Mister Percy Snodgrass was, technically, the boy’s first cat, a tom of questionable lineage and intentions. The cat was named by the boy’s mother, who had a certain fascination with Hollywood musicals, not so much with the music as with the costumes, that certain ooom-pah-pah of fiber art spectacle.
The little trio, soon to be a quatro, were about as far from kali-forn-aye-aaaaaaa as one could get in terms of bright city lights and opportunity, though there was a certain charm to their double-wide perched on a short hill overlooking a field of beans.
MiPS spent most of his time mousing in the old dilapidated barn that was now only of use to a variety of critters, and that was where the animal spent most of its time, hunting. That’s what cats do, after all, the mammalian answer to the velociraptor of old. MiPS, however, had another hobby that proved to be his (still, as yet) unconfirmed downfall.
The boy MiPS “belonged” to, in quotes because this child was all of three years old at the time of the incident, had a rather terrible and habitual tendency to sleep walk.
One warm morning the boy’s mother awoke with a start, the occupant in her pouch was kicking something fierce.
“Easy,” she told her tummy, which in her eyes was now somewhere between a beach ball and the moon in size, “I’ll fix us some breakfast.“
The snoring bear next to her started from his slumber, said something that sounded vaguely like ‘waffles’, and turned over on its side, a mountain of burly flesh that was best left sleeping.
Two minutes after she had gotten out of bed, however, she had no choice but to wake the bear. It would be fine, she was skilled at it. but she was shaking as she did so this time.
A gentle coaxing, hands touching here, and there, “You have to wake up.”
Eyes like a whale in the deep sea blinked themselves open. Had it been anyone else but her, there might have been a ruckus. But he could see the trouble in her face.
“What happened?”
“He’s gone walking again. And he's figured out the latch. I can't find him.”
“But it's too high for him.” As he said it he was pulling himself up by bootstraps, forcing himself to focus. It had been a long night at the Mitchell’s, and there was much discussion about Reagan and Carter and Wild Turkey, and she wound up having to drive them home.
“He pushed a chair over to the door.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He’s strong, like his daddy.”
“And he’s not standing out on the porch?”
“No.”
Frantic minutes of getting around, getting clothes on, calling the boy’s name., verifying he wasn't tucked away in a nook inside. This was followed by standing on the porch with flashlights and calling out the boy’s name.
They decided to split up and meet back at the double-wide in half an hour. There was forty acres of ground to cover, much of it butting up against forest and other farms.
The sun was just cutting the morning open when half an hour later he was back at the porch of the double-wide and saw her standing with the boy who was leaning into her but still very much asleep. What the hell to do about that? he wondered. But he was alive. She was OK. That was all that mattered at the moment.
“I found him,” she said, attempting restraint at the tears that wanted to burst, a dam made of mud instead of concrete, it could flood any second.
“Found him where?” He looked at her, and she at him, and both saw the relief in the other’s eyes.
“Along the highway. He was—”
“Yes?”
“He was following the cat along the highway.”
“Following. The cat.”
She nodded. “He must have followed him all the way to the gravel road and up to the t-junction. I saw them and I saw the cat and it would stop walking long enough for him to catch up and they would start walking again. I ran up and grabbed him and it ran off.”
He stared into her eyes for a long time, sensed the fragility that threatened there. She had named the cat. The cat used to have a name. Being allergic, he believed cats shouldn’t have names anyway, outside of the odd obscene expletive. He made note that the cat was now an ‘it’.
He used his great bulk to slowly and gently move them into the trailer.
“Get some things together for a weekend at your folks,” he said grabbing his field coat and hat and the going to the locked cabinet in their bedroom closet. While fiddling with the combination he continued, “We'll be dropping by the Clark’s on the way.”
“Why?”
“Their Maisy just had a litter drop,” he said, reappearing with an arm full of double-barrelled steel. “I think it’s high time we got the boy a dog.”
She watched him leave, watched the screen door close and latch itself as she held the boy, still standing like a candle next to her, his head full of blond flame and sleepy-eyed wonder and then there was a crack of thunder, and the boy blinked and looked up at his mother and told her good morning.
Goddamnit I was rooting for the cat