by Bill Wallace
Over and over and over again; day and night; at the supper table; while they were watching the noisy box; even before they went to bed—he worked on his multiplication numbers. Willy told me that after he’d heard the stuff about a million times, he started remembering it, too. When his boy got in high school, Willy didn’t like algebra. That was because his David was quiet when he did that. But when it came to geometry, Willy’s boy used to lay on the bed. He’d say the problems out loud and draw lines and angles and stuff on his paper while Willy watched. Then he’d explain all the rules and problems.
“I don’t think My David really believed that I understood him,” Willy admitted. “He was just talking to help him remember. But I learned them, too.”
“I can’t believe you can do people math.” I glanced over my shoulder at him and shook my head. “That’s like big-time stuff.”
“I can’t.” Willy smiled. He followed a pace or two behind me. “Not really. All I can do is what I call mouth math—the stuff My David said out loud. Anything with paper and pencil . . . shoot . . . I can’t read a lick. I can’t even understand that big sign up there.”
I stopped and turned to see what his nose was pointing at. A sneaky smile curled my lips.
“I can read it,” I bragged. “It says, Luigi’s Italian Restaurant.”
Willy’s mouth flopped so wide, I thought he was going to trip over his bottom lip. Before he had a chance to figure it out or find another sign to quiz me on to see if I really could read, I took off.
“Come on,” I called. “Back door. Follow me.”
Luigi was no place in sight. I walked to the screen and rubbed against it. Nothing happened. I meowed. Willy spotted the two big trash cans beside us. He jumped up and put his paws on the edge and peeked inside.
“Oh, man, look at this!” His stub tail wagged so hard it was a wonder it didn’t knock his hind feet from under him. “There’s some really neat stuff in here. It smells great and—”
“Forget the trash,” I meowed. “You eat at Luigi’s—you go first class, all the way. Come on over here.”
Inside, I could hear pots and pans clattering around. I meowed. Footsteps clicked on the floor, but they didn’t come this direction. I meowed louder. Luigi started singing to himself. I jumped up on the back screen, like Tom used to do, and shook it.
A big, round face peeked from behind the corner. The long, droopy, black whiskers under his nose sprang to a smile.
“There’s my kitty-cat friends.” His rolling laugh almost shook the screen where I clung. “I not see you guys all winter. Think maybe you forget about Luigi. How you live all winter without Luigi’s wonderful spaghetti and . . .”
Luigi’s eyes popped as big around as some of the tomato paste stains on his white apron. I was just about to turn and hop down so Luigi could open the screen when his big paw slammed against the door. All of a sudden the screen and I were flying backward. When I hit the wall, my nose and tummy and . . . well, all of me squashed into the screen.
Luigi burst from the open door. He held a big, black skillet in his paw. He raised it above his head.
“You get away from my kitty cat!” he roared. “You no eat up my friend.”
Willy smiled and wagged his stub tail. Luigi swung the black skillet at his head. In the nick of time Willy ducked. Luigi raised the skillet again.
Now, Willy was a dog and dogs are dumb—that’s a fact. But Willy was no fool. He spun and took off at a dead out run. Luigi swung the skillet again. Willy tucked his tail.
Willy didn’t have much tail. And if the tail was all he tucked, Luigi’s black skillet would have creamed Willy’s rump. Only Willy not only tucked his tail, he tucked his whole rear end. The screen, where I clung, began to swing shut. The last I saw of them . . . Willy was running, all hunkered up. His rear end was tucked so tight, it was almost under his belly when he ran. Luigi was hot on his heels, swinging that big, heavy black skillet as hard as he could.
CHAPTER 9
Our whiskers are really important to us cats. They’re suppose to be straight and well groomed. The way the whiskers on the left side of my face got smushed against the screen . . . well . . . they were crinkled up like a wad of paper. Curled and kinky as springs, the whiskers wouldn’t straighten out. It threw my whole world off balance.
Willy saw me coming. He peeked from behind a telephone pole at the far side of the parking lot. He was so big, he stuck out on both sides.
“You really think you’re hidden?”
“That guy tried to kill me!” Willy panted, leaning out a little farther. “Is he gone? Did he go back inside?”
“He’s gone,” I said. Out of the corner of one eye, I could see my crinkled whiskers. I wiggled them. They still wouldn’t straighten. So I turned my attention back to Willy. “Would you get out from behind that post. You look like a total idiot.”
“I’m hiding.”
“You’re not hiding.” I sighed. “You stick out on both sides of the thing. Come here.”
“No.”
“Come here!” I stomped my paw. “Now!”
Sheepishly the huge beast eased from his hiding place behind the telephone pole. Looking all around, he crept slowly to me.
“Let’s go home. That guy scared me.” Willy sat down and ducked his head. “He tried to bash my bottom.”
I smoothed at my crinkled whiskers with a paw.
“It was just a simple misunderstanding, Willy. He thought you were going to eat me or something. We’ll straighten him out. Come on.”
“No way.”
Still messing with my kinky whiskers, I only went a few steps when I turned.
“Willy, come on.”
“No. I don’t even like spaghetti and meatballs.”
“You’ve never had spaghetti and meatballs.”
“I don’t care. I still don’t like ’em. I want to go home.”
“WILLY!”
I meowed, then jumped up and shook the screen. I didn’t stay there for long, though. All I needed was to have Luigi sling the door open again and get the whiskers on the other side of my face smashed. I just rattled the screen and hopped down.
Willy stood at the far edge of the building. He leaned forward and peeked around the corner. All I could see of him was his huge, square head.
Luigi opened the door. He still had the skillet in his hand. After looking all around, he smiled and leaned down to pet me.
“There’s a good kitty cat. Luigi save you. You come to eat good food, not make good food for some big, nasty dog. Luigi fix you big plate of . . .”
With my tail straight in the air and curved at the very tip like a question mark, I trotted toward Willy. Meowing as loud as I could, all the way, I told him to come out from behind the corner. He did.
When Luigi saw him, he raised the skillet above his head. I rushed straight to Willy. Still meowing, I worked in and out between his front legs. I purred and rubbed and weaved round and round. From the corner of my eye, I saw the black skillet come down to Luigi’s shoulder.
“Lean over,” I meowed.
Willy bent down. I purred and rubbed against his cheek. Luigi’s neck kind of stretched up. His head tilted to the side. With my tongue, I kissed Willy on his cheek, then above his eyes and finally on his big, pointed, wobbly ears.
I sure hoped the spaghetti and meatballs would help get the nasty “dog” taste out of my mouth.
It worked!
The black skillet dangled at the end of Luigi’s limp arm. He shook his head, then took a couple of steps toward us.
“Follow me,” I told Willy. “And wag your tail. Act happy.
When I brought Willy closer, Luigi squatted down and set the skillet beside him. Cautiously he reached out a trembling hand. Willy licked it. Luigi began scratching Willy behind his ears. I guess Willy really liked people animals. His tail was wagging his whole hind end. He was wiggling so hard, he couldn’t even keep his big, clunky paws on the ground. Fact was, I thought he was going to shake hi
mself clear apart.
I rubbed my cheek on Luigi’s leg, then rubbed on Willy’s leg. Luigi’s deep, rumbling laugh rolled like thunder.
“Dumb Luigi. Him think big dog chase kitty cat. But kitty cat have new friend.” He rubbed behind my ears. “You bring puppy dog to eat at Luigi’s.” He frowned, then gave a little shrug. “Maybe, pretty big puppy, but you two friend. Bring for Luigi to meet, right?”
“Right. You got it.” I arched my back so he could get at that good spot between my shoulder blades. “This is Willy. Willy, this is my friend Luigi. He’s the guy I been telling you about. The one who fixes—”
“You been telling friend about Luigi’s very good spaghetti and meatballs?” Luigi interrupted. “I cook up fresh, today. Luigi go get bowl for you.” He stood and looked down at Willy. “Fix big bowl for friend.”
Willy flinched when Luigi picked up the skillet. But he didn’t run away. In a moment Luigi came back. He put a small bowl in front of me. He set an enormous bowl down for Willy. It felt good to hear his laugh and feel how proud he was when Willy and I dug in.
• • •
“I’m gonna blow up!”
“Me, too!” I licked my paw and kept working on my whiskers. They were almost straight now. Still a couple of crinkles in about three of them, but they were mostly back to normal.
Willy lay flat on his back in front of his house. With his feet lopped in the air, his tummy stuck up almost as high as his chest. He wriggled and twisted, scratching his back on the grass. As much as he ate, it wouldn’t surprise me if he couldn’t even turn himself back over.
“You need to learn how to eat Italian.”
“Huh?”
“You got to slow down. Take it one bite at a time,” I explained. “Italian food has to be savored and enjoyed.”
“I did enjoy it. It was the best stuff I ever ate.”
“You didn’t eat the first bowl—you inhaled it. I mean, one second Luigi put it down. The next second it was gone!”
Willy flopped to his side. “I still enjoyed it. I think we ought to go back tomorrow.”
I shook my head. “Don’t want to overdo it. About twice a week is plenty. More than that and Luigi might get tired of us.”
Willy started wriggling and rubbing his side on the grass. He used his paws to drag himself. After he scratched and itched in a complete circle, he stopped to face me again.
“So, what are we gonna do tomorrow?”
I started to answer. Ever so slowly my whiskers began to droop.
CHAPTER 10
So, what are we gonna do?”
Willy asked the very same thing when I came to his house the next morning. I still didn’t have an answer. Half the night I’d spent prowling around the house. I tried to think of stuff to do—but what can you do with a dog?
“I thought we’d just lay around and rest today.”
His big, floppy jowls drooped low. Then his nose crinkled up.
“That’s no fun,” he complained. “I like getting out. You’re a cat. You don’t know what it’s like being a dog—being stuck in a pen all day—not being able to climb out or go explore or just go for a walk. Now that we figured out how to get through the gate, I don’t want to waste a minute of it.”
I licked a paw and combed the hair between my ears. “I’m really kind of tired. Why don’t we just relax.”
“Well, what did you and your friends used to do?” Willy asked. “Maybe we could do that.”
“Nothing much.” I shrugged my fur.
“You guys just didn’t sit around all day. What did you do?”
“Not much. Really.”
“Tell me. Please.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I lied. “Other than going to Luigi’s twice a week, we really didn’t do hardly anything.”
Frowning, Willy studied me a moment or two. Then kind of a sly smile rippled across his big face.
“I know you did something. Tell me about it.” He patted the floor beside him with a paw. “Come on . . .” He paused. “. . . up Chuck.”
Suddenly my tail shot straight in the air. Willy’s sly smile stretched clear across his face. My whiskers sprang out.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
“What?” He arched his eyebrows and tried to look innocent. Rottweilers aren’t very good liars. The way he fought to keep the smile off his face was a dead giveaway.
“You did do it on purpose,” I hissed. Back arched and tail fuzzed, I took a couple of sideways bounces toward him. “Don’t do that, Willy. You know how much it upsets me.”
He fought harder to keep the smile off his face.
“I was just teasin’. Don’t get so fuzzed . . . up, Chuck.”
My back was arched so high that my back paws almost touched my front ones. I bounced closer.
“Willy! So help me . . .”
Suddenly the smile left his big, ugly face. “All right. I’ll quit teasing. But you quit lying. Tell me what you and your friends used to do.”
“You really want to know?” I glared at him through tight eyes.
“Yes. I really want to know.”
“You really want to know?”
“I really want to know.”
“All right! Fine! You really want to know, I’ll tell you. We climbed trees. That sound like fun?” I didn’t give him time to answer. “Sometimes we chaced mice in the empty field behind my house. That sound like something you’d like to do? But mostly . . .” I took a deep breath. It was hard for me to say—but I was really mad. “Mostly, we teased dogs! We climbed up on the fence at the football field and called them names. We made fun of the way they looked. We laughed at them and told them how dumb dogs are. There! Now you know.”
My tail hung clear to the ground. I turned away, unable to look him in the eye. Willy was my friend. Willy was also a clog. I didn’t want to tell him about all the mean things we did to his kind. It was my darned temper. Why couldn’t I control myself? Why did I always let it get the best of me? Why did I let my temper make me say and do things I shouldn’t? Now . . . now it was too late. I wasn’t even gentle or kind about telling him—I just blurted it out. Now Willy could never forgive me. Now we could never be friends. Maybe dogs and cats just weren’t meant to be . . .
Willy nudged me with his nose. It was a gentle nudge, but he was so big, it almost rolled me. I turned to look at him.
A tender smile cocked his big, ugly head to the side.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You were young, then. You didn’t know any better. We didn’t even know each other then. It’s okay. Really.”
A gulping sound came out of my throat.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?” He shrugged his ears. “I mean, if Tuffy hadn’t been such a good cat and hadn’t raised me like she did . . . well . . . who knows, I might have turned out like Rocky. I mean, I might have chased cats and tried to eat them and stuff. But we’re friends now. Right? All that stuff is behind us. I’m not any good at climbing trees. Making fun of dogs doesn’t sound like much fun, either. Besides, as much as I ate at Luigi’s yesterday, I’d probably break the fence down. But we can still find stuff to do together. We’re friends. Friends can find things to do that both of us can enjoy. Come on.”
I followed Willy to the big, double wooden gate. He shoved his nose through the crack and forced it open. Then he pushed his head through. Struggling, he got his shoulders, waist, and hips past the opening. One step before his rump cleared the gate, he stopped.
“Come on. I’ll hold the gate for you.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Let’s go chase the mice. If that doesn’t work, we can see what’s on the other side of the empty field.”
I stopped—right in the middle of the gate.
“Oh, we can’t go there!”
“Why not?”
“Farmer McVee’s place is on the other side of the empty field. There’s monsters who live there. They’re huge—even bigger than yo
u are. All they know how to say is ‘Moo.’ And they got teeth growing out of the tops of their heads. They’re big and mean and horrible and scary and—”
“They say moo and have teeth growing out of their heads.” Willy laughed. Then he spun around to face me.
Only trouble . . . when Willy turned around, his rump moved. I was still in the opening when the gate slammed shut.
CHAPTER 11
Willy, I really like you. Okay?”
He didn’t answer. He just stood there with his head down.
“I mean, you’re the nicest friend I ever had,” I went on. “You’re understanding and sweet and fun to be with. I think the world of you. Okay?”
His head ducked even lower.
“But Willy?”
A soft, brown eye peeked up at me.
“I really need you to listen to me this time. Are you listening Willy?”
“Yes, Chuck.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, Chuck.”
“DO NOT!!!” I roared. “Never, Never, NEVER!!! Don’t EVER throw me in your water bowl—AGAIN!”
“But when the gate clunked you on the head—”
“No buts,” I hissed. “I know what happened when the gate hit me. But I don’t care. If I’m knocked out—just let me lie there. If I’m dead—just let me lie there. But whatever you do . . . don’t throw me in the water bowl! I’m gonna be the first cat in history to have webbed feet if you keep this up.”
With my tongue I squeezed more water from the fur on my left side. It dripped to the ground, gathered with the water that had already dropped off of me and made a mud puddle at my feet.
“But you keep getting knocked out.”
“I never got knocked out in my whole life! Not even once—until I started hanging around with you!”
Willy’s head hung so low, his nose touched the ground.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.
Gently I touched the knot on my head. I yanked my paw away. It still hurt. Even more tenderly, I felt it again. It was starting to swell.
