Nancy J. Bailey - Furry Murder 01 - My Best Cat

by Nancy J. Bailey

  “All done!” Roxanne barked. She threw Kenya unceremoniously back into his cage and slammed the door. Most cats would have shaken their fur and probably licked themselves, a sign of haughty indignation. But Kenya arched his back and rubbed against the wire door, not the least bit bothered by her callousness. He was always happy. My precious boy.

  Roxanne whirled to Jack and her manner changed. She stood on her toes and adopted an air of somewhat vulgar femininity. She was not a small woman, and her ample hips swung from side to side flirtatiously as she walked toward him. Her voice lifted to a high falsetto. “Jack! Are you making a lunch run today?”

  He looked up from his paper, his face aglow with pleasure. I wanted to choke.

  “ROX-anne!” A voice behind me squealed the familiar tune. “You don’t have to put on the red light…”

  I turned to see Roxanne’s nephew, Andrew, standing behind me. Roxanne hadn’t heard the song. Andrew was shaking his head, bouncing on his toes as he watched his aunt’s predation. “I see she’s at it again. The poor guy. Good thing his wife is so dim. She doesn’t even have a clue. Have you noticed that she’s cross-eyed? Maybe that’s why she can’t see what’s going on.”

  I had noticed that Tracy had one eye which drifted inward. That was hard to miss. But I said nothing.

  As Andrew watched his aunt lean over Jack’s shoulder to look at his newspaper, he hummed the theme, “Roxanne” and he bounced some more. He was tall and so skinny I wondered if he was ill. He exuded nervous energy. Probably just burned everything off that way.

  “Looks like I’m getting yet another new uncle!” he crowed. “Want to know what my nickname is for her?”

  I made no comment, just turned back to my show catalog. They were getting ready to read Absentees and Transfers over the loudspeaker. I bent to dig through my backpack.

  “Whatcha lookin’ for?” Andrew said.

  “My ink pen.”

  “Wanna borrow one?”

  “I need to find this one. I had it made up special for the show. It had a long cord on it, so I could hang it around my neck. It said ‘I LOVE MY SOMALI’ and had Kenya’s picture on it!”

  I bent to look under the row of cages, thinking maybe it had fallen out.

  Andrew had moved down the aisle. He had his own show cat, a Devon Rex. His partner Dennis was a show photographer and had a booth set up not far away. Andrew opened the cage and the Rex, a gnome-like thing with enormous ears and wavy orange hair, stepped out onto the grooming cart. Her long, thin tail twirled first one way and then the other, signaling her happiness.

  I stood up and went over to them. The cat looked up at me and blinked, a distinct and friendly feline “hello”. I noticed that she had green eyes. It was very striking in her orange face with the big bell-shaped ears.

  “Hello,” I said back to her. I kept my hands carefully behind my back, remembering the strict “Do Not Touch” code of the cat fancy. Among exhibitors it was frequently broken, but one must always be invited first.

  The Devon was interesting, but it was the baby Somalis that drew my attention. One was a black-ticked ruddy, like Kenya, and the other was a blazing brick red. They clamored together in the cage, reaching their forepaws out to swipe at me, begging for attention.

  “These are little half sisters to your boy,” Andrew said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, the sire is Rusty Halo and the dam is my red girl from California.”

  “They’re darling! Are they in the show?”

  “Oh, no. They won’t be four months old until next week. If I had thought about it I would have fudged the litter application. Actually they aren’t even supposed to be here.”

  The Devon tapped my arm gently with one paw, a reminder that kittens were fine, but the lion’s share of the attention really belonged to her.

  “What is her name?” I asked.

  “Anden’s Hot Purrsuit. We call her Hotsy.” Andrew pulled out a toy, a coiled string on a stick. On the end of the springy cord, there was a furry mouse. The Devon crouched, hindquarters trembling with joy. Her head flipped this way and that as the mouse swung in the air above her. Then she stood, balancing lightly on her hind legs as she skillfully reached and grabbed and came back down with the mouse in her mouth. She did not try to leave the cart, instead just crouching there, holding the mouse and growling, while the stick dangled over the edge. Her tail flipped back and forth with determination.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “She is so cute!”

  He grinned. “Thank you. She is the best thing Dennis and I have produced so far. She is only eight months old, and this is her first championship show.”

  “I see.”

  He scooped her up and held her on her back. Her paws folded gently into her almost-naked chest and she gazed at me in contentment, a tiny Buddha in his arms.

  He leaned close to me, conspiratorially. “We expect her to grand this weekend. The judging lineup is great for her.”

  I grinned, but inwardly, I rolled my eyes. A Devon, granding in one show? Please. That was tough enough for longhaired cats to do.

  “Roxanne says her head is too round. But then again, Roxanne has Somalis. Devons are supposed to have heads like this. That’s my aunt for you. She does have her opinions. So where are you staying?”

  “At the Vagabond.”

  “Oh, us too. You’re not rooming with her, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I should hope not. How can you sleep in the same room with that snoring?”

  I shrugged. The snoring hadn’t bothered me quite as much as the sleep apnea. She would suddenly go silent, not breathing at all. The first time it happened I got up and put my hand a couple of inches over her open mouth. There was no air going in or out. Then suddenly, just as I was about to panic, she took a deep gasp and renewed her thunderous snores.

  There were other things that happened too, but I wasn’t about to go into them, certainly not to him, at least.

  “She’s a real trip, isn’t she?” Andrew added. His voice seemed edged with contempt, but I may have been imagining it. He nodded toward Kenya’s cage. “Is her premier here?”

  “Zephyr is here, yes.”

  “It’s funny how he just seemed to appear out of nowhere. I don’t remember him as a kitten at all, but he is supposed to be Kenya’s littermate.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And why is he a Premier? Why would she neuter a cat like that?”

  “I don’t know.” I had wondered the same thing myself. Zephyr was loaded with coat. He had more hair than any Somali I had ever seen, all in the right places. He had a generous ruff, gorgeous britches and his tail was probably six inches thick. And his pigment was phenomenal. I couldn’t believe the richness of his auburn coat. He was like a torch.

  “I would think she would want to pass that color on to the next generation. It would be so good for the breed,” I added.

  He laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You probably think her hair color is real too!” he said.

  I looked at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  He looked around, popped Hotsy back in her cage, and gestured me with a come-hither wave. He minced up the aisle to Zephyr’s cage. The big cat lay quietly in his cuddle bed, but he looked up and spoke a soft, polite greeting when we approached. Without hesitation, Andrew opened the door, reached in and pulled him out. He held the cat’s forepaw gently in one hand, squeezing the toes so that the claws protruded. Zephyr merely purred.

  “See this?” Andrew said.

  I leaned closer, examining the toenail, and saw that the base of the claw was an unnatural orange color.

  “She can’t keep it from getting in there,” he said. “All a judge would have to do is examine his nails, but they just look the other way.”

  “You mean – “

  “Yes. She’s dyed his hair. I don’t know with what. The ticking still shows up.” He ruffled the hair along the cat’s back.

  “Unbelieva
ble!”

  “Well, just look at him. I mean, that’s not a natural color. See how his armpit hairs are no lighter than the rest of him? It’s wrong. And his face is so pale!” He laughed.

  “You’re right!”

  “Yep, I know my aunt. Unfortunately. She’s a Leo, so what can you expect?”

  I smirked. “You believe in that stuff?”

  “Oh honey,” he reached out one hand and touched my shoulder. “Absolutely. Do your homework, and you will see how true it all is. It’s scary how true it is.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “When is your birthday?”

  “You know what? I’m not going to tell you. I’ll let you guess.”

  He grinned. “Ooh, now I like this girl! Okay. Let’s see.”

  He squinted, tilted his head, looking at me. “You’re kind of the quiet type aren’t you?”

  “Just a little I suppose.”

  “You’re a Libra,” he said finally.

  My jaw dropped. “How did you know that?”

  “Mostly your mannerisms. You are tentative, agreeable, indecisive. But Libras often have a darker side. An angry side. A lot of bitterness that’s been smoothed over.”

  He waved his hand gently through the air as he talked.

  “I see,” I said.

  “You’re very angry deep down,” he added.

  I shifted uncomfortably. “Well, who can argue with ‘deep down’?”

  He laughed.

  “So, what are you?” I asked.

  “Oh Honey, I’m a Gemini, through and through. The twins. Sometimes I really think there are two of me.”

  “And what is a Leo?”

  “Leo, the sign of the lion. And she is it. Always chasing glamour, money, attention. The only inconsistency is, Leo is supposed to have a big, loyal heart. Roxanne is loyal only to Roxanne. She has a heart of stone. She has a moon rising in Scorpio. It’s a bad combination.”

  “Scorpio, the scorpion. The stinger.”

  He leaned closer and whispered, “She is horny like a Scorpio too.”

  As if I hadn’t noticed.

  “So what is it?” I asked.

  “What is what?”

  “What is your Aunt Roxanne’s nickname?”

  “Ohhh.” A smirk crossed his lips. He held Zephyr up toward the ceiling, and directed his answer up at him. “Auntie Climax.”

  Chapter Three

  Tracy Pringle

  Thursday Morning

  It was only my second year breeding Abyssinian cats, and I already had a National Winner on my hands. I can’t say how exciting this was. I had had few such successful ventures in my life. The campaign trail was long and tough, but we were getting there. The only problem was, the travel was expensive, and the hotel stays were, too. Then I was laid off for taking so much time off work. I’d worked for a doctor’s office and they were real sticklers for attendance there. Of course, after I was let go, I told everyone the office was overstaffed. But I knew it was the cats.

  Jack was a little reluctant to mortgage the house to pay for the campaign. But he loved Baloo and understood we would get it all back in stud fees.

  “At least someone in this house will be getting some action,” he grumbled.

  He had no right to complain. He knew my sinuses were acting up, yet he still expected me to perform unspeakable things. Men. They were all alike. Period.

  “There are more important things in life than blow jobs, and plenty of other ways to have fun,” I said one evening when he was growing insistent.

  “Really?” he said. “Name one!”

  “There’s no need to be like that,” I said.

  He put his glasses on and stood up, totally naked, and began pacing around the bedroom. His appearance really didn’t help his cause any. “A man’s got to have an orgasm! That’s all there is to it!”

  “Well there’s certainly more than one way to skin a cat!” I said.

  “I don’t find your analogy amusing at all!” He was getting more and more upset, and now he stood in the doorway waving his arms around. His hips were a little wider than a man’s should be, and his skin was white and rather greasy. He had a large pink bump, a mole, nestled amongst the matted hairs on his chest like an extra nipple. It was really hard to concentrate on the issue at hand.

  “Please put some clothes on, and we’ll talk about it,” I said.

  “I don’t want to put my clothes on!” he shrieked. “That’s the whole point!”

  That was back in his uppity phase. Since then he had calmed down, probably because I rewarded his good behavior one night. He had gone out to the pet supply store without me, come home and unloaded 200 lbs of pine-based pelleted kitty litter in the basement. It wasn’t really that big a deal, but as a reinforcer I allowed him to have sex with me. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say he was very satisfied that night.

  “I wish you’d put out more often,” he said as he rolled off me.

  “Please!” I said. “You’ve gotten it two times in the very recent few days! And now you have the nerve to complain?”

  I thought it didn’t hurt to remind him, even though I understood all about men and sex. Men had to be kept satisfied that way. So I had learned to use it to my advantage. It was ridiculously easy. It was all in the timing.

  Cats were a little more complicated than men. My Baloo-Bear was a blue Abyssinian. He was the best of the best. Period. He had a few leg bars but I found this colored powder that perfectly matched his peachy undercoat. It did the job nicely. When you held him up under the lights, you could see the stripes a little bit, if you knew where to look. Mostly they weren’t noticeable. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about leg bars anyway.

  Brushing up on my motivation, I was immersed in a very good book by Dr. Saul Marelli called, “Swamp Them With Kindness! How To Have What You Want Before Others Get There.” His methods had a little more empathy than the last book I’d read, “Goals With Gusto.” But I didn’t subscribe to any one person’s methods. I thought it was best to learn what I could and then go my own way.

  Jack thought the books were hogwash for the most part. “There’s no better way to succeed than to write a book telling someone else how to succeed,” he said.

  In a way I could see his point. “But you have to admit that, judging by Baloo’s success, I’m on to something. And I am going to make this work. Baloo is going to be a National Winner. Period.”

  He backed down like he always did. He knew I was right.

  We were a team, Jack and me. I stayed busy with ring clerking, and I got to know the judges that way. I made a mental note of whatever refreshment they preferred. I had gotten this idea from, “Rub Elbows With the Winners and Become One”. Even though it was Hospitality’s job, whenever I got the chance, I would run and fetch their cola or coffee.

  “You are so thoughtful!” they would say. The men, that is. The women were generally a little harder to sell. I could usually get to them, though, by finding out whatever kind of cats they had bred. All the judges were breeders, or had been at some point. If I started taking an interest in their breed of choice, and asking them lots of questions, they would sort of forget themselves and defenses would come down. This happened especially if I acted like a prospective buyer.

  If a judge made a joke to the spectators while he was judging, I would be sure to laugh. I naturally had a very loud and infectious laugh. Sometimes I could time it just right if I knew the joke was coming. I would take a sip of water from my bottle, and then when the judge made the joke I would lean forward and spray the water out, as if I couldn’t help it. I was, of course, careful not to wet the cats. I would then clap my hand over my mouth and look embarrassed. The judges loved this.

  In “Ten Ways To Influence Anyone,” I also learned to imitate someone’s body language. If a judge leaned on the table with one hand, I would casually lean the same way, either on the same hand, or if I was standing across from him, I would mirror his movement. If he scratched hi
s nose, I would scratch mine too, or make some less obvious motion toward my face. This was supposed to bond the person with you, a subliminal language telling them that you are like them, sort of a kindred spirit. I wasn’t sure how well this one worked, but I kept using it just in case.

  While I did the ring work, Jack took care of Baloo. He groomed him and he put a nice sheen on his coat with Bay Rum. We’d had an attack of ringworm in the cattery during the past winter. I thought that was going to slow us down. But I had a secret weapon – a Baloo duplicate! Mowgli, his brother. Mowgli actually had better clarity than Baloo but his color was not as intense. Still, they looked similar enough. Mowgli was a year older, but from the same breeding. He didn’t have the same happy show attitude, and sometimes got a little grumpy with the judges. He would get all hunched on the judge’s table. They would shake toys to try to get him to show off a little, but he would just sit there with his ears kind of flattened. I gave him Valarian Root to calm him, but it didn’t seem to help any.

  Fortunately, by this time a lot of the judges knew me, and remembered Baloo. “He’s having an off day,” I would explain as I carried Mowgli past. For added emphasis, as I placed him in the judging ring cage, I would talk to Mowgli. “Okay, Baloo, you be good, Mr. Man!”

  And even with his attitude, sometimes they would still call him up for their top ten finals. That’s where the real points were.

  Jack didn’t approve of me switching the two cats, and showing Mowgli under Baloo’s name. But it was only for a couple of months until the scaly ringworm spots were healed and Baloo’s hair had grown back. It was early in the season too, so the points were not as essential as they were now. I told Jack to keep his mouth shut, and he did. We didn’t always get along, but we were a team. Period.

  Chapter Four

  Wesley Taft

  Thursday Morning

  “The thief is here,” Max muttered.

  I looked up and saw her. It was six months after she had taken Rusty from us, and Roxanne was still strutting around the show halls like nothing had happened. She walked right by with her chin in the air, as if we were invisible.