Catboy (10 page)

Behind Hunter was a solid mass of metal. There was no place for him to retreat to. He was trapped. They were going to kill him, if they could.

The whole incident unfolded as if it was in slow motion. I was too shocked to move, but I had to do something.

“Hey, go away!” I screamed and stumbled to my feet.

Both dogs turned to look at me. If I could distract them for a few seconds, maybe Hunter could get away.

I reached down and picked up a rock. Without hesitation I whipped it at the dogs. It hit the ground, short and wide. The smaller of the two dogs startled and turned away from Hunter toward me. It growled, and the big dog started barking.

The dogs' eyes glowered. Their teeth were bared, and they growled ominously. Suddenly it wasn't only Hunter I was scared for. I looked around. There had to be some place for me to go if they charged.

If I climbed on top of a wreck or inside one of the cars, they wouldn't be able to get me. I could probably get away before they could reach me, but I wasn't going to abandon Hunter.

I quickly looked around for something I could use to defend myself. On the ground was a hubcap, and beside it was a long metal pipe. I grabbed both, holding one in front of me like a shield and the other like a sword. I was like a knight, but a knight without armor, or a horse. Worse, I was a knight who was scared to death. So much for being Catboy. Where was that potato peeler when I needed it?

I slammed the pipe against the ground with a thud. The dogs spun around, more interested in me than in Hunter.

“Get away, Hunter!” I screamed. “Run, you stupid cat!”

He didn't run. He stood his ground, and I got the feeling he didn't want to abandon me. If he ran, the dogs would focus all their attention on me. Who was saving who here?

I slammed the pole against the ground again. The dogs turned away from Hunter and shied away, ever so slightly, from me. They started backing up. They were more afraid of me than I was of them. Hunter wasn't going anywhere.

I took another step forward and the dogs retreated a little more. Unfortunately they were retreating toward Hunter. There was only one thing to do.

I took a deep breath and charged at the dogs, swinging the pole, clanging it against the hubcap and screaming at the top of my lungs! The dogs jumped, one yelped, and they both ran off with their tails between their legs.

I skidded to a stop and dropped the pole and hubcap. They were gone. I bent over, exhausted, and tried to get my breath back. I realized I was shaking. I looked up at Hunter. He was still there. He hadn't run. He lowered his head slightly, as if he was nodding at me, acknowledging what I'd done. Then he turned, limped away, his front right paw barely touching the ground, and disappeared into the wrecks.

Sixteen

“I can hardly see in there,” Dr. Reynolds said. “Are you sure that's even him?”

“It's him,” I said. “That's where he's been for the last three days.”

The day after the dog fight, I hadn't been able to find Hunter. I'd convinced myself he was okay and must be out hunting, exploring, roaming the streets. But the next day I found him sitting outside a narrow cranny where he was holed up. Unable to catch anything, he'd become hungry enough to accept my charity.

I'd hoped if I fed him for a few days, his leg would heal. Instead, it was getting worse. It was so swollen he wouldn't let it touch the ground at all now, and he hobbled around on three legs.

The third day I decided to get help. I'd kept Dr. Reynolds's card. When I called his number, I expected to get a secretary or receptionist and be given excuses as to why he wasn't available or be told he'd call me back, or maybe I'd hear from him in a few days or a week. Instead, he answered the phone on the first ring, and here we were, less than an hour later, in the junkyard.

“I can't assess him if I can't see him,” Dr. Reynolds said.

“I can probably get him to come out,” I said. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a piece of baloney. “I'll toss this and—”

“No, wait,” Dr. Reynolds said. “He's probably hungry and food is the only thing we have going for us. Pass me that.”

I handed him the baloney, and he placed it inside the trap he'd brought.

“What if you put antibiotics in the meat? Would that help?” I asked.

“It might, but it's risky. It might not be all he needs, and if we feed him we lose the only advantage we have— his hunger. With the baloney, I'm hoping to lure him into the trap.” He paused. “I know you don't want to trap him. It doesn't feel right, does it?”

I shook my head. It felt like we were tricking him.

Dr. Reynolds put the trap down beside Hunter's hiding spot. “Now we have to move away, so he'll take the bait.”

It
didn't
feel right, but I had to trust the vet. What other choice was there? We shuffled back to the edge of the clearing and hoped Hunter would enter the cage and trip the door shut.

“So we just wait?” I asked.

“Wait and hope none of the other cats get in the trap instead.”

“I think we've scared the other cats away,” I said.

“They haven't gone far, and that baloney will draw them out of wherever they've—there he is,” Dr. Reynolds said, under his breath.

Hunter peeked out of the cranny. He looked around. He could smell the baloney, but he wasn't sure where it was. His injured paw was too swollen and infected to bear any weight.

He crept toward the trap. He smelled the meat, but he was nervous about the trap.

He took a few tentative steps into the opening of the trap.

“Just a little bit farther,” Dr. Reynolds whispered. “Get in there.”

Hunter hesitated with his head inside and his body outside the trap. He knew something wasn't right and backed out. I knew if he could feed himself he would never have entered the trap.

He peered into the trap, trying to reach the meat without committing to going in. He couldn't do it. He limped forward and was almost all the way inside.

“Come on,” Dr. Reynolds said.

Hunter edged forward and the door slammed shut. Hunter jumped, spun around and clawed at the closed door.

“We got him!” Dr. Reynolds said and jumped to his feet.

I trailed behind him as he ran to the trap. Hunter bashed against the sides of the trap, trying desperately to escape.

“It's okay,” Dr. Reynolds said. “You're going to be fine.”

Hunter hissed and snarled.

“He's not very happy about this,” Dr. Reynolds said, stating the obvious.

“I'm not too happy either,” I said.

“I know it feels cruel, but what choice did we have?” he asked.

“I know.”

Hunter's eyes were bright and angry but he wasn't looking at Dr. Reynolds. He was staring straight at me.

I pretended to look at the magazine. My mother sat next to me and pretended to look at another magazine. All Dr. Reynolds had to read was either really old or titled
Vet's World—
a magazine written for vets, not people sitting in a vet's waiting room. I was so glad we had great books to read in my classroom and the school library. Nobody would read to succeed if these magazines were all the students had to choose from.

According to the clock on the wall, it was just after seven in the evening. We'd been waiting for over two hours. The vet's office had closed at five, and we'd arrived in time to see the last of the other patients and the receptionist leave for the weekend.

I heard the door open and looked up. It was Dr. Reynolds.

I jumped to my feet. “How is he?”

Dr. Reynolds smiled, and I knew the answer. “He's going to be fine,” the vet said.

“Can we see him?” I asked.

“Of course, but he won't be able to see you for a while. He's still knocked out from the medication I gave him for the surgery.”

Dr. Reynolds explained to us that the infection had been so bad, surgery was the only way to fix Hunter's foot.

He led us into the back. The walls were lined with large and small cages. Some were empty but others held dogs and a few cats. We were greeted by barking, meowing, whining and whimpering. Some of the animals pushed against the bars, trying to get our attention. Others hid at the back of their cage.

“Here he is,” Dr. Reynolds said and stopped in front of a small cage.

Hunter was at the back of the cage, unconscious. Dr. Reynolds opened the cage and reached in. “The leg was badly infected. I had to open it up and drain the infection.”

“What would have happened if you hadn't done that?” I asked.

“He would have died. But now he'll be fine. He just needs to be given antibiotics for the next few days and watched to make sure the infection improves.”

“That's great. Then he can be released, right?”

“Released, as good as new,” Dr. Reynolds said.

“And I can be there, right?” I asked.

“Of course you'll be there.”

“And can I come here and see him before he's released?”

Dr. Reynolds looked confused. “I'm sorry. I guess I didn't explain. He can't stay here.”

“He can't?” my mother asked.

“I don't own this practice. The doctor who does lets me use his operating and examination rooms when they're not being used, after hours and on weekends, but I can't keep animals here.”

“But where will he stay?” I asked.

“I assumed you two could keep him.”

I looked at my mother. Dr. Reynolds looked at her.

“Do I really have a choice?” she asked.

I threw my arms around her. “Thanks, Mom, thanks so much!”

Seventeen

Hunter stared at me through the bars of the cage, which was better than glaring. We had set him on the floor of our living room.

His cage was big. It had a place to sleep in one corner and a litter box in the other. There was also a slot where I could slip food and water in without having to open the door. If he got loose, I'd never get him back inside and somebody—him, me or both of us—would get hurt.

“I'm glad you've finally decided to stop hissing at me,” I said.

I kept up a running commentary around him. It seemed to have a calming effect on both of us. Although, the first day, nothing short of a tranquilizer would have calmed him. He hissed and snarled and glared nonstop. If looks could kill, I would have been dead a thousand times over.

Day two had been better. The glares continued, but the hissing finally stopped. Thank goodness. It had really started to get to me. And when he stopped hissing, he started eating. The hunger strike had been a problem. Not because he wasn't getting the food he needed to recover, but because he wasn't getting the medication embedded in the food that was essential to his healing. Dr. Reynolds had told me the greatest danger was post-operative infection, and scraping around in a litter box with a newly stitched foot was a recipe for renewed infection.

I gave Hunter the medication the way Dr. Reynolds had shown me. I ground up the pill until it was a fine powder and sprinkled it inside a piece of chicken. Hunter was, as I had always suspected, partial to chicken.

In the junkyard, he'd always been hesitant to take the food I threw him. I knew he was nervous about taking food from people, but I liked to think he wanted to leave it for the kittens or he was too proud to take handouts.

Of course, none of those were issues for King. He would eat anything thrown his way and swat at any cat that got in his way.

It was reassuring to see Hunter's foot getting better. There was no swelling anymore—or at least none I could see. He was putting weight on it too. In fact, he was doing so well he'd even taken a swipe at me when I got too close.

“I don't blame you for having an attitude,” I said to him.

I really couldn't blame him for anything—not the hissing, glaring, distrust or wanting to take a shot at me. He'd woken up in a cage in our apartment and was probably still in pain. I didn't want him to be angry with me any more than I wanted him to be afraid. Over the past few months, I thought we'd developed an agreement. Not a friendship, but at least an understanding that I wasn't trying to harm him, and I was a
good
human. “I'm going to come a little bit closer now.”

I moved toward the cage. His eyes burned with intensity and then faded to a soft glow. He wanted to see what I had. He associated me with food as well as imprisonment. I was sure he smelled the chicken in the container I carried.

“You're looking good today. How's the foot feeling?”

He didn't answer, although he looked like he was giving my question some thought.

I bent down so I was at eye-level with him. He stayed in the center of the cage instead of retreating into the far corner. Maybe he'd finally come to realize I wasn't going to hurt him, I was going to feed him.

I held a piece of chicken out. His ears perked up and he let out a soft, plaintive cry, as if he was asking if the food was for him.