Meowmoirs of a Klepto Cat

by Patricia Fry

  As we stood watching the flames, we were horrified to see two firefighters rush into the burning mansion. I remember holding my breath. Why would they do that? I wondered. All of the estate-sale workers and volunteers had left earlier that afternoon. The servants and other employees were gone. We couldn’t believe it when, seconds later, a firefighter emerged through the smoke carrying someone in his arms. Who was it? Who would have gone back into the mansion and why? We were really puzzled when a second firefighter emerged from the building, also carrying something—something small.

  Michael, Arthur, and I started to move closer. I looked back at Suzette, who waited near the car with Lily and she motioned for us to go ahead. We were soon close enough to see paramedics working over a woman who lay a safe distance away from the burning structure. She was alive; I could see her rolling her head back and forth as if she were in agony. Who is that? I wondered. And then we saw what we considered to be a miracle. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’m sure I shouted when I asked, “Is that Rags?” I turned to the others and said, “That fireman has Rags. Look, it’s Rags!” I was ecstatic and confused all at the same time. When I saw that the fireman was administering oxygen to the cat, I began to run toward them.

  I remember the fireman asking, “Is this your cat, ma’am?”

  I was too choked up to speak. I simply nodded and dropped to my knees next to him. I finally stuttered, “Is he…um…will he…?”

  The fireman smiled, “I think he’s going to be okay. He’s responding nicely to the oxygen.” He glanced at the woman lying nearby. “Do you know her? The cat led us to her. We didn’t know anyone was in there. But your cat did. He must have seen her go inside.”

  Later I learned that it was a homeless woman named Miriam who had nearly died in the fire; she had lived in the mansion as a child with her family. She knew about the deadly rituals that had taken place in the secret chamber and still had what she called “night screams” from the things she had seen there as a child. She had returned for some sort of closure and wandered inside the mansion at about the same time the arsonist lit the fire. When the smoke became thick inside, she became disoriented and couldn’t find her way out. Rags evidently knew she was in there and he reportedly led firemen in, then he meowed to help them find the victim in the dense smoke. When they reached Miriam, Rags sat next to her pawing at her. Thank heavens this fire department had oxygen masks made specifically for cats, because that’s probably what saved him. And bless Rags for caring enough to save a life.

  Yes, Rags was a hero that night, and he almost lost his life because of it. But that wasn’t the last time he spent one of his nine lives.

  Chapter 6 – Rags Joins the Force

  We’re not certain if it’s Rags’s memory, his sense of loyalty, or something else that makes him a good Samaritan. It surely can’t have anything to do with his understanding of right and wrong or any sort of commitment to humanity. Cats aren’t people, after all. But Rags has certainly done his fair share of community support. I mean, how many people do you know who have participated in a lineup and fingered a criminal? And I’ll bet you don’t know even one cat that has done it.

  Rags is not completely unique in his ability to help law enforcement. At least twice before, a cat has provided evidence that convicted a killer. In fact, it’s becoming more and more common for prosecutors to use pet DNA in court. The DNA from an animal’s fur, saliva, urine, or feces can put someone at a crime scene. Talking birds have been known to tell all—or at least say enough in a courtroom to convict someone of wrongdoing. It’s only a matter of time before it’s commonplace to bring a pet before a jury as a credible witness. We all know that animals react and they respond. They remember someone who is kind to them and someone who abuses them. Some cats—and certainly dogs—seem to be deeply affected by aggressive and abusive acts against them or toward someone they’re attached to.

  As far as we know, the first time Rags witnessed someone being attacked, he simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was an unfortunate chain of events that caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people, and there was Rags, right in the middle of the muddle.

  By then, Aunt Maggie had married Max Sheridan and moved into his home next door. I was engaged to Michael and living in Auntie’s old farmhouse with Rags. It was a great place for entertaining, so Auntie and I agreed to open it to the Hammond Cat Alliance for a fundraiser. To keep Rags out of trouble and out of harm’s way, I closed him in an upstairs bedroom.

  Later that day as the event was winding down, Auntie went up to the room and found a dead body and an extremely traumatized cat. Rags was so far off his game—so seemingly upset over the next few days, in fact—that I called in Caroline, a local animal psychic, to talk to him—or listen to him, as it were. According to Caroline, indeed, Rags had witnessed something pretty frightening. But the worst part for Rags seemed to be that he also experienced brutality. He showed Caroline a mind-picture of a man kicking him in the side.

  Caroline also told us that Rags didn’t know the killer, but she was certain that the cat would remember him if he ever saw him again. I could corroborate Rags’s injury. I’d noticed right after the incident that he had a tender spot on one side and wondered why. I checked him over to make sure nothing was broken. He just seemed to be sore, now I knew it was probably a bruise.

  Later, in a local café, a reporter overheard Auntie talking about Caroline’s conclusion with regard to Rags, and she asked if she could do an interview. My aunt agreed and the story was published in the newspaper. That’s how word got around that Rags might be able to identify the killer.

  Michael and I were both working as veterinarians at his clinic then. One night after a busy day at work and a quick dinner out, we came home to find Rags sniffing something that lay in the middle of the kitchen floor. When Michael realized it was some sort of meat, he immediately picked it up and tossed it into the sink. That’s when we noticed that the window in the side kitchen door had been broken out. Someone had thrown that chunk of meat into the kitchen and we suspected it was not designed to be a healthy treat for Rags. A toxicity test confirmed our fear. Someone had tried to poison our cat.

  I was beside myself, knowing that Rags’s life was in danger, and was stunned to think that the killer actually believed the cat would or could reveal his identity. As it turned out, that’s exactly what happened.

  While we continued to pamper Rags by giving him plenty of attention and keeping a close eye on him, Detective Craig Sledge was busy trying to identify the killer. He interviewed possible witnesses at length—folks who had attended the fundraiser. He also gathered photographs taken by attendees in order to help determine who was there and when, what they were wearing, who they were chatting with, and so forth. While the authorities were picking up clues through their efforts, there were still a lot of unanswered questions.

  What was a detective to do when his only real eyewitness was a cat? Eventually, being a creative-thinking guy and a bit nontraditional, Craig Sledge came to me for help. He suggested we try an experiment with Rags. He hoped that Rags could somehow point out the killer or at least make him so nervous that he’d show his hand.

  I was reluctant to drag Rags into the mess. I mean, he was experiencing his own trauma. He was still recovering physically as well as mentally from what had happened to him that frightening afternoon. On top of that, someone wanted to harm him. Needless to say, I was torn. While I was reluctant to subject Rags to any more pressure or danger, I wanted to do my part to put the killer behind bars. Yes, I was eager to get the mess resolved for Rags’s safety, but I had another vested interest in wanting the killer caught. You see, our friend Iris was among the suspects.

  I asked the detective what level of danger this experiment of his might present for Rags. While he couldn’t exactly answer that question, he assured me that he would take every precaution to protect Rags. He admitted he wasn’t sure what method he would use to encourage Rags to paw the killer,
but said he would keep the process low key. Ultimately, I agreed to the unorthodox experiment.

  With some trepidation, I took Rags to the station to participate in a lineup of sorts. I had high hopes that whatever Rags did that evening would clear Iris of a murder she did not commit.

  Sure enough, Rags came through. In his brilliance, the detective had invited all key players—potential suspects—to the “party.” He instructed each of them to take turns interacting with Rags. Being the rather discerning cat that he is, he made it quite clear that evening who he liked, who he didn’t care about one way or another, and who he vehemently feared. Rags’s response rattled the killer to the point that he confessed and that experience certainly endeared Rags to the department and to Detective Craig Sledge.

  Later, my sister reminded me that this wasn’t the first time Rags had pawed a culprit.

  ****

  Rags and I had been together for several months by then and Bri was staying with us for a few days while Mom entertained Dad’s sister from out of town. As Brianna explained it to me, she preferred to bunk on our couch with a hairy cat than to wake up every morning and face our Aunt Susie. The woman had a voice that could shatter glass and a personality like fingernails on a blackboard. But she was family, so Bri and I helped Mom entertain her when we weren’t doing something more important like working out at the gym, polishing the wheels on my wagon, or shaving our legs.

  Aunt Susie didn’t visit often, and, as it turned out, maybe we should have spent more time with her that week. It all started when Bri accidentally let Rags out. No one knows how slick and manipulative he can be until he has pulled a few shenanigans on them. That evening we left Mom’s after a grating visit with Aunt Susie and had picked up a gourmet pizza, a bottle of wine, and a tub of ice cream. I’d managed to slip into the house carrying the pizza, but as Brianna struggled to scoot through the door, Rags darted out between her feet.

  “Well, he’s glad to see us, isn’t he?” Bri snarked, watching him disappear into the dusk.

  I may have spouted an explicative, as I was already annoyed with Aunt Susie and feeling guilty about leaving our mother alone with her. I was also still mulling over something Bri had said about my choice in men. I was not happy to have my cat out, especially after dark. When our attempts to corral him back into the apartment failed, we gave up and ate our pizza. Thankfully, he came in a couple of hours later when I opened the door to call him for the umpteenth time. Yes, he came home and I was glad to see him, but I was also still irritated that he had gotten his way…again.

  Meanwhile, Bri couldn’t stop laughing at his attitude…his catitude, as she called it. “Look at that,” she said, “he doesn’t care one iota that you’ve been worried sick about him. He’s so arrogant.”

  Yeah, I was annoyed with him, but I loved him just the same and I didn’t appreciate my sister’s interpretation. “He’s not arrogant. That’s confidence,” I told her. “He—well, he has the world by the tail, or he thinks he does.”

  Of course, Brianna said, laughing. “He’s got you by the tail, that’s what he’s got.” She then said something I thought was strange. More soberly, she turned to me and said, “Vannie, I don’t remember that about cats we had growing up.”

  I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. “You don’t remember what? Our cats having confidence?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Our childhood cats were just cats. They ate, slept, and sat looking at you weirdly sometimes, trying to make you feel guilty or something.”

  “Oh Bri,” I said, “you never paid much attention to our cats. They were my cats—mine and Dad’s. Dad liked cats too. If you’d actually spent time with them you would have noticed our cats playing, snuggling, begging really cute for treats, following me around, bringing toys to us…they were lots of fun and each had his or her own personality.” I couldn’t help but chuckle when I told her, “If you felt guilty when the cats looked at you, you had probably done something you weren’t supposed to do.”

  “Yeah, but how did the cats know that?”

  I started to launch into a long explanation for my sister, but she had her own agenda. She wrinkled her nose and said, “I don’t remember any of our cats having what you’d call a personality, but I do remember them being destructive, snooty, manipulative…” She pointed at Rags. “Like him!”

  While Bri and I often bantered back and forth, I wasn’t in the mood for it on this particular night. We finished our pizza and a glass of wine, had a dish of chocolate chip mint ice cream, and went to bed. I don’t know about my sister, but I was ready to have some quiet personal time, which I planned to use trying to lighten up some—you know, clear out the negative thoughts and replace them with more positive ones.

  I felt pretty good the next morning until things went south again. Bri was sleeping on the couch, so when the knock came at the front door around seven o’clock, she was the first one to hear it. I heard the complaint from my bedroom.

  “How could you?” Mrs. Pilcher shouted. “What’s wrong with you? Too much partying? Were you drunk?”

  “What happened?” I asked as I entered the room, quickly tying my robe around me. “What’s going on?”

  Mrs. Pilcher pointed her finger angrily at me and said, “I’ll get you kicked out of this apartment complex if it’s the last thing I do.” With that, she turned on her heels and left me standing with my mouth hanging open.

  I asked Brianna, “Do you know what that was about?”

  She shook her head and looked across the room at Rags, who was sitting in a shaft of sunlight on the carpet, giving himself a bath. She pointed. “But I imagine it has something to do with him.”

  I grabbed my phone and muttered, “I’d better call Terry or Esther and see if I can find out.” But I was as confused after making the calls as I had been before. I told Bri, “There was evidently a hit-and-run accident last evening. Someone hit the Bakers’ dog and they seem to be accusing us.”

  “Oh my gosh!” Bri said, putting one hand over her mouth. She looked at me as for validation. “It wasn’t us. We didn’t hit a dog last night, did we?”

  “No, we did not,” I insisted. And I explained, “According to a neighbor Terry talked to, Mrs. Pilcher’s older son said he saw us hit the dog. When he led the Bakers to the injured dog, it was lying right in front of where my car is parked.”

  “Wow,” Bri said, “that’s quite an accusation.”

  I was livid. I told Brianna, “Get dressed. We’re going to have a talk with that kid.”

  Unfortunately, it didn’t go well. It appeared the truth isn’t always obvious. Sonny Pilcher told us the same story he’d told his mother and the Bakers and he was unwavering. But so was I. I asked the nineteen-year-old, “Would you show us exactly what happened? I’d like to have you walk us through it.”

  Just then Mrs. Pilcher appeared. “Why?” she demanded. “Were you too drunk to know what you did last night?”

  I ignored her and focused on the kid. When he saw that I wasn’t going to let him off the hook, he complained, “Yeah, why? I already told you what I saw.” Avoiding eye contact, he spouted, “Anyway, you know; you were there. You’re the one who hit the dog.”

  “Humor her,” Brianna suggested, winking.

  The young man glanced at his mother, who agreed that he had nothing to lose and the four of us walked out to where my Honda was parked.

  “How is Benji?” I asked, hesitantly.

  “Who?” Sonny asked.

  “The dog. How is he?”

  “Heck, I don’t know. I guess they took it to the animal hospital. Maybe it died for all I know.”

  I was sick at my stomach. I felt awful for the Bakers. They loved that little dog as much as they did their children. The kids played with Benji all the time.

  When Dana Baker saw us walking past her apartment toward the parking lot, she stepped outside and approached us. I wasn’t sure what to say, but I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I was genuinely concerned about the
dog, so I asked gently, “How is Benji?”

  “We’ll know more this morning. It could go either way. Bill’s at the hospital with him now.” I muttered words of condolence and support and started to walk away, when Dana said, “Savannah, you didn’t…. You couldn’t…”

  “No, Dana,” I said. “I absolutely did not hit him. We’re going to get an instant replay now of what happened.” Before walking away, I asked her, “Were you there?”

  She shook her head ashamedly. “No. I didn’t know Benji had gotten loose. I came out of my front door in time to see Sonny leaning over Benji. He’s the one who told me what happened. And your cat…”

  “My cat?” I asked. “What about him?”

  “Well, you know how much Rags and Benji like each other. I saw him wandering around where Benji lay. I don’t know where he went. I got involved in trying to help poor Benji.” Dana began to cry.

  I felt horrible. I wrapped my arms around her and held her for a moment until she gained control. I said, “I hope he’ll be home soon, playing chase with the kids. He’s such a cool little guy….” I didn’t know what else to say. After all, I had been accused of harming him.

  “Okay,” Sonny said, without looking at me, “I saw you, Ms. Jordan, drive in last night around seven thirty. You ran over the dog, then got out of your car, looked at him laying there in the parking lot, then went to your apartment. I thought maybe you were drunk or something.”

  “What? Where was Benji?” I asked.

  Sonny pointed hastily. “Right there in the parking lot. After you hit him, he crawled up onto the grass in front of your car.”

  “Was the dog bleeding?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, he was bleeding, but not very much, just a little from a scrape, I think.”

  Brianna stared at the young man for a moment, then asked, “Where were you, Sonny?”

  “Oh…um…over there,” he pointed. “I was taking a walk…um…to smoke, you know.”