Now Pepito’s dirty nose sported a line of bright red blood.
“It’s not your turn,” Capo told the white cat in his oily purr. “It’s my turn.”
Capo, big belly brushing the ground, waddled over to my food dish, leaned down and ate one bite after another, chewing each with exaggerated thoroughness as Pepito watched miserably. What had he done to displease the boss? Was Capo simply reminding his gang who was in charge? Or perhaps cruelty was just the way he amused himself.
“Anyone else care for a morsel?” Capo asked at last. “Marco? Fritz? Lamar?” The other cats looked away or washed their faces. “Oh, all right, Pepito. I suppose you may have what’s left. But do be careful with portion size. I wouldn’t want you to get fat.”
Capo laughed at his own joke, and the other cats laughed, too. It would have been dangerous not to.
Without so much as a mew, Pepito slunk over to my food bowl and ate the few remaining bites.
All this time, my ears had been tuned for the sounds of rat and pigeons at work. They were executing the riskiest part of my plan—Part Three.
Part One had been to assess the size of the hole in the fence, the one through which Capo entered and exited. Part Two was to gather enough twigs and other nesting materials to plug the hole up tight. Part Three was to do the job. My allies were working from the back side of the fence, the alley side. But any telltale noise might tip off the gang.
The city’s background noises—sirens, car horns, trucks, shouting, jets and helicopters—had so far covered the sounds of rat and pigeons at work, and the black-and-white sentry nearest the hole in the fence had not once looked concerned.
The other risk was that the cats would decide to leave before Part Three was concluded. This was my department. I had to keep them here—distract them—but conversation is surprisingly difficult when you’re terrified. With nothing to say, I stared dumbly at the boss cat as he meticulously groomed his claws.
“What are you looking at, my dear dog?” Capo asked me at last.
“Y-y-you,” I answered truthfully. “Uh . . . so tell me, Capo, how are things down by the river these days? Good? I mean, I hope they’re good. I hope all of you are eating well?”
If Capo was surprised by my concern, he didn’t show it. “Times were better before there were so many of us,” he admitted. “I don’t mind telling you it’s a lot for one cat to oversee. Happily, we have this secluded paradise to return to anytime we’re hungry.” He laughed his ugly feline laugh. “In the never-ending conflict between our two species, my dear dog, it is good to know we cats have absolute dominion in this pleasant little corner.”
This was too much. Reflexively, I raised my hackles and growled. It was a low, soft sound, but Capo heard it anyway, and his eyes flashed. “Watch yourself, my dear dog,” he said smoothly, “or I’ll shred your hide like mozzarella cheese.”
Much as my hound-dog nature longed to attack, I managed to hold it back. It would be foolish to get into a fight now that my plan was so close to completion.
At least I hoped it was. In essence, the pigeons and Oscar were building a super-sturdy nest in the hole in the fence. Nesting was something they were good at. But, being small, they had to transport the materials—twigs, leaves, dried grasses, feathers, paper and other small items of litter—one at a time to lay them in place.
I hoped they were working fast. I hoped Johanna had managed to recruit a lot of volunteers. I wished I had asked them how long the job would take. Not being a nest builder myself, I had no idea. Were they almost done? Halfway done?
“So, Capo, I’m, uh . . . surprised you guys like dog food so much,” I said. “Or do you like dog food? How does it compare to cat food? I never ate cat food myself.” I didn’t add what I was thinking, that the very thought gave me indigestion.
“My dear dog, we strays are adaptable creatures. We have to be,” said Capo. “It’s true I prefer my food to be fresh, still wiggling if possible. Dog food tastes like cinders and waste, but at least it never tries to escape.”
Now the cat was insulting my food! I vowed to remain calm. I even asked a couple more questions, all the time keeping one eye on the black-and-white sentry.
Capo was schooling me on the flavor variations in mackerel when the sentry lifted his head. “Excuse me, boss? I hear some kinda activity goin’ on out back in the alley.”
Capo turned to look at the sentry, which was fortunate. Otherwise he might’ve seen my panicked expression.
“What kind of activity?” Capo asked.
“Rodents, maybe. How would I know?” said the sentry. “It ain’t like I got X-ray vision or something.”
Capo blinked. “Dominic? You are a son of mine, but I don’t like your attitude.”
The sentry shifted his haunches and swished his tail. “Yeah? Well there’s times I don’t like yours either, Dad.”
Capo turned to the black cat with the sharp claws. “Lamar, would you mind taking care of my son for me? I’m so comfortable just now on the dog’s pillow.”
“Hey, wait a sec—” the sentry started to say, but his words dissolved in a howl of pain. Lamar had sighted and pounced, overwhelming the young cat in a blur of teeth and claws. The punishment, loud and ferocious, lasted only a few seconds.
“That will do,” Capo said. “And let that be a lesson to the rest of you.”
The sentry, Dominic, was left hunched over, panting and defeated. Both his ears were torn; his blood dotted the ground around him. I couldn’t help but stare, and when I did I saw him look up and give Capo a look of sheer hatred.
Capo didn’t seem to notice. Instead he said to no cat in particular, “I think we’ve imposed on the canine long enough. But we’ll see you again soon, my dear dog. Till then, parting is such sweet sorrow.”
Oh no! Had Oscar and Johanna finished their work?
I jumped up, ready to block Capo’s path. I’d think of some excuse for keeping him around if I had to. But luckily, I did not. From above, I heard a reassuring coo. Breathing easier, I looked at the big cat and thought to myself, You’re not going anywhere.
Twenty-Seven
One by one, Capo’s feline lieutenants leaped over the hedge to the fence’s crossbar, then clambered up and over. Meanwhile, Johanna had returned to the power line to implement Part Four of the plan. With a flutter of her wings, she signaled each time a cat dropped to the alley below: One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five. . . .
Five?
Where was six?
Including Capo, there had been seven cats on the patio. By this time, all the others should have left.
Perhaps I had miscounted? Perhaps Dominic was so badly hurt he could not make the leap?
No matter what the explanation was, I had a job to do—Part Five. In anticipation of Capo’s next move, I jumped up on the picnic bench and then to the table, where I’d be out of Capo’s way. Not that I couldn’t take him in a one-on-one fight. That is, I thought I could. The villain had surprised me before.
I assessed the angle of the sun and figured Mutanski would be home soon. At the same time, I heard a terrific yowl, a succession of snarls, hisses and thumps, a screech and finally an exclamation: “Curse you, you unrecalcitrant cur!”
I had never seen Capo move quickly till now when he shot out of the hedge, furious. “What have you done?” he cried when at last he looked up and found me.
“Blocked your exit,” I said. Even now, Capo was a formidable enemy, and my voice quavered when I spoke.
All those thumps and bangs must have been the big cat throwing himself against the fence in frustration. Like the Gingham Gang before him, Capo was trapped.
Nose bleeding, eyes puffy, he looked like he had been in a fight, which he had—a fight with a fence.
Now he howled again, calling his gang, trying to bring in reinforcements. It wasn’t a command, it was a plea. But there was no reply.
“They’ve abandoned me, those ingrates!” he howled.
“They can’t
really help you, you know,” I said. “There’s no way for them to lift you over the fence. And they can’t clear the nest that’s plugging up your exit, either. If I know Oscar and Johanna, they have packed the hole as solid as brick.”
Unaccustomed to frustration, Capo was suffering. Eyes flashing, he panted and paced, his mind trying to find a means of escape from his predicament.
Meanwhile I was following his every move, still on high alert in case he tried something tricky, when a thin feline voice said, “Ahem.”
The sixth cat!
I crossed to the other side of the picnic table, looked down . . . and there in the ivy was the sickly white cat, Pepito.
“Hello,” I said politely. “Left behind?”
“Too weak to make it over the fence,” he said. “I haven’t been well—”
“Oh, thank heavens you’re here,” said Capo. “Look, first I need you to rip the canine’s eyes out, then hop up and see about punching out an exit for me, would you?”
Weak as he was, Pepito kept his voice steady. “I don’t think so.”
“What did you say? Perhaps I didn’t speak loudly enough.” Capo started to repeat his orders at higher volume.
Pepito interrupted. “I’m not following orders anymore. The rules have changed. As of now, I am my own cat.”
Capo sputtered, stuttered and stomped. “You’re a traitor to your species!”
“Look around,” said Pepito. “See any cats coming to your rescue? You’re on your own, and so am I.”
“Uh . . . can I say something?” I tried.
“No!” Capo’s manners were not improving.
“Sure,” Pepito said to me. “I’d like to know what’s going to happen next.”
At this moment Capo realized he had nothing to lose. With a scream like an Apache war cry, he jumped from the ground to the bench and then the table.
Eyes hot, tail swishing, claws menacing, he began to advance on my vulnerable nose and flesh.
I stomped my forepaws, dipped my head and leveled out my tail—attack position. In the heroic tradition of my ancestors facing down psychotic badgers, I growled and showed my teeth.
Come and get me, fatso!
At the same time, my allies rallied to the cause. As one, Johanna’s flock rose from the telephone wire and circled overhead. Capo was so intent on me he did not notice until one released a gooey mess of recycled bird food that landed with a plop beside his nose.
“Bleahh!” Capo’s reaction was a reflex. So was his impulse to look up as the winged shadows swooped and whirled around us.
Perhaps he thought of all the chicks and birds his gang had murdered, the eggs and nests they’d smashed. Perhaps at last he was afraid.
The birds diverted Capo just long enough. A moment later, I smelled the distinctive aroma of teenage girl laden with products. Mutanski! Her lips were green that day. Even so, I welcomed her with equal parts joy, relief and gratitude. Just like dashing Colonel Joshua Trueheart himself, she had arrived to save the day.
Twenty-Eight
Now, quick as his girth allowed, Capo dropped to the bench and then the ground before moving in a hurried waddle—belly swinging beneath him—toward the safety of the hedge.
Meanwhile Johanna and her cronies dispersed.
“Rats have mercy!” Mutanski said. “Was that a cat? Where did he come from? And goodness’ sake, here’s another one. Oh, baby.” She shook her head. “You don’t look good, and you don’t smell so hot either.”
Mutanski was right about Pepito. All cats smell putrid, but with his afflictions and more than average filth, Pepito smelled worse than most.
“Awww, but I see you’re a nice kitty,” said Mutanski.
Apparently Pepito had not always been a stray. Now he displayed his people skills, purring, bumping Mutanski’s shin, rolling over and batting his paws at the sky.
“But I can’t keep you.” Mutanski shook her head. “Mom’s allergic—and what happened to your fat, shy friend, anyway? Strudel, do you know anything about this?”
I wagged my tail and played dumb.
I dunno. I dunno. I dunno. I’m only the dog.
There had been glitches, but in spite of them my plan so far had played out successfully. Now it was time for the humans to do their part, Part Six, not that they knew that was what they were doing. Johanna had believed I could predict human behavior. We were about to find out if she was right.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Mutanski continued. “Mom’s allergies are so bad that you guys have to go bye-bye and fast. Come on in, Strudel. I’ll get you some water and a treat. Do you want a treat? You’re a good dog—yes, you are!”
I am, I am, I am! How true!
While I chowed down on a much-deserved biscuit, Mutanski left a phone message for her mom. Then she filled two plastic cereal bowls with water and took them outside. “Do those cats eat dog food, do you think?” she asked me.
Oh yeah, they do.
“Or . . . I know,” Mutanski went on. “Maybe Mrs. Rodino has some leftover cat food from Mitzi. Even if it’s stale, it’s better than nothing. I’ll go ask while I’m waiting for Mom to call. You stay here, bud. I’ll be right back.”
Jake came home a few minutes later, but he didn’t find out about the cats till Mutanski returned from Mrs. Rodino’s with a plastic yogurt container full of fishy and disgusting cat food.
“Wait, what? Cats? Where?” Jake said.
“On the patio, idiot. I just told you!” said Mutanski.
Jake ran to the glass door and grabbed the latch.
“Don’t let ’em in! Mom’ll kill us!” Mutanski warned.
“I only see one.” Jake peered out. “And he’s all beat up. Poor guy. I guess it’s tough being a stray.”
I dipped my nose and stomped my paws.
If either of you wastes any more sympathy on cats, I swear I will leave a mess on the rug!
“What’re we gonna do?” Jake continued.
“Mom texted we should call animal control.”
“You mean like the dog catcher?”
“Cat catcher,” Mutanski said, “but yeah.”
“We can’t do that! They might . . . you know.” Jake drew a forefinger across his neck.
I pranced around Jake’s ankles.
Go ahead! Call the cat catcher! Call!
“What about Mrs. Rodino?” Jake said.
“I thought of that,” said Mutanski.
“You did not!” Jake said. “You just want to take credit for my idea.”
“It doesn’t take a genius, genius,” said Mutanski. “Her cat died, and she likes cats.”
“These cats probably aren’t even nice,” said Jake. “Mom says strays are wild.”
“How do you know they’re strays?”
“One is—the disgusting one. Nobody would have a cat as ugly as that,” Jake said.
“He has a nice personality, though,” said Mutanski.
“Something you would know nothing about,” said Jake.
“Ha ha. Very funny. So who’s gonna go ask Mrs. Rodino? I got the food. It’s your turn.”
“Come with me?” Jake said. “Please?”
“Oh, all right,” Mutanski said. “But let’s go before Mom gets home—or Arnie—and calls animal control without ever giving us a chance.”
While Jake and Mutanski were gone, I looked out the door at Pepito, who—gross!—had claimed my pillow. He looked surprisingly at peace for a cat who might be caught and trucked to a shelter at any moment. Maybe life with the Pier 67 Gang had been so awful that anything else would be an improvement.
Meanwhile, Capo stayed out of sight.
Twenty-Nine
Jake and Mutanski were gone so long that I caught a few well-deserved winks. When they came back, Jake picked me up so I could lick his face. For lunch he had eaten carrots, a turkey sandwich and chocolate milk.
“She says she’ll take ’em, Stru!” he told me. “She says she’s not afraid of any old stray cat, and I think if
anyone can tame ’em, she can. She’s always had cats.”
“We told her we’d bring ’em over,” Mutanski said, “while she gets everything set up. To catch ’em, she says to use pillowcases and gardening gloves.”
“And goggles! And hazmat suits! And scuba gear!” said Jake.
Mutanski rolled her eyes and pointed upstairs. “Just get the pillowcases.”
The light was fading when, a few minutes later, the kids were ready. Mutanski told me to stay, but Jake contradicted her. “Without Strudel, how will we find the second cat—the shy one?”
Mutanski reconsidered. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
Outside, Pepito barely had time to blink before a pillowcase dropped on him. “Gooood kitty. Niiice kitty.” Mutanski tied the pillowcase closed, then picked it up with the squirming cat inside. “Now what do I do with him?”
“Stick him back in the house,” Jake said. “He can’t get away when he’s tied up like that.”
As soon as Mutanski came back, I did my best imitation of a pointer to indicate Capo’s location in the dark corner by the rosebushes.
“Wouldja look at Strudel!” Jake said.
“He sees something, all right,” said Mutanski. “You go over there and check it out. The cat we want is as fat as a bowling ball—one of those gray-and-brown-striped tabbies.”
“Oh good. Now I won’t grab the wrong cat by mistake.” Jake felt around under the rosebushes. It was too dark for him to see, but any second, he was going to get a handful of Capo. Sure enough: Mrrrow!
“Bingo!” Jake grabbed as much fur as he could and yanked. The big cat flew toward him, Jake went over backward and a second later he and Capo were wrestling on the ground.
Yow!
Ow!
Owieee!
“Jake, are you okay?” Mutanski danced around, wrung her hands and looked worried.
“Drop the pillowcase on him, wouldja?” Jake spit out the words between grunts. Mutanski dropped the pillowcase, which instantly came to life and escaped Jake’s clutches. Now it was tripping, stumbling and somersaulting around the patio like a small, demented ghost.
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