Hissy Fitz (4 page)

HSSSSSSSSSS! RRROWRRRR! HSSSSSSSSS!

I’m scaring myself.

Finally, my claw comes free. I slash at the girl’s foot and catch the lace again. Not so smart, I know, but I can’t help it. I’m furious.

The girl screams again. “It’s crazy! It won’t leave me alone!”

“Kick off your shoe!” one of the other kids says.

The girl pries the shoe off with her other foot, then backs away. I’m left with the shoe. I slide my claw out of the lace, then pull the shoe underneath me and settle down on top of it.

I purr.
Prrrrrrrrrrr
.

“It has my shoe!” the girl says.

A boy from the group steps forward and waves his hand at me. “Shoo! Shoo!”

RRROWRRRR!
I say, and glare at him with my fiery yellow eyes.

“Leave it alone,” another kid says. “Let’s just walk away. A cat can’t carry a shoe.”

Is that so?

If I can carry a rat by the tail, which I can, I can carry a shoe by the lace.

I bite back into it and stand up. The shoe is heavier than a rat, so, instead of carrying it, I drag it away.

“It’s stealing my shoe!” the girl says.

“That cat
is
crazy!” the boy says.

After a few strides, however, I tire of dragging the stinky old shoe. I mean, what am I going to do with it? I won this battle. I let it drop, then walk away with my head held high. I don’t look back.

I hiss at dogs. Swat at cats. Scream at children. Growl at old people. They call me crazy. Mad. Insane. Wild. And they’re right. I’m everybody’s worst nightmare, and I will continue to be until everybody gets quiet and lets me sleep.

I wander around the town. I chase squirrels and birds in the parks. I catch a mouse, play with it a while, then eat it. I screech at noisy gulls and sailors at the marina. I hiss at the roaring waves from the rocky beach. I walk down the busy, wide sidewalks of Downtown like I own them.

Some of the people know me.

“Looks like Hissy is on another rampage,” one woman says to another.

“Watch out! It’s Hissy Fitz! He scratches!” a man says, nudging his wife out of harm’s way.

I like it this way. I like being left alone.

Some people, though, don’t know me, so I have to show them who’s boss of the sidewalk. I growl and glare, and they get out of my way. I give the foolish few who don’t a taste of my fury.

HSSSSSSSSSS! RRROWRRRR! GRRRRRRRRRR!

I don’t mind having to teach them to respect me.

None of this helps me with my problem, of course. Quite the opposite. The more upset I get, the less likely it is that I’ll be able to sleep. In addition, this exercise makes me hungry and thirsty.

I head for the Dumpsters.

There are rows of big garbage bins behind all the restaurants Downtown. And there are quite a few restaurants. And many of those restaurants
serve fish. And some of that perfectly good fish gets thrown away. Not all of the Dumpsters are open, though, and the lids are too heavy for a cat to budge. I find one open behind the Salty Cod and dive in. I come out with a chunk of salmon in my mouth. I duck under some bushes and wolf it down. Real salmon sure beats Salmon Supper.

As I often do on these adventures, I start thinking about giving up being a house cat. I think about going wild. Feral. About living outside full time.

But I know I can’t. For one thing, most cats that go wild don’t live long. There are too many perils. Cars. Truly wild animals, like coyotes and raccoons. I’m out on a limb here, roaming the town, acting as if nothing can hurt me.

And then there are the Fitzes. True, they drive me crazy. But Abe and Mom are kind to me. Dad makes a terrible racket, but he means well. And Georgie … well, she needs me, of course. She’d be heartbroken if I left. I guess I would be, too.

Zeb I could live without.

The sun is now low in the sky. Mom is probably home. She has a way of calming Zeb down. Before long it will be the humans’ bedtimes, and the house will finally quiet down. Maybe, after a hectic day like this, I’ll actually be able to sleep. I’m not counting on it, but it could happen.

I clean myself up after my snack, then head back through town. The food has soothed my rage somewhat, though I still hiss and scream and swat at passersby. I stop for a drink at the city fountain with the statue of the mermaid in the center. A sparrow foolishly lands beside me and pecks at the water. My killer instinct kicks in, but I don’t give into it. I let the bird live. It doesn’t know how lucky it is that I’m fed.

I jump down from the fountain to start the long walk home. I climb the 126 stairs leading up from the fountain to our neighborhood, which the people call Uptown. By the time I hit the top step I’m hungry again and regret letting the sparrow go.

I hope someone has refilled my food dish. If not, someone is going to pay.

Before the flap to my door slaps shut behind me, Zeb is there. “Hissy cat!” he hollers, and attempts to grab my tail.

I give him my leopard impression: fangs bared, back arched, hackles up, eyes wild, my loudest scream.
RRROWWWRRRR!

Zeb backs off, but I don’t. I launch at him, all four paws off the ground, all eighteen of my claws bared. I’m not messing around.

Zeb’s face turns white. He twists to run, gets tangled up on his own feet, and falls to the floor. I land beside him. I could pounce on him, teach him a lesson. I should.

But I don’t. He’s only a child. I merely scold him:
Hssssssssss!

“Mama!” he cries. “Maaaaa-maaaaa!” He scrambles to his feet and flees.

That was enjoyable.

I stroll over to my dishes. No food. No water.

Grrrrrrrrrr!

Never mind. I smell something more delicious. There’s a bag of groceries on the counter. I leap up onto it. The smell is bird. It’s in the bag. I slash through the paper, then paw through the people food inside: apples, oranges, carrots, cabbage, a couple boxes of pasta, some cans of beans and then … a chicken breast! I slash through the plastic wrap into the bird’s flesh. Blood stains my claws. I lick them clean. I slash again.

“Hissy!” Mom says.

I jump. Didn’t hear her come in. Too focused on the poultry.

She’s already changed out of her business clothes. She’s in yoga pants and a sweatshirt.

“Get down!” she says, walking briskly toward me.

Hssssssssss!
I say.

I like Mom, but I don’t like being told what to do.

“Go on,” she says, waving her hand at me. “Get down. Get down!”

I hiss louder.
HSSSSSSSSSS!

“Don’t you have any food of your own?” She checks my dishes. “You don’t. And no water, either. Georgie!”

Good. She sees the problem here. I respect Mom’s good sense. I jump down.

But Georgie doesn’t appear. A violin is screeching in the living room. Georgie is learning to play the foul instrument. Of the many earsplitting things humans have invented, the
violin must be the worst. As Georgie saws on hers, she also sings along. She makes up the words as she goes.

“Where are my SLIP-pers!

They’re right UN-der the chair, said her mother,

They’re right O-ver here, said her father,

They are right … here.”

It’s doubtful Georgie can hear her mother over the din she is making.

“Georgie!”
Mom calls her again in a louder, shriller voice. I wince. Then she starts putting away the groceries.

“Zeb says you attacked him,” she says to me.

True, but Zeb had it coming.

“I’m sure he deserved it,” she adds.

Absolutely.

“I’d feed you myself, but I want Georgie to do it. It’s her job.”

I understand — so long as I get fed and watered.

She yells her daughter’s name again even louder, even shriller, at the exact moment Georgie appears in the doorway.

“Here I am!” she chirps.

“Did you forget to feed Hissy?”

“No, I fed him when I got home,” Georgie says. “He must have eaten it all. Is he still hungry?”

He is.

“He just tore into the groceries,” Mom says.

“Should I feed him again?”

Yes.

“Did you give him wet food?”

“Yes,” Georgie says.

“Then just give him a little dry. We don’t want him getting fat.”

Grrrrrrrrrr
.

“And water, too,” Mom says. “Better do it quickly. He’s been hissing at me. And he attacked Zeb.”

“Zeb probably deserved it,” Georgie says with a roll of her eyes.

Georgie scoops some kibbles out of the bag and pours them into my dish. They make an unappetizing tinkling sound.

I eat a couple. Compared to the salmon in the
Dumpster, kibbles taste like dirt. I gulp them down, lap up some water, then stroll away.

“That’s all you want?” Mom asks. “After all that fuss?”

The fuss, I wish I could tell her, is not about food and drink. It is about sleep. It is about not being able to get any in this house. Since I can’t tell her, I lift my tail and add a little swagger to my walk.

I hurry up to the parents’ bedroom and scoot under their big bed. It’s the family’s dinnertime, and I’m hoping to get in a quick nap while they’re all busy eating.

I tuck my legs under me and shut my eyes. All the muscles in my body instantly relax. I feel as if I’m melting.

I am a lion, dozing on the savannah. Gazelles and zebras circle around me, but I am too bushed to lift my enormous, maned head. I’m too tired to hunt.

“Hissy!” Georgie says. “Hissy Fitz! Come out of there!”

I open my eyes. She’s peeking under the bed at me.

“Hurry, before Zeb gets here!”

The light in the hall is shining in my eyes. It wasn’t on when I came up here. Georgie must have turned it on. But why would she? Night hasn’t fallen yet.

Or has it?

“He’s still at the table. Mama won’t let him get up till he eats a vegetable. Come on! We can play in my room.”

I don’t want to play in her room. I want to —

What’s that? Something is swishing back and forth in front of me.

It disappeared!

It’s back!

Georgie giggles. “What do you see, Hissy? What is it? Come and see, Hissy. Come on. Come out and see what it is.”

It acts like a bug. It flutters. It zigzags. I grip the carpet with my claws and prepare to pounce.

I’m not fooled, of course. Georgie’s trying to lure me out with a cat toy, a wad of paper tied to a wire. I’m not going to —

There it is again! To the right. It’s on the move. I must catch it before it gets away.

I creep forward.

“That’s it, Hissy,” Georgie says. “Get it. Go on.…”

My movements are smooth and silent. I’m practically gliding across the rug. The bug/toy dances a herky-jerky jig. Then it flies straight up, out of sight. I must get out from under the bed!

“Where’d it go, Hissy? Where’d it go? It flew away, I think. It’s gone, Hissy. You didn’t catch it.”

I stick my nose out from under the bed and glance upward. I don’t see the bug. But I hear a dull thumping on the bedspread.

“It’s on the bed, Hissy! It’s on the bed! Get it, Hissy! Get it!”

I run out from under the bed and look back to see the bug flopping on it. There’s no time to lose! I spring onto the bed — which is taller than the kids’ — just as the bug lifts off. It disappears again. Rats!