by Kira Bacal
Look What the Cat Dragged In
Kira Bacal
Copyright 2012 Kira Bacal
License Notes
When I heard the whimper at my back door, I first thought I was imagining it. It had only been a few months since my beloved Ajax had finally crossed the rainbow bridge to the land of bountiful chew toys and dog biscuits, and I frequently mistook the odd scraping of a tree branch as a much-missed scratching at the door. But after a few minutes it became clear that my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me – there really was something out there, in the blinding blizzard.
As soon as I realized it, I rushed to the door. The wind chill factor was enough to freeze your marrow, and it was the kind of day that made even the arctic fox and mountain goat seek shelter from the storm. I had been out once, early that morning, to refill my woodbox, and I had had no intention of opening the door again. I’ve lived up here in the frozen north for a number of years, and I’m well able to cope with bitter winters. My cabin is snug, I have more than adequate supplies, and if my environs are lacking in my fellow humans, well, that was fine with me too. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not a hermit, but I love the wilderness and need my solitude in order to write. That said, I would no sooner leave man or beast outside in this sort of weather than I would set my hair on fire or play the accordion.
I opened the back door, bracing against the force of the wind. The instant the door opened, a small furry form fell into the room. It had been huddled against the doorframe and had not the strength to remain upright when robbed of its support. I pulled it inside and hastily shut the door again, though not before a sizable drift had accumulated and the temperature in my kitchen dropped by several degrees. It was then that I could turn my attention to the wretched creature lying limp on the floor.
I snatched up a towel and gently gathered the poor thing into my arms. It was ice cold, with snow caked over its fur. Only the barest whisper of breath let me know my intervention hadn’t come too late. Cursing my stupidity and delay, I hurried over to the wood-burning stove and opened its door, allowing heat to wash over the animal. It was a little scrap of a thing – with tawny fur and no tail to speak of. At first I was too busy drying and warming the creature to examine it closely, but after I had gotten it settled in a deep box lined with warm towels, I took a second look. At first I’d wondered if it weren’t some kind of large ground squirrel, then revised my opinion to a kind of fox. But when it opened its eyes, it let out a plaintive mew, and I realized it must be a kitten.
But a kitten? So far from civilization? I’m miles from my nearest neighbor and even further from the nearest paved road. How could a domestic cat have made it this far out into the wilderness? A sudden terror that it was not alone – that there were other littermates freezing to death in the cold – made me hurry into my boots and coat and venture outside. But the wind had already eradicated all signs of the kitten’s approach, and I couldn’t find anything else in the vicinity.
I returned to the cabin and sighed. It looked like I had acquired a cat. I named her Amber, for her beautiful fur, and resigned myself to several weeks of nighttime bottle feedings. To my surprise, Amber recovered quickly – so quickly it was almost miraculous. By the next morning, she was out of her box and investigating the cabin. I soon realized she could not have been domesticated, because everything was clearly new to her. She immediately realized the value of the refrigerator and the can opener, but oddly, she was equally enthralled by the computer and bookshelves. It was endearing the way she curled up in my lap while I read or worked on my book – and she regarded me with such a quizzical expression on her funny little face that I found myself testing out new passages on her!
She was an odd-looking creature, unlike any cat I had ever owned. Her forelegs were deformed, giving her a creeping gait and causing her to frequently walk on her hind legs. I wondered if these defects had caused her mother to reject her – perhaps that was why she was wandering in the snowstorm. She was undoubtedly smart. She learned her name and numerous phrases within a few days. I had never before had a cat who would follow commands, but Amber was so responsive that I began talking to her as if she were human
That first night, she had of course started sleeping in my bed, but after a few weeks, I began to regret my initial generosity. Amber was growing at an incredible pace, and I once again revised my opinion of her parentage. Before long, she had outstripped even a Maine coon -- she had to be part lynx, if not cougar. And yet, she had none of the unpredictability or wariness that the wild cats display. She craved human attention and carried on dreadfully if I shut her away. She soon became my constant companion, and I found myself more devoted to her than I would have thought possible.
It became a game to see how much I could teach her. Her intelligence was formidable, as if her brain were compensating for her physical limitations. In truth, though, it was easy to forget her handicap. She was surprisingly graceful and moved about the cabin effortlessly. The only problem came with her incredibly long and sharp claws, which snicked out of their sheaths with alarming frequency. Happily, her intelligence allowed her to quickly link her unsheathing the claws with my cries of pain – and her immediate banishment to the bathroom – and so even that hurdle was rapidly overcome. I determined to take her into the vet as soon as the worst of the snows were over. I was curious to see what Darr would make of her – and as eager to show off her tricks as a stage mother.
That was the plan anyway. But all that changed one moonless night.
Amber and I were asleep in bed when a noise awoke me. The kitchen window had shown a recent tendency to sag just enough to allow a treacherous draft to whistle in and that had blown things off the countertop before. With a stifled oath, I left my nice warm bed and padded into the kitchen, determined to fix it once and for all. As I paused in the doorway and groped for the light switch, my wrist was seized in a grip of iron and an arm encircled my throat.
I gasped in pure terror, but before I could scream, a blade was pressed against my throat and a deep, breathy voice spoke in my ear. “Where is she?”
I was too frightened to reply immediately. My eyes could just barely discern two shadowy figures in the gloom. One had me in his sharp embrace – the other was at the far end of the room, peering into my workshop. “Where is she?” my captor repeated, digging the knife in more deeply.
I could feel hot, sticky blood run down my neck. “Wh—who?” I managed to stammer, my tongue thickened by terror. “There’s no one here but me.”
“What did you do with her?” the other demanded. Like the first, his voice was low and whispery, almost a growl.
“I don’t know who you mean,” I protested, growing frantic as the knife pressed harder. “Please – please don’t hurt me. Take what you want, but don’t hurt me.”
“Pah!” The far one spat out an oath of frustration. “It’s lying! Kill it now!”
“We need the information it can provide,” the other snapped. “Tell me,” he demanded, turning back to me. “Where is she now?”
“Who?” I asked, nearly sobbing in fear and bewilderment. “I don’t know who you’re talking about!”
“Can you find anything in there?”
“No sign,” replied the other angrily. “But in these outfits we are deaf and blind!”
“Use the equipment, then!”
I managed to calm down a bit during their momentary inattention and focused on learning more about my attackers. I was sure I had never seen them before – they were wearing clothing that entirely covered them – motorcycle helmets covered their heads and faces, and they were in some kind of leather pants and jacket – even their hands were
gloved. They must belong to a motorcycle gang, though we’d never before seen any this far north. What could they possibly want here? Did they think that I, a middle aged woman, had some kind of drug stash or arms cache? I was an author, not a doctor or a survivalist nut.
“This piece of shplud is worthless!” the first one snarled, shaking something in his hand. “What do you expect of denebian work? I can’t get anything from it.”
“All right.” The one holding me seemed to be the leader. “Then we’ll have to take it back with us and interrogate it there. It’s still the only lead we have.”
My blood ran cold. I knew the statistics: once abducted, your likelihood of surviving a violent assault was dismal. Every self-defense course I had ever taken was adamant on that point. Never, ever let yourself be kidnapped. Well, at least I could die in my own
