I scanned the rocky chaparral in front of me, wishing a real, climbable tree had sprung up in this holdout of the old desert in the middle of L.A.’s artificial lushness.
Something cracked behind me, like a dry twig being stepped on. I whipped around and there he stood, gazing at me from four feet away. He was downwind from me, so I hadn’t smelled him coming. I arched my back and puffed up the fur on my spine and tail, hoping to look dangerous and too big to mess with.
The coyote sat and licked his chops, no doubt considering what part of me to dine on first. So much for puffery. I throttled my fur back down and thought hard. Maybe the old slow-motion trick would work. You know, the one where a cat moves ve-e-e-e-ry slo-o-o-owly away from a threat so as not to provoke an attack. It’s a trick that works if you’re facing a bigger and nastier cat. But I had serious doubts about a hungry coyote.
He stretched his head forward and sniffed. I braced for a run, though I knew it was hopeless against his long legs. I might win the sprint, but, with no tree to climb, he’d catch me in the marathon that stretched between me and the nearest palm tree on the way back to Silver Lake, where Meg and I shared our apartment.
He stood and took a step closer. I tensed. I was more than tense; I was seconds away from springing straight up, screeching, incoherent, completely lost to uncatlike panic. I focused on looking cool and indifferent, thinking that maybe thinking that would calm me down.
He leaned toward me and sniffed again.
I wasn’t calming down.
I knew what he was picking up—my personal feline aroma plus the coppery scent of blood that we vees emanate.
Another lick of his chops, languid this time, as if he were relishing the dining experience to come. He tasted my scent again with a deep inhale.
I began to understand what food feels like.
Then his blue eyes twinkled, he winked, and he turned and walked away.
Blue?
Winked?
The wink brought on a severe case of jitters as I scrammed for home. Had he been toying with me? Was he skulking up ahead, ready to spring? I jumped at every sound and shied from every shadow.
The rustle of paws in dirt came from my left—there he was, pacing me. I veered a little away from him, and he stayed with me. I fought down my fear and edged his way, and he changed course to maintain our distance.
It stayed that way all the way back to our apartment in Silver Lake. He followed me right into the courtyard. I was darned glad that Meg always left the door open a crack when I went out so I could nose my way in. I was a little proud that I didn’t panic and run right at the last.
When I was safely inside, I looked back out. Just outside our door, the coyote eyed me, and then shifted his gaze to behind me. I crouched and braced myself. Despite my concern about those gleaming fangs, if he tried to come in and mess with my associate I would—
He turned and trotted away, going around the swimming pool and up the stairs to the second level on the other side. The animal knew no fear.
I, however, knew great relief.
“Patch!” Meg scooped me up and pushed the door shut with her foot. She stroked my head and said, “I was worried about you. You’ve been gone a long time, and there are coyotes out there.”
As if on cue, a coyote howl sounded. Meg said, “See? That sounds like it’s right outside the door.”
Tell me about it.
The burn of bloodlust ignited in my belly—all that exercise and stress, no doubt. I wriggled, and Meg set me down. I trotted into the kitchen and aimed myself at the refrigerator.
Meg said, “Good idea.” She opened the door and took out two bottles of V1 juice. “We’ve got our delivery run to do.” She poured one into a bowl and the other into a mug, popped them into the microwave, and soon the metallic aroma of warm blood made my mouth want to water, even though it couldn’t.
Meg set my bowl on the floor and then took a deep swallow from her mug. I can’t tell you how envious I am at times of Meg’s ability to just drink stuff down. When your bloodlust is sending jagged spears of pain through your body, lapping with your tongue is entirely inadequate.
Still, I got the job done. Soon I plumped down on the loveseat and launched a major purr. I know that purring sounds good from the outside, but you ought to feel it from the inside. It feels like it sounds, only ten times stronger. Mmmmm.
But that coyote kept licking his chops in my mind—and winking—and my purr died out. I needed to curl up in a lap. Just as I hopped down to find my associate and get her to provide one, the doorbell rang.
Meg hurried from the bedroom, snatched up the bowl and mug, and rinsed them at the sink. Even though it was probably one of our new vampire friends, it was good to be careful. Vampires were still underground in Hollywood, even though actors talked about blood-sucking agents in ways that made me wonder.
She had changed into her delivery uniform, the one with “Meg” stitched above one pocket and the V1 logo on the other. I was pleased by the trim appearance my petite associate made in her crimson jumpsuit. It’s good to have an associate that compliments one’s own lithe calico body.
When she opened the door, a twenty-something man, about Meg’s age and dressed in a rumpled brown suit, looked down at her. He smiled—I wondered if he would have if he’d known that he stood just outside a vampire den.
Thinking maybe he was here about the coyote, I joined Meg at the door. The man held out a badge. He said, “Los Angeles police, Ma’am, homicide. I’m detective Rick Champagne. Can I have a minute of your time?”
Ever since I was tried for murder back in Bloomsburg, my hackles rose whenever a cop came calling. I stifled a hiss. It wouldn’t be smart to draw attention to myself.
Meg said, “Homicide?” She gazed down at me. “As in murder?”
Rick the cop looked down at me, too—with twinkly blue eyes that seemed to have a knowing smile behind them.
If he winked at me I would—
This is a great line:
I began to understand what food feels like.
Interesting setup, i would continue to chap 2 to see what makes these cats purr.
Posted by: John K | August 23, 2010 at 08:01 PM
First I posted my comment on the wrong posting: http://www.floggingthequill.com/flogging_the_quill/2010/08/start-with-kittycats-in-action.html#comments
Then I wrote a note here that I'd posted my comment in the wrong place, but it's not here. I must've clicked "Preview" but then never clicked "Post".
I'm on a roll. Does anyone have anything they'd like me to get wrong for them?
Posted by: Doug | August 24, 2010 at 01:16 PM