“Was the animal acting aggressively?” I ask. “Did it sway when it walked?”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s just rolling around in the herb garden, killing the herbs most like.”
I nod and head toward the backyard, catch pole in one hand, cat carrier in the other. It’s probably best if I don’t say anything else to Mr. Herring.
I find a regular old house cat in his backyard. It’s an adult orange cat who’s stretched out across several plants, basking in the November sunlight.
It is large, but it looks nothing like a lion. I’d guess Mr. Herring doesn’t have the best eyesight.
I don’t even have to use the catch pole. I kneel next to the cat, and it comes right to me, mewing and rubbing against me. Not a feral cat, but not wearing a collar either.
It’s entirely possible, even likely, that this cat belongs to a nearby neighbor and will go home all on its own, but I don’t feel comfortable leaving it here. I don’t know how far Mr. Herring might go to get the cat out of his yard.
“Want to go for a ride with me?” I ask the sweet cat.
He doesn’t fight me when I pick him up and put him in the carrier.
“Did you get the lion cub?” Mr. Herring asks as soon as I come around the side of the house.
I’m torn. My only shot at keeping this man even moderately happy is to let him think I’ve captured a lion cub in his backyard, but that feels irresponsible.
“I’ve apprehended the large orange cat.” I hurry past him and load the cat into my truck.
“It was a lion,” he says. “I told Doris it was a lion cub. She didn’t believe me.”
Standing right next to my driver’s side door, I say the only reasonable thing I can. “It’s not a lion cub, Mr. Herring. It’s a large house cat.”
“That’s not possible.” He shakes his head as he glares at me. “You better have an experienced, trained professional look at that animal. What are you going to do with it?”
I open the door and climb inside. “I’m going to try to find its owner.”
I shut the door and start the engine, drowning out his words.
Somehow, I’ve survived this encounter without saying anything that will get me in trouble. I’m vibrating with annoyance, but at least I didn’t say anything. Ellery’s plan seems to be working.
I drive to the next street over and park in a small cul-de-sac. There, I scan the cat for a chip. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have one. On a busy day, I’d probably take this cat to the animal shelter in case the owner calls in. Right now, though, the shelter is full and my day isn’t busy.
“Want to go knock on some doors, sweetie?” I ask,
The cat mews in agreement.
Unfortunately, most people are at work. And we don’t have any luck with the ones who are home, though a few have seen the cat around in the past.
We head to the next street over, where there are fewer houses and they are farther apart. We knock on a few more doors with no luck and I’m just about to give up when a harried father, with a baby on his hip and a little girl with red eyes and wet cheeks hiding behind his leg, answers the door of the last house on the street.
“Oh, wow,” I say. “This is definitely a bad time.”
He gives me a wry smile. “This is normal life for a stay-at-home dad with a newborn and a toddler. What can I do for you?”
I lift the cat carrier so they can see the orange cat inside. He’s very friendly and pushes his face against the grating like he wants to get free for a cuddle. “Do you know this cat?”
“Marmalade,” the little girl shouts, smiling as she comes out from behind her father’s leg. “Where have you been?”
“Is this your cat?” I ask, ready to hand the animal over and head out. I can feel my phone vibrating against my hip, likely with another job.
“No,” the man says. “The cat belonged to Mrs. Peabody.”
“She died,” the little girl says. “That means she went to heaven and is dancing with the angels. At least, that’s what Mommy says, but Mrs. Peabody couldn’t even walk, so I don’t know how she can dance.”
