I sat down at my desk and cupped my coffee in both hands, staring out the window to wish away the onset of another harsh Montana winter. “Time to move, Helen. Somewhere far away where they aren’t familiar with terms like ‘wind chill factor’,” I muttered to myself, knowing I would never actually leave the place I love so much.
Before I knew it, discipline kicked in and I turned on the computer and loaded up my current manuscript. It wasn’t until I went to put my cup down on the crocheted smiley-face coaster that lived beside my keyboard that I noticed it was missing in action.
A sudden, strange, never heard before, noise rattled overhead just then, followed by some type of hiss or moan that reminded me of Jacob Marley come back to torment Scrooge.
I jack-in-the-boxed from my seat, banged my knee on the desk, and lightly scorched my fingers with a splash of coffee.
Switching the mug to my other hand, I gave my fingers a quick flick with my tongue while keeping a fixed side-eyed stare toward the ceiling heat vent as it began to kick out hot air and a racket that was lessening in volume but increasing in frequency.
“Oh, come on,” I sighed.
Twenty minutes was all I had to write. It was a key part of my daily writing intervals that gave me a chance to keep my momentum and meet the deadline to publish my first novel. Once those twenty minutes were spent I’d have to finish getting ready to head into the hospital for the one day of the month where we added a Saturday to our weekly schedule. If I was going to get my words done, the strange noise in the vent would have to wait until I got home from work, but that coaster would need to be found now.
No coaster would mean no place to put my coffee. No coffee meant no writing elixir and a whole lot of wasted time in a brain fog staring blankly at a blinking cursor.
I searched through the pile of notebooks on my desk and then the immediate surrounding area of floor and power cables. Just as I was about to throw in the towel, I found the smiling yellow disk a few steps away at the bottom of the scratching post, a few strands of wool pulled loose by tiny claws.
“Really?” My voice was louder than intended, but on some level I knew it was for the hellcat slinking somewhere around the apartment that had become his playpen.
The scratching post had served as the home for multiple kitties over the years. It was strategically placed in front of the window to provide them the opportunity to watch the world from a high perch. We—well, I, since I’d been living here single for about five months—called it the Cat TV, and it had served its purpose well.
Mr. Yee, the man who had brought Jinx and three other rescue cats to the clinic, had said they were a litter of barn cats. At first, we were just treating them for the standard ailments so they could get well enough to be taken to permanent homes, but then he’d asked the big favor of having them stay with us for a week while he went out of town to help a person in distress.
We’re an animal hospital, not a kennel. Situations like this are dealt with on a case-by-case basis. It isn’t uncommon for us to keep an animal overnight for observation, but bringing them home was a job hazard those in our industry knew all too well. We see so many cuties in need every week that, before you knew it, your home could easily be overrun and turned into a zoo.
But after we heard how their mother and two siblings had been lost to coyotes and an unusually cold weekend, these didn’t feel like just any cuties, they were meant to be with us, they were meant to be saved. So, we quickly fell for them, and now here I was, rushing like a mad woman and running late.
My writing process is simple. I read through some work from the previous session to get my creative juices flowing and ride that momentum into the next piece. It’s not glamorous or nearly as mystical as some describe, but it’s been getting the job done.
All was going well until the tiny, almost apologetic bing of my phone sounded its alert. I tried to ignore it. Truly, I did, but every time I wrote a few more lines, guilt crept in to conjure up a worst-case scenario where a timely response to the message could’ve somehow saved the day.
Solely to help preserve my focus (or so I told myself), I checked my phone and found a text from Brenda, my co-worker.
Brenda: Cat disaster. Can’t come in today. All okay. Will explain later.
Brenda: Oh, and bring your snowplow!
I laughed out loud until realizing the implications…
…Brenda being off meant the job of opening the hospital fell on me.
Opening the hospital meant I would have to be the first one there.
To be the first one there, I’d need extra time to clear the snow from my truck and would have to cut my breakfast short.
Worst of all, it meant my writing plans were now being scrapped. “And this is why I need to start using my phone for dictation,” I muttered, reluctantly pushing myself away from my keyboard.
I looked out the window to see a mixed blessing. The wind looked to have died down and there was no longer a blizzard-like snowstorm blowing around, but it had left enough of a powdery hellscape that I thought I might need to dig out the chains for my tires—and hope the snow plows were already en route.
A burning smell jolted me from my seat.
I spun around, looking for smoke.
Jinx, what did you do now? The voice in my head asked of the little hellcat.
Flames licked the window edges of the toaster oven on my counter.
Bolting across the room, I grabbed for the handle, thought better of it, then turned the dial to off and pulled the plug. All the while, the smell of the burning poppy and sesame seeds on my everything bagel filled my nose.
Grabbing the hand towel from a nearby hook, I fanned the smoke away from the fire alarm.
“That’s all we need right now,” I said, surprising myself with a chuckle at the image of how a fire alarm would send the building into a tizzy all because of a cursed bagel.
The flames quickly died out and I lifted the handle to retrieve my charred breakfast. As had happened too many times before, both halves were tilted on a bad angle inside the toaster and it took a few good shakes of frustration to set them free and onto my plate beside the tub of cream cheese.
I didn’t have time to make more, and certainly wasn’t about to waste what could still be considered edible, so I shrugged in resignation, grabbed the butter knife, and began to scrape off the char off the bagels with a laugh. “Plus side—this morning can’t get much worse than this.”
Slathering the bagel in cream cheese, with an extra serving to cover the burnt taste—and another for what felt like a well-earned treat—I set off to get ready for work.
In my bedroom, Jinx snoozed between the two pillows at the head of my bed.
Having learned my lesson, I laid out my scrubs near the bottom of the bed and kept a close eye on him as I found a warm pair of fuzzy socks that would fit nice and snug with my boots and ski pants. There was no way I was letting him get access to these for a new round of wrestling and shedding.
After finishing the last bite of my bagel, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth with my clothes in tow.
Hair up. Scrubs on. I went over the plan I’d formed to keep the morning on track and quickly realized that if it stayed the same it would make me late to open the hospital. I knew I could take a different route to gain some time and avoid the need for the chains on my tires but the biggest consolation came from knowing the kittens were the only animals we’d had on site and they were all home with Brenda, Angela, the doctor, and me so there wouldn’t be any animals to check on or get meds for before opening up. The rest of the morning should be smooth sailing as long as I could remember which code to use for the security system. If all went well, I’d be late for opening but still ahead of everyone else. It wasn’t ideal, but it would work.
For the first time since getting out of the shower, everything felt properly aligned—
Yoowwwwllll!
I nearly jumped out of my skin at the unearthly screech coming from the living ro
om.
My eyes shot to the bed and quickly confirmed that Jinx was gone.
My fuzzy socks slipped on the hardwood floor as I ran down the hall.
Adrenaline flooded my veins as my heart ricocheted through my chest.
Scariest of all was my inability to even imagine what could have evoked such a sound. If my writer’s imagination was good for anything, it was for creating both the fantastic and the terrible. Drawing a blank now meant the worst was waiting for me.
I slid into the living room and there he was, nearly seven feet in the air, perched on the scratching post with his tail puffed up and twitching, ears back, staring up at the rattling air vent.
He let loose again with a baleful, Yoowwwwllll!
“You little— You scared the—” I took a deep breath to calm my nerves.
As I did, my imagination caught up and kicked into high gear with images of Jinx being stuck between the washer and dryer or singed by the still hot toaster oven. Those scary thoughts brought a sigh of relief that this ruckus was just him fussing over the strange sound in the vent.
Once again, he reared his head back, seemed to bloat up with air, and let it all out like a broken foghorn.
“And here I was worried about the fire alarm disturbing the neighbors.” Grinning, I made my way over to him. “Shh. It’s okay.”
Rising up to my tiptoes, I gave him a long pat from the crown of his head to the tip of his tail while trying to explain. “I know that rattle is a nuisance but it’ll probably stop once the heat turns off and we’ll be gone before it starts again.”
With those words, it hit me. The moment I feared had arrived. Despite these last few crazy hours, giving him up to another family was going to be excruciatingly tough.
Reaching out with both hands, I carefully lowered him to my chest for a snuggle. It wasn’t on this morning’s schedule, but it felt like the most important task of all.
“I’m going to miss you. You know that?” I lowered my forehead onto his and tried to stifle the tears I felt creeping into the corners of my eyes.
“Whoever gets you, I hope they treat you right. You’re a special little boy—”
That’s when I heard the rattling noise overhead again. It suddenly returned to its original tire-iron-in-a-tin-drum volume, and Jinx took up the challenge. He cranked his head back and howled back twice as loud.
“No,” I said, in a firm voice that I felt demanded compliance.
Apparently he didn’t appreciate my lack of support against the antagonizing noise and launched off my chest, leaping for the scratching post.
Maybe it was because we were so close or that I’m too short and it was a higher jump than he anticipated, or some other scenario a math or physics person could explain, but, whatever the reason, he didn’t quite make it.
Rather than land gracefully on the wooden post like the wild jungle cat he might have imagined himself to be, Jinx hit chest first near the top of the scratching post and sent it teetering towards the window while he bounced off toward my desk with a crash.
Now, I admit, I knew it could be a little tippy but that was what made it practical for my apartment as it was easy to move for cleaning. But in all the time I’d had it and all the use it had seen, no cat had ever sent it over the way it was falling now.
I froze.
And watched in utter disbelief as it wobbled on the brink of doom.
All those people who talk about being in a pressure situation and everything slowing down so they can react with graceful, superhuman reflexes—those people are not me.
By the time the scene fully registered in my brain, the post was already falling toward the window and when I reached out to catch it, still with barely an ounce of coffee in my system, I somehow misjudged the distance or speed and, rather than grabbing it and saving the day, I fell against it and wound up giving it a push that transformed it from a simple scratching post floating away from me into a rapidly accelerating hammer of destruction.
As expected, the post hit the glass.
It shattered a sizeable porthole in my living room window.
I learned that it was windier outside than I had thought as a virtual snowdrift blew into the room through the broken glass.
I also learned that Jinx wasn’t a fan of snow. He came back into the picture when he leapt from my desk onto the floor then scurried across my feet with his nails out—clawing for traction through my socks and into my skin—on his way to hide in the bedroom.
I stood, stock still, staring in disbelief.
“This definitely wasn’t on the schedule,” I chuckled, in lieu of adding tears to my cheeks.
This was the worst possible scenario made real. There was no way I’d be able to spin this scenario to have the window covered by my lease as I’m sure cat climber versus window wouldn’t fit most definitions of natural causes or standard wear and tear.
I could not afford to fix the window; money was already far too tight. As it was, I’d already requested a raise or extra hours at work—
It dawned on me, How can I go to work with my window like this?
The wind continued to make itself at home, blowing its way through the apartment, reviving the burnt smell of the bagel.
I sniffed again.
Something was different. It smells like melting plastic or rubber…
Small sparks and flickers of flame licked away at the old wooden floor below my desk where my coffee cup now lay with its spilled contents on the mix of plugs. Jinx.
“But. That. No, it shouldn’t…” I stammered at the improbable scenario taking place. I knew a power strip shouldn’t typically do this but here it was, exposed wires and all, the protective plastic gnawed away by kitten teeth.
I raced for the power box by the kitchen.
My phone binged an alert and I laughed hysterically at the notion of answering it now.
I flipped open the metal door panel, and quickly scanned the series of labels to see which switch to flip when there was a quiet, but sharp, Pop! And the power went out.
I shook my head, rolled my eyes, and grabbed the hand towel again.
As I ran back to where the small flames were starting to be covered in snow, my phone binged another alert.
Stress-fueled anger turned to frustration then morphed into desperation and fatigue. A groan started to bubble up inside me but ran out of energy about midway and just faded away somewhere in my throat.
My butt dropped to the hardwood floor, and I bawled heavy tears and deep, chest-heaving, shoulder-bobbing sobs as I used the towel to snuff out any remaining hopeful flames and sop up my precious Pyro coffee.
When I began to really find my pitiful stride, hunched over, elbows on the ground, head hanging between my knees, I felt a gentle bump against my thigh followed by that soft and distinct mew.
My head shook from side to side.
What was I to feel about this? He who had just caused such a terrible disaster was now here to make things better in the only way he likely could.
Jinx ducked under my arm and met me cheek to cheek, purring loud and proud as if this were just another day.
“Buddy,” I whispered, “if you only knew how much I’m going to miss you…”
Scooping him up, I laid back on the floor with him on my chest, Jinx staring at me with those magically mesmerizing green eyes as the cold air of winter blew over us.
His purring mixed with my heartbeat and I knew then that I’d have to start searching for a kitty of my own.
I lost track of time as we lay there.
All worries of schedules, deadlines, bills, or demands melted away—until there was another alert on my phone.
“Sorry, sweetie, I gotta get that.” Cradling him in the crook of my left arm, I went for my phone.
Messages were waiting from Brenda, Angela, and Dr. Stewart.
Outside of calls or texts for special events like my birthday, I couldn’t recall Dr. Stewart ever messaging me.
Much to my surprise, the docto
r’s message was the same as Angela’s: “Are you okay???”
“Three question marks,” I said in a baby-talk voice. “Must be oh-so-serious.”
Brenda’s message was more direct: “Tell me you didn’t make it in. Call me ASAP!”
“Huh?” A shiver ran down my spine.
The phone showed Dr. Stewart’s name and number before ringing.
I answered immediately. “What’s going on?”
At the same time, she said, “Oh god, please tell me you’re okay…”
“Uh, yeah… Well, mostly, but I’m really not going to be able make it in today and we have the kittens being picked—”
A loud sigh of relief filled the speaker of my phone.
Jinx’s purring seemed to get louder as anxiety began to build inside me.
“Doctor, you’re scaring me.”
“I’m so sorry, Helen—”
My phone rang again, this time showing Brenda’s name. For a split second, I wrestled with whether to take the call. Needing to hear what the doctor had to say, I sent Brenda to voicemail.
“It’s on the news,” Dr. Stewart sobbed. “Turn your TV to channel eleven.”
I slid back into the living room, grabbed the remote, and pressed the power button.
Nothing.
“Sorry, Doc, I forgot. I’m kind of in the middle of a power outage.”
Going to the browser on my phone, I turned to the channel to see our beloved hospital surrounded by fire trucks.
Like a punch to the stomach, I was left breathless.
“Helen, are you seeing this?” a voice said, as if from far away.
I tried to answer, but couldn’t. With focused effort, I made my way to the couch and slumped down.
Brenda’s name appeared on the phone to be quickly replaced by Angela’s and then just as quickly replaced by Dr. Spengler.
My faint whisper pushed out, “How?”
“They don’t officially know. They believe the roof collapsed due to the snow but it’s too early to say—”
Hellcats: Anthology Page 89
