“D’oh!” My yelp sounds just like Homer Simpson’s.
“Oh my gosh,” Brinley hollers from across the room. She’s running out of the cats’ den, something I’m barely aware of as I realize the other cat—the scraggly one that freaked me out at first glance—has its nasty claws in my backside.
I tighten my butt cheeks—turning them to solid steel, I might add—but it’s not enough to shake it off me. I reach down to grab hold of the animal itself.
Brinley is rushing toward us. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Here, I’ll get him. Hold still.”
She adds that part since I’m spinning in my effort to catch the beast myself, which is futile because it’s spinning right along with me, its full weight hanging on the hooks he has in my flesh.
I risk a fleeting glance over my shoulder; some things you’ve got to see to believe. This, however, isnotone of those things. Seeing the crazed animal clawing into my backside will haunt me until I’m dead. Before I can tear my horrified gaze off the crazed sight, I swear the cat hisses at me with itseyeballs.
“Why won’t it just get off?” I’m frantic now, something that bleeds into my voice.
“Because you’re not doing it right.” Brinley sounds exasperated.
The sharp claws sink deeper. “I’mthe one doing something wrong? This thing is straight out of a Steven King novel. Probably clawed its way out of the pet cemetery.”
“Well,you’renot helping,” Brinley says as she circles around me and the cat going the opposite way. From a bird’s eye view, or in this case, the upper camera’s view, the three of us must look like spinning clock togs. Or a circus act in The Greatest Show meant to warm up the crowd before the real talent arrives.
“Hold still,” she says again. “Can you do that?”
“No, because I’m getting attacked. I’m going to need medical attention after this.”
A laugh sneaks from Brinley’s lips. “No, you’re not.”
“Am too.”
She laughs harder, but neither of us slows down. In fact, thanks to the swinging feline at my rear, I’m gaining momentum with every turn.
“And Ican’tstop spinning now because the inertia will send this thing flying through the window.”
“The inertia?” Brinley says through more giggles still. “He’ll be fine.”
“Maybehewill,” I say, feeling dizzy now, “but he’ll probably take chunks of my flesh out as he goes.”
Brinley manages to grip hold of the cat’s paws and, since I haven’t stopped moving, shifts into reverse so she’s spinning in the same direction. If I hadn’t stepped away from the pillar, we’d probably all be dead. Not that that would stop the attacking cat; it would just scratch itself from the grave to terrorize its next victim.
At last, the tiny claws break free one by one. And soon, the weight of the cat is gone.
The area pulses and throbs, like the aftermath of an earthquake.
“Man, that hurt.” I rub my butt through my khakis and wonder if blood is seeping through.
“That wassonaughty,” Brinley scolds as she tucks the cat like a football beneath her arm. It’s wrestling with her, but she cups the thing’s paws with her other hand and hurries into the cat den. I assume she plans to put it in the carrier, but she plops it on one of the cat toys instead.
I watch, brow furrowed as she scurries to the arc and tugs at a small latch I hadn’t seen. She pulls a hideaway door until it closes off the gap. Actually, it looks more like a gate lined in gold. I’d say it looks like the pearly gates, but the cat den isnoheaven.
Brinley spins back and locks her eyes on mine. Normally those light blue wonders are filled with angst, self-assurance, and mystery of some sort. Always mystery. But at this moment, I see a blend of humor and humiliation.
“I really am sorry,” she says. “I can’t believe he did that.”
A quick glance at my backside says there’s no blood yet, which is both shocking and embarrassing; like I made a big deal out of nothing.
“Is it the first time he’s done something like that?” I ask.
“No,” Brinley admits. “He’s done that to me. And to Janis. And to my mom…”
I rub at the aching spot some more. “Then why do you keep him?”
