The Second Cat Megapack. George Zebrowski

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СКАЧАТЬ finger along his gum line. Silky endured the intruding digit pa­tiently. As Arlene watched, she remembered that she had meant to ask the doctor some­thing else about the kitten, but couldn’t re­member it now. Instead, she asked, “What kind of cat do you suppose he is? He’s different-looking—”

      “What kind?” The doctor waited a beat, then, as she cupped her fingers under Silky’s chin, said, “Ugly. No, seriously, it looks like there’s either Siamese or Oriental Shorthair in there, but I’ve never seen a cat like him before. I guess something bred with something differ­ent and it looked like this. I wish I could’ve seen his parents. Sometimes different breeds don’t cross very well, do they, Silky?”

      Silky looked gravely at Dr. Hraber, as if to say, Please don’t make fun of me. Arlene wasn’t the only one to notice that expression, for Dr. Hraber dropped her bantering manner and said, “The stool test should be done in an hour or so. Do you care to wait around or call later?”

      Tucking Silky’s wedge of a head under her chin, Arlene walked out of the examining room and into the waiting room, saying over her shoulder, “I’d rather call later, if you don’t mind.”

      Outside, after she had paid for the shots, Arlene nuzzled Silky’s head and murmured into the cat’s sweet-smelling short fur, “Nasty lady said my little boy’s ugly…we just won’t listen to her, will we? We won’t pay the least bit of attention, none at all.”

      But all the way home, Dr. Hraber’s remark niggled at Arlene.

      * * * *

      The CAT BREEDS OF THE WORLD book was written on a junior high level (which is where the book had come from, a discard from the middle school library), but the pictures in it were excellent, so Arlene suffered through the namby-pamby text:

      …the Oriental Shorthair is a very long, lean cat, with strong muscles. The body is shaped a little like a tube, with extra long hind legs. Some people think its legs look a little bit like a race horse’s legs.

      The Oriental Shorthair’s fur can be many different colors, as well as colored in points like its relative the Siamese (see page 59). The fur of this Oriental breed is very short, and fine-textured, like silk.

      (Arlene looked down at the cat curled in her lap and said, “At least your name fits, baby.”)

      Oriental Shorthairs have big green eyes, and even bigger ears. Their faces are trian­gular and.…­

      Arlene looked at the picture on the facing page, but there was only a slight similarity between the dark gray cat pictured and the purring kitten on her lap. The Shorthair’s whiskers were too long (Silky’s were an inch and a half and less), and there was at least an inch or more of space between the ears them­selves. Silky’s ears all but met in the middle of his head; there wasn’t room enough on top for Arlene’s little finger to rest. A little over a quarter of an inch at the most. And the Oriental’s eyes were huge, luminous and take-your-breath-away green. Her kitten’s eyes were a little bigger than the fingernails on her forefingers, ovals of less than half an inch at the widest point. Much less.

      The bodies of the two cats were closer, but there were still differences. Silky’s hind legs, while longer than the front ones, weren’t race­horse-high. And now that she looked at his front paws, Arlene realized what was wrong with them, what had hovered at the back of her mind since the night before. Silky had no claws. He had mottled pink and black pads, and the little fleshy dew-pad on the sides, but no claws.

      Sick at heart, thinking that some clod had had Silky declawed then dumped him to fend for himself, Arlene gently flexed one of his paws and turned it around, looking for the tell­tale sunken incision lines of a declawed cat. Her Beanie, many years ago, had been declawed when her neighbors gave the cat to Arlene before they moved to the Cities. That calico’s feet had felt limp around the tips of the toes, where the first joint had been removed along with the nail. And there had been those sunken ugly scars…but Silky’s feet were al­most perfect. There were the right number of metacarpals under the skin, with no empty places under the skin and fur. He just didn’t have front claws. His hind ones were there, needing trimming in fact, but the front paws were free of crescent-shaped nails. Holding the cat’s paws dose to her bifocals, Arlene saw that there weren’t even any holes where the claws could come out.

      Letting go of Silky’s feet, Arlene said, “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t let that mean old doctor make fun of you, call you a freak. She’d probably call you a mutant, or worse.”

      But as she sat on the lowered lid in the bathroom, listening to her other pets mill around in the hallway beyond the closed bath­room door, Arlene hugged Silky close as she wondered, What else might be wrong with him…inside?

      * * * *

      Once Silky was free of the roundworms the doctor found in his stool sample, and Ar­lene was satisfied that he carried no fleas, she let him have the run of her small home. Ini­tially there was a lot of hissing, barking, pissing, and scratching, but within a week Silky had settled in beautifully. Within two weeks the older cats were fighting over whose turn it was to wash his cavernous ears, while the dogs took turns chasing an old wiffle ball around the floor with him.

      Silky learned to wait with the others for breakfast, while Arlene combed the streets and alleys, looking for cans and whatever else was there waiting to be found, taken home, and utilized. Once she even found a rubber jingle ball (along with a couple of almost perfect Ekco pizza pans). And July turned into Au­gust, which turned into September (which felt like October; Arlene blamed all those space shuttles NASA sent up to foul up the jet stream and ozone layer), and Silky was now one of the family…albeit a slightly lonely member of the family.

      The dogs were all over seven years old, and tired quickly, while the next-youngest cat was Guy-Pie, at five years old. At first he had been Silky’s “best buddy,” but then Arlene noticed how Guy-Pie had trouble swallowing, and even more trouble breathing. Respiratory infection, she told herself, and tried to take his temperature, but the tortoise-shell cat bucked and kicked like a bronco horse when she tried to do that, so she gave him amoxicillin drops that looked like watered-down Pepto-Bismal and smelled like cherries. (She always kept a bottle of dry amoxicillin powder on hand.)

      Guy-Pie took the amoxi without complaint, but he didn’t get any better. Putting her ear to his ribcage, Arlene heard a strange hooting and whistling, and said to herself, Pneu­monia…or perhaps pyothorax. They’re always fighting over some little thing, nipping ears and tails…maybe someone bit Guy-Pie in the chest and I didn’t notice. Guy-Pie has never been a complainer.…

      It wasn’t pneumonia, and it wasn’t pyotho­rax. The cat’s temperature was normal, but his X-ray wasn’t. The other veterinarian, Dr. Mertz, was as gentle with Arlene as if the old woman was his own mother.

      “It’s a tumor in his upper chest. It’s press­ing against his heart and thorax. I don’t think he’s in pain, but I can give him cortisone pills for the duration. Now there’s a slight, and I do mean very slight chance that it might be an abscess, although I can’t find any healed scars on his chest wall. I have this medication, clindamycin hydrochloride—”

      Guy-Pie fought this clear, bitter-smelling new medicine, but he didn’t cry or complain after Arlene squirted it down his throat twice a day. Once, he did jerk his head, and a drop of the liquid touched Arlene’s lips. It was vile, the way paint thinner or ammonia probably tasted. Making herself lick her bitter lips clean, Arlene cried, “Oh, Guy-Pie, I’m so sorry…but I have to give it the old college try, don’t I? Don’t we?” and hugged the trim dark cat with the little upturned nose and big frightened green eyes close to her flannel СКАЧАТЬ