Cats In Clover
Page 9
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Gareth and Sue arrived on the ten o'clock ferry next morning and found their way along the winding gravel road to our retreat. Sue unfolded her tall, slim body from the car and rushed into my arms for a hug.
"I brought you a jade plant," she said, pushing her long blonde hair back over her shoulder. "Nobody can kill a jade plant." All my plant-loving friends thought they could cure my brown thumb.
Gareth, who had grown a short beard that matched his father's, gave my braid a gentle tug and told me I looked younger than ever. "Country life must agree with you."
"I'm surviving, at least."
He took Beanbag out of the car and snapped on his leash. "Better safe than sorry; I have no idea how he reacts to cats."
We went in the back door, Beanbag straining ahead on his leash. George, who had been asleep on the couch, came trotting into the kitchen to see what we were doing. At the sight of Beanbag, his green eyes got big, his back arched and his tail fluffed to twice its size. Crouching in attack position, he hissed and growled ferociously.
"I'd better shut him in my studio," I said.
I needn't have worried. Beanbag whimpered and scuttled behind Gareth's legs.
"Look at that!" Gareth unsnapped the corgi's leash. "We've obviously got ourselves one big wuss of a dog."
Beanbag backed into a corner, still whimpering. George edged closer and hissed again, but Beanbag merely cowered. George's back and tail returned to normal and he sat down within a few feet of the corgi, eyeing him warily.
"I wonder why he's afraid of cats," Sue said. "Most dogs like to chase them."
"Ask his former owners," I said. "I'd like to know the secret of George's power over him."
After a quick tour of the house we went outside to show off Ben's new workshop and the pool. Sue was much more interested in our ocean view. She asked, "Is there a path down to the beach, or do you have to go around by the road to get there?"
"We've got a path," Ben said. "Why don't we take a walk down there now?"
"Wait till I grab my sketchbook." Sue ran to the car.
"I'll get Beanbag," Gareth said.
"Put him on the leash. I wouldn't want George chasing him up a tree," I teased.
"George doesn't go for walks, does he?" Sue asked.
"Of course he does. He goes everywhere we go."
We strolled down across the meadow, Beanbag practically clinging to Gareth's ankles and George, still cautious, keeping a prudent distance. The walk was easy now that Ben had cleared a path through the maples, cedar and arbutus at the bottom of our land. I pinched a frond of cedar needles and inhaled the delicious pungent scent. The salal rustled as George raced through it, chasing imaginary elephants. He seemed like a wild creature out here and I had a quick flash of wonder at his willingness to share his life with me.
When we reached the fence and the road beyond it, Gareth said, "I thought your land went right to the beach."
"If we win the lottery, it will." Ben spread two strands of barbed wire so Sue and I could climb through. "Those lots across the road are quite small but one of them would cost twice as much as we paid for our two hectares."
"Five acres," I said.
"Well, nobody makes waterfront anymore," Gareth said.
We groaned at the cliché and straggled across the road and down the public access to a little bay with a pebble beach. The sun was warm and tiny wavelets lapped softly at the gravel. Gareth and I sat on a driftwood log and talked technology – he was a computer technician for a logging company in Campbell River – while Sue sketched the bay. Ben had taken over protecting Beanbag from evil cats and he and the dog patrolled the outgoing tide, looking for crabs. George swished through long grass on the bank, no doubt looking for more grasshoppers to give me.
"Oh, that was heavenly," Sue said an hour later, as we wandered back across the road, heading home. "Do you spend much time down there?"
"Not as much as I'd like to," I said. "Looking after chickens, a big garden and a falling-down house takes a lot of time. Not to mention a demanding cat."
"Come on, you're maligning that poor innocent little creature." Sue reached down to pet him but he eluded her and raced into the trees.
As we reached the meadow, George came out of the bush behind us, a small bird clamped in his jaws, and streaked for the house.
He was waiting for us in the living room, the bird still in his mouth.
"George, let it go," I said in my sharpest 'rescue' voice, grabbing him around the middle. He opened his mouth and the bird flew into the window, nearly knocking itself out. George kicked me in the stomach and tried to take off after the bird.
By the time I came back from locking him in my room, Ben had caught the bird and let it go outside.
"Does George catch many birds?" Sue asked.
"Yes," Ben said, "but we manage to release most of them unharmed. If their missing feathers grow back and they don't end up having heart attacks next time a cat comes along, they probably live to a ripe old age."
"I didn't notice any bird feeders," Gareth said. "You built bird feeders for me when I was little, remember?"
"I'm not wasting feed on wild birds that can look after themselves," Ben said. "Besides, they don't do anything useful and George would just catch more of them."
I took pity on George, yowling in the studio, and let him out. He raced back to the living room and sniffed at the few feathers his bird had lost while Beanbag, whining, tried to squeeze himself under Ben's recliner. George paced, complaining loudly that we couldn't even catch a bird when he'd trapped it inside the house for us.
"He doesn't bother showing us how to catch mice anymore," I said. "He just leaves dead bodies on the floor."
"He's very good at catching rats and mice," Ben said. "I'm the one who has to get rid of them, though; Holly can't bear touching dead animals."
"Ben spoils him with so much food I'm surprised he bothers to hunt. But hunting is an instinct and he'd do it no matter how much food he was given."
"He's just proving to Dad that he's useful," Gareth said, winking at me.