Cat on the Scent

            “Because Harry found the airplane—my fault. And because Harry suggested checking out all the suppliers for Civil War reenactors. Remember? She mentioned gun sales, uniforms. She’s eventually going to go one step too far.”

            “She’d better carry her gun,” Pewter sagely advised.

            “Let’s mention that to her.” Mrs. Murphy rubbed against Harry’s arm while she was speaking to Susan. “Carry your side arm.”

            “She’s—” Pewter’s attention was diverted by the bold blue jay swooping by the kitchen window.

            Seeing Pewter, he sailed straight for the window, then turned, feetfirst, wings flapping while he threatened at the window.

            “I hate that bird!” Pewter spit.

            “Not my fave either. Come on,” Murphy said.

            He returned for another pass, the bird version of giving the finger. Pewter leapt at the window and smacked it.

            “Come on, Pewter.” Murphy kicked her with her hind leg.

            Pewter slid down off the counter. Leaping wasn’t her first recourse. If she could put her front paws on cabinets and reach way down, sliding, then she’d hit the floor with less of a thump. Hitting with all that lard made a big baboom.

            The three hurried into the bedroom. The bedroom door, usually closed, was open, since Harry was still in her robe.

            The .357 was in a hard plastic carrying case.

            “Ugh. This thing is heavy.” Murphy tried to push it out.

            “Let’s all three try.” Tucker wedged in next to Murphy on the left, pushing over sneakers and old cowboy boots.

            Pewter was already on Murphy’s right side.

            “On three,” Murphy called out. “One, two, three.”

            “Uh.” They all grunted but succeeded in moving the gun case halfway out of the closet. She’d trip over it if she wasn’t looking and she had to go to the closet for her boots.

            “Think she’ll get it?” Pewter scratched behind her ear.

            “Fleas?”

            “No,” she angrily replied. “An itch.”

            “Gray animals have more trouble with fleas.” Mrs. Murphy pronounced this as solemnly as a judge.

            “You’re so full of it.”

            Pewter swatted Murphy, and the two girls mixed it up. Tucker, no fool, stepped away just as Harry stepped into her bedroom.

            “Hey!”

            Two angry faces greeted hers.

            “She started it.”

            “I did not,” Mrs. Murphy defended herself.

            “Don’t you dare fight in my bedroom. The last time, you knocked over Mom’s crystal stag’s head. Luckily it fell on the carpeted part of the floor. I love that stag’s head.”

            She bent over to fetch her boots.

            “Take your gun,” Pewter said.

            Harry pushed the gray box back in, then stopped. She pulled it out and opened it up. The polished chrome barrel shone. She liked revolvers. They felt better in her hand than other types of handguns. Being a country girl, Harry had grown up with guns and rifles. She knew how to use them safely. Guns made no sense in the city, but they made a great deal of sense in the country, especially during rabies season. In theory rabies occurred all year long, but Harry usually noticed an upswing in the spring. It was a horrible disease, a dreadful way for an animal to die, and dangerous for everyone else.

            “Take the gun.” Tucker panted from nervousness.

            Harry plucked out a clear hard plastic packet of bullets. She laid the bullets and gun on the bed, then pulled on her socks, stepped into her jeans, threw on her windowpane shirt, finally yanked on the old boots, and slipped the packet into her shirt pocket. Although the gun was unloaded she checked again just to be sure. Then she carried the gun to the truck and placed it in the glove compartment.

            She walked back into the house for her purse and the animals, calling, “Rodeo!”

            Tucker bounded through the screen door. The cats followed but then flew into the barn.

            “Murphy, come on!” Harry put one hand on the chrome handhold she had installed outside both doors so she could swing up.

            “Forget it.” Tucker sat on the seat.

            Harry dropped back down. She trudged into the barn. The horses walked up to the gate to watch. Harry turned them out first thing each morning.

            “Blown her stack,” Tomahawk said to Gin Fizz.

            “Uh-huh.”

            Poptart joined them. Human explosions amused them so long as they didn’t take place on their backs.

            “Let’s go!” Harry stomped down the center aisle, not a cat in sight, not even a paw print.

            Both cats hid behind a hay bale in the loft. A telltale stalk of hay floated down, whirling in the early sunlight.

            “A-ha!” Harry climbed the ladder so fast she could have been a cat.