Cat to the Dogs (3 page)

Hurrying through the village beside the pups, he saw the coroner's car heading out toward Highway One, and he wondered what the slim, bespectacled Dr. Bern would find. Around him, the village seemed very welcoming suddenly, very safe, the familiar little cottages tucked in among their old, twisted oaks and tall pines. Over the smell of sun-warmed geraniums came the lingering scents of bacon and pancakes and syrup.

Trotting past Molena Point's bright, tangled gardens and crowded shops, Joe was suddenly very thankful for this village. He would never admit that to Clyde, would never hint to Clyde how much he cherished Molena Point. Would never confess how glad he was to be away from the mean streets of San Francisco—an ignorant kitten trying to cadge a few bites of garbage, hiding from the bigger cats, always afraid, and cold, and mad at the world.

Suddenly, right now, Joe needed to be home. In his own safe, warm home.

Galloping eagerly in the direction of his cozy pad, he dodged the pups, who ran along grinning and panting as if their own salvation were surely near. Joe, racing up the sidewalk through blowing leaves and flashes of sunlight, wondered again: had those uniforms, up at Hellhag Canyon, seen the cut brake line?

Police Captain Max Harper needed to know about it, to know that that wreck had been no accident.

Turning down the little side street toward his and Clyde's white Cape Cod cottage, running beneath its sheltering oaks toward the ragged lawn that Clyde seldom mowed, and the gray shake roof that constantly needed fixing—repairs supplied by Clyde's girlfriend, Charlie Getz—Joe breathed in the comforting, warm smells of home.

But crossing the yard, eyeing Clyde's antique Chevy roadster still parked in the drive, knowing Clyde had not yet left for work, he began to wonder what Clyde
was
going to say about bringing the two puppies home.

And he wondered if, when he tried to get a message to Max Harper about the cut brake line, Clyde would respond in his usual supercritical manner—if Clyde would hide the telephone and give him another of his high-handed lectures about how cats should not get involved in police business. How he, Joe Grey, ought to mind his own simple affairs. How Max Harper needed to pursue his official police business unencumbered by inappropriate feline meddling.

T
ROTTING UP
the three steps to his cat door, Joe could smell coffee and fried eggs mixed with the meaty scent of dog food. He slid inside fast, under the plastic flap. Behind him, the pups pushed their black noses through—two wet, disembodied snouts sniffing and shoving, forcing his cat door so hard he thought they'd rip out the metal frame.

The familiar room embraced him: the shabby, soft rugs; his own tattered, fur-covered armchair by the window; Clyde's new leather chair and ottoman, which were the latest additions to the room; the potted plants that Charlie had brought over to soften the stark bachelor quarters. And, best of all, Charlie's drawings of Joe and Dulcie, and of Rube and the household cats, handsomely framed and grouped on all four walls. These finer touches had turned the tatty room into a retreat with charm enough to please any human or feline. If Clyde ever married, Joe hoped tall, slim Charlie Getz, with her kinky red hair and freckles, would be the one. The fact that she could fix the roof and repair the plumbing, as well as decorate a house and cook a mean steak, was a definite plus.

Charlie had figured out on her own that Joe Grey and Dulcie were more than your average cats. But she had kept her mouth shut, and this was more than a plus. In Joe's book, Charlie Getz was already family.

Though so far there was no talk of a wedding. Charlie seemed happy in her own small studio apartment above the village shops, from which she ran her housecleaning-and-repair business.

“Joe? That you? What's going on out there? What's all the banging? You stuck in your cat door? I told you you're getting fat.”

At the sound of a human voice, the pups went wild, pawing and whining.

“Shut up!” Joe hissed. “You want to get your heads stuck in that little square hole? Idiots!” He was rooting at his back to dislodge a flea—thanks to the strays—when Clyde strode out of the kitchen and stood looking at the two black noses pushing in through the cat door.

Joe concentrated on licking his shoulder.

“Now what've you brought home?”

“What do you mean,
now
? What have I ever brought home? I didn't bring
those
home.” He regarded the noses as if he had never seen them before.

“You have brought home dead rats,” Clyde began. “Dead birds. That live bird that plastered its feathers all over the kitchen. Live snakes. Not to mention a parade of randy and ill-mannered lady cats. Before you met Dulcie, of course.”

“Dulcie is a lady.”

“Don't twist my words.”

“Are you implying that Dulcie is not a lady? Or that she is not welcome?”

“I am not talking about Dulcie. You have brought home enough trouble through that cat door to send me to the funny farm for life. There's never a week, Joe, that you don't get into some kind of new predicament and drag your problems home. Do you see these gray hairs?” he asked, pointing to his ragged, dark haircut.

“Debauchery,” Joe told him. “That's what makes gray hair. Too many women and too much booze. That's where the gray hairs come from.”

“I guess you should know about debauchery, every hair on your lecherous body is gray. Before Dulcie, you…”

“Can't you leave Dulcie out of this? What do you have against Dulcie?”

“I don't have anything against Dulcie. If you had half her decent manners—to say nothing of her morals and charm and half her finesse—life would…”

“Oh, can it, Clyde. Dulcie's a female. You want
me
to act all prissy, tippy-toe in here every morning smelling of kitty shampoo and primrose-scented flea powder?”

Clyde sighed and retrieved his coffee cup from atop the CD player. He was dressed for work in a pair of clean jeans, his new Rockports, and a red polo shirt beneath a white lab coat that, this early in the morning, was still unsullied by the grease from a variety of BMWs and Jaguars. His dark hair was damp from the shower, his cheeks still ruddy from shaving.

Clyde regarded the two large canine noses, then regarded Joe. “You'd better tell me what this is about. But please, make it brief. Cut to the chase, Joe. It's too early for a long-winded dissertation.”

Joe chomped the offending flea. The one-spot flea killer was okay, but it took the little beasts a while to die.

“Joe, where did you find the dogs? Why did you bring home two dogs? From the size of their noses, I assume they are rather large. From the sound of them and their behavior, I imagine that they are young. What are they, Great Danes? Are there more outside? What did you do, drag home a whole litter?

“
I did not bring them home!
There are only two. I think they're half Great Dane.”

“They followed you by accident. You really didn't know they were there.” Sighing, Clyde stepped to the front door.

The instant he turned the knob releasing the latch, the pair burst through, in their enthusiasm slamming the door against Clyde and slamming Clyde against the wall.

Dancing around the living room like two drunk buffalo in a phone booth, the pups leaped at Clyde, delighted to meet him, ripped his lab coat across his chest, and slurped dog spit across his face.

Joe, having fled to the top of the CD player, watched their happy display with interest.

“They're hungry, Joe. Look at them, they're all bones. They need food. Can't you see they're starving?” Clyde knelt to hug the monster puppies, his voice softening to a patter of pet words that sickened the tomcat.

“They can't be five months old.” He looked up at Joe. “They're going to be huge. Where did they come from? Where did you find them? Well, you could at least have found some food for them—”

“Caught them a rabbit, I suppose?”

“Well, yes, you could have done that.”

“And give them tularemia? Pierce their livers with rabbit bones?”

Clyde rose and headed for the kitchen, trampled by the fawning pups. “You don't have tularemia. Your liver seems okay.”

“I'm a cat. Cats don't get tularemia. My liver can handle anything. They're here only because they followed me, because I couldn't ditch them. There was a wreck—”

“They're probably thirsty, too. Look at them. You could have led them to some water.”

“I'm trying to tell you, there was a wreck. The cops are there now. If you would listen…”

Clyde lifted the loose skin on one pup's neck and let it go. It didn't snap back, but remained in a long wrinkle. “They're dehydrated, Joe.”

He filled the dishpan with water and set it on the floor.

“Will you listen to me! There was a wreck. A car went into Hellhag Canyon,” Joe shouted over the racket of the two pups slurping and splashing. “The guy lost his brakes—nice '67 Corvette—powder blue—totally trashed it.”

“Really?” Clyde said with more interest. “A Corvette. I haven't seen a '67 Corvette around the village in a long time. Was the driver someone we know? How bad was he hurt? Are the police there?”

“They're there. But if they don't look at the brake line…”

Clyde turned to stare at him. “What?”

“The brake line. It was cut. If the cops—”

“Don't start, Joe.”

“Start what?”

“You know what. Meddling. Don't start meddling. You always think—”

“If they don't look closely at the brake line,” Joe said patiently, “they might not see it was cut.”

Clyde sighed.

“Sharp slice. Near the right front wheel. The brake fluid—”

“Joe—”

“Brake fluid all over the road.”

“
If
it was cut, Harper's men will find it. Don't you think they know their job? Can't you keep out of anything? You bring home two starving puppies, you don't bother to find water for them, and then you—”

“And you,” Joe shouted, “you don't stop to wonder where they came from, you just bang open the front door and invite them right on in when they're probably full of ringworm and mange.”

“
I
didn't bring them home.”

“And now you won't listen when I try to tell you something important.”

During this exchange, old Rube had risen from the kitchen linoleum and taken his aged black Labrador body into the laundry. Lying on the bottom bunk, he growled at the pups with a menace that drove them back into the adjoining kitchen.

The bottom half of the two-tiered bunk belonged to Rube, the top half to the cats. From there, the white cat peered down suspiciously. The other two household cats had fled out Rube's dog door to hide in the backyard; they were used to quiet dogs but didn't take happily to big boisterous puppies.

The pups, abandoning Rube and his uncertain temper, returned all their attention to Clyde, their forepaws on the kitchen table, barking in his face.

Clyde opened the lower cupboard and hauled out a fifty-pound bag of kibble.

“Don't feed them too much. You'll make them sick.”

“They're starving, Joe.”

“Feed them too much and they'll throw it all up.”

“Don't be silly. They'll only eat what they need.”

Joe headed for the bedroom, where he could find some privacy with the telephone. He had started to paw in the number of the police station when Clyde strode in and unplugged the cord.

Joe stared at him.

“Leave it, Joe. Those guys don't need your help to find a cut brake line.”

“And if they miss it?”

“I'll find out from Harper.”

Silence from the kitchen. The puppies had stopped chomping and smacking. Joe could hear them licking up the last crumbs, then heard them drinking again. Clyde said, “How many people in the car? Are you sure it was a '67 Corvette?”

“Of course I'm sure. I've been force-fed on your antique car trivia most of my natural life. I know a '67 Corvette as well as I know the back of my paw. There was just the driver. Dead on impact. Maybe from multiple contusions, maybe from a strip of metal stabbed through him, maybe a combination. A man I've never seen. Went over just at that double curve, driving south. Lost most of the fluid before the second curve. I was hunting down in the canyon, heard a skid, and that baby came over the bank like a bomb
dumped from a B-27, fell right at me. If I wasn't so lightning fast, it would have creamed me.” He gave Clyde a yellow-eyed scowl. “That car could have killed a poor little cat, careening down into that gully, and what would you care?”

“You look all right to me. You shouldn't have been hunting in Hellhag Canyon. You know how the tides come up.”

“That's typical. I'm nearly killed, and all you can do is find fault.”

Two wrenching, gurgling heaves from the kitchen silenced them.

They returned to face two huge piles of doggy kibble steaming on the kitchen floor. The pups, having disgorged the contents of their stomachs, began to bark at the mess and then to lick it. Clyde shouted at them, swinging the kibble bag; the smaller pup, startled, yipped as though he'd been struck. Both pups raced around the kitchen barking. Clyde, trying to clean up the mess, yelled and swore to drive them out of his way. Joe, nearly trampled, leaped to the sink and let out a bloodcurdling yowl.

“Put leashes on them, Clyde. Take them out to the car. Take them to the pound—that's why I brought them home! So you could take them to the pound!”

This wasn't completely true, but he'd lost all patience. Couldn't Clyde handle two baby dogs? “Take them to the pound, Clyde.”

“Don't be stupid! They'll kill them at the pound! Why would you bring them home and then…”

“
The pound will find homes for them!
I brought them home so you could drive them out there. You didn't expect me to walk way out there dragging those two? Expect me to jump up on the counter at the animal shelter and fill out the proper forms? Sometimes, Clyde, you don't show good sense even for a human!”

Clyde stared at him. The pups stopped barking and stared, too, their tails whipping and wagging.

Joe Grey, glaring at all three, leaped from the counter over the
pups' heads and scorched out the dog door. He was crouched to bolt over the gate and go find a phone, when he saw Dulcie trotting swiftly along the back fence toward him, her green eyes wide with interest, her peach-tinted ears sharply forward, her whole being keen with curiosity.