else.”

Tom flicked on the turn signal for my street and both dogs jumped up in their crates, Drake's tail providing the bass counterpoint to the rat-a-tat-tat of their paws on the plastic flooring.

“So why would anyone object? It's not as if cats run around in packs like feral dogs do.”

“Later,” I said, gesturing toward the house next door. Goldie was headed our way. The light from her porch left her face in shadow but created a silvery aura around her caftan. Her long silver hair was out of its usual braid and wild on the rising wind. She held a plate in front of her like an offering, and my own heart beat a little faster in gratitude that she was still with us in body as well as spirit.

Tom sighed. “She really is magical.”

seven

Tom raced out the
door a bit later in the morning than he had
planned. Neither one of us ever says it out loud, but the fact is we don't greet mornings after nights before quite so bright-eyed as we did two decades ago. Not that we had such a wild night, but Goldie stayed until just after midnight, and we were awake another hour or so after that. Most days Tom takes Drake with him to his office, but the doggy boys were having such a good time chasing each other around the backyard that I suggested he just pick Drake up later.

I try not to put too much on my Monday schedule, but this one seemed to have filled itself nevertheless. Unlike Tom, though, I insist on a nice cup of coffee with my critters to start the day. One of
Goldie's lemon balm scones, left over from the previous night, would
be a bonus.

Leo was waiting for me in the kitchen. “What are you doing on
the table, you?” I asked. He shoved his head into the hand I held out,
and I bent to bonk noses with him. Our pets meet us more than
half way in respect to life style and communication, so I figure I can at least make an effort to say hello in feline, albeit with a heavy accent.

I started the coffee and then addressed Leo again. “Your big weekend
is coming up, Mister. So how about we practice this morning for a while?”

He squinted at me and twitched the tip of his tail.

“Okay, we'll think about it. First let's have some breakfast. By
we
I mean
me
, because you've had yours.” I lifted him off the table and set him in a chair, then checked Jay and Drake. They were sprawled, panting and grinning, in the grass, so I called them in. When I turned back to Leo, he had his back paws on the chair, front paws on the table, and nose at the brim of my mug. “Hey!”

Mrrrrrlllll.
He sat back down on the chair and blinked at me.

“You don't like coffee. You know that.”

Mrrr mrrr.

I pulled my cardigan closed and wrapped my hands around my mug. “Chilly this morning, eh?” I looked at the dogs. “Not that you two would notice.”

Drake beat his tail against the floor in agreement.

“So, my boys, here's the plan …” The little demon on my shoulder
seemed to be in a mood, because I heard something like
as if they care
coming from her direction. Okay, I know they don't care what's on the agenda as long as they have fun and get fed, and I know that they don't share all my enthusiasms and probably have some things they'd like to do if I'd give them a bit more autonomy. Still, they seem to enjoy being included in the conversation. At least I like to think so, because I enjoy including them.

“Leo and I need to train a bit, so we'll do that while you guys,” I looked at the dogs, “have a snooze.” They wouldn't snooze, I knew. They'd paste nose glue all over the sliding door while they watched us in the backyard. “Then I need to return some calls. Got to make a living, you know.” Jay tilted his head as if considering that one. “And then I need to go see Mom.” I try to visit my mother at least three days a week, but the visits are becoming ever more difficult. I just never know what I'm going to walk into. “I hope she's having a good day,” I told Jay. I took another bite and then said, “Or at least not a bad day.” Mostly I hoped she knew who I was.

My house phone rang, but I decided to let the machine answer.
My friends all use my cell number, so land line calls are mostly business, and I prefer to hear the message, line up my ducks, and call
back. The next voice I heard after my own, though, was Alberta's.

“Janet! Are you there?” Pause. Wheeze. “It's me. Alberta.” Pause.
“Alberta Shofelter.”
Right.
I waited, and after a few seconds she spoke
again. “I'm so angry. Has anyone been to your house today?”

Now that's odd
, I thought.

“Okay, I guess you're out. Maybe I'll try your cell. If I have the number.” I assumed she did, since she had called it the day before. “Well, maybe they haven't been there yet.”

Who,
I wondered. But I knew that if I picked up the phone, I'd be on it for an hour.

“That bastard, Rasmussen,” She coughed. “He's filed charges. Another lawsuit.”

The machine cut her off. I sat perfectly still for a moment, trying
to process the call. Did she mean that I was named in a lawsuit? How could I be? Then again, anything's possible in the world of courts and lawyers, or so says my brother-in-law Norm, and he would know. For about two seconds I considered calling Alberta back, but I really did have things to do. I decided it wasn't life threatening. It could wait.

Ten minutes later I went out, checked that the agility obstacles were set the way I wanted, and then went back for Leo and my training equipment. I fastened my treat pouch around my waist, clipped
my
retractable clicker holder to the belt, and slipped a half-used tube of
fish paste into a plastic bag in the main compartment. Both dogs had
globs of drool dangling from their chops, and Leo was mashing his cheeks into my calf and chirping.

“Okay, Leo
mio
, let's do it.” Leo shot out the back door when I opened it. I turned to the dogs and tossed them each a treat from the bag. “Not as yummy as ground up fish, I know, but something at least, boys.”

Leo knew what was coming. He was waiting for me on the bottom of one sloped board of the dog walk, or, for the moment, catwalk. As I looked at him, at the eagerness in his posture and round, whiskered face, I wondered what could make a person hate an animal, a whole species. It had to be something more, something deeper, I thought. What had gone wrong in Charles Rasmussen's genes or life to make him hate kittens and threaten to throw their lives away like so much trash? I shook that memory loose and made myself focus on Leo, waiting now with one paw raised.

Training on the canine equipment isn't exactly regulation feline agility, but a few months earlier the little orange guy had decided to stop watching from the sidelines. He started following Jay over the
dog walk and the A-frame, through the tunnel, onto the pause table
. At first he scooted under the jump bars, but I encouraged him to go over, and he never looked back. I could imagine him singing, “Anything dogs can do, I can do better.”

Although I hadn't yet competed with Leo in a cat agility trial, I did
know that the obstacles, rules, and training methods were different from what we were doing. But Leo didn't seem to mind working like a dog, as it were, especially when there was fish paste in the offing for a job well done. One of my regular clients is president of the local cat club, and when I mentioned Leo's performance prowess, she suggested that I help them put on a demo at the upcoming canine agility trial. The trial was being held at Dog Dayz, where I train Jay. Marietta Santini, the owner, has five lively Abyssinians, so she was an easy sell once we figured out the safety protocols. The planning all started months ago, and here we were, just five days from the big event. Even more exciting, it was all happening a week before another big event—the Tri-State Cat Show and Feline Agility Trial.

I squeezed out a wee dab of fish paste, called Leo to me, and let him lick the oh-so-fishy reward from the end of the tube. “Holy mackerel, Catman, that stuff smells worse than Limburger cheese!” Leo gave me his Foolish Human stare and licked his lips, so I said, “Okay, let's get started.”