How to Moon a Cat

by Rebecca M. Hale

  Still brimming with nostalgia, the moon turned north, skimming across the pointed tips of a pine tree forest as it traced the track of Highway 49. When at last it reached the sleeping mountain hamlet of Nevada City, it took a quick scan of Broad Street’s nighttime scene. In the bar on the first floor of the National Hotel, a boisterous crowd of locals cheered the bartender who sang into a karaoke microphone while pouring an endless round of drinks, never once spilling a drop.

  With interest, the moon watched as an elderly woman dressed in a feather-topped hat pushed a feeble Asian man in a wheelchair through the bar’s front door. I might stop in later, the moon thought shrewdly. But first, I need to check on my charges.

  The moon proceeded briskly to the parking lot behind the hotel. In contrast to the saloon, this area was silent and dark. After weaving around several parked tour buses, it crept stealthily up to the front windshield of a large cargo van and cautiously peered inside.

  A slender white cat lay curled up on the driver’s seat, deep in sleep. The moon slid over the dashboard and, with a long willowy finger, caressed the smooth crown of the cat’s forehead.

  Isabella rolled over onto her back so that the moon could stroke the silky fur of her chest. The claws on her front paws gripped the air as the moon reached inside her head and plucked out the spindly thread of her dream.

  Isabella stood on the driver’s side seat cushion, her front paws draped over the steering wheel while she piloted the van down a twisting mountain road. The window to her left was rolled down, letting in a crisp, refreshing breeze that ruffled through her hair. The engine hummed beneath her, a willing servant to her every command. She had never felt so free, so empowered.

  The van careened down the winding road, following the asphalt path into a gully and over a narrow wooden bridge. A roaring stream flowed below, churning a white foam over the slick boulders that lined the water’s bed. On the opposite side, the vehicle soared up the steep rise of the next hill, quickly climbing toward a perfect blue sky.

  A pleased purr rumbled in Isabella’s chest as she expertly maneuvered the steering wheel, guiding the van through the dense woods of soaring pine trees. In the fabled land of her imagination, her back foot magically mashed down on the accelerator, even as she keenly gazed out through the front windshield.

  With a blissful purr, Isabella glanced over at her copilot. Rupert sat in the front passenger seat, a seatbelt safely strapped over his chest. A broad smile spread across his furry face as the wind caught the loose pockets of his puffy cheeks and plastered his whiskers against the side of his head. Every so often, he reached over to munch a bite from the box of fried chicken they’d picked up at the drive-through of a fast food restaurant they’d passed on the way out of town.

  All the while, Isabella heard but chose to ignore the muffled complaints of the two human figures locked in the wire-fronted cages in the back cargo area.

  Try to tell me I can’t drive a van, Isabella thought scornfully. I’m an excellent driver.

  The moon giggled at the cat, her twitching legs, and the fantastic adventure she was having, if only in her mind.

  LEAVING ISABELLA TO the pleasures of her dream, the moon crawled over the center console into the van’s back cargo area. A large sheet covered the left-hand side of the cargo space, masking the location of a red igloo-shaped litter box. The moon took one curious sniff inside the igloo and instantly abandoned all interest in the domed contraption. It directed its attention, instead, to the sleeping bag stretched out on the opposite side of the sheet.

  A woman with long brown hair lay fast asleep inside the thick flannel-lined fabric. Her bifocal glasses were carefully folded up inside their protective leather case, but the freckled bridge of her nose still bore a reddish indentation where the connecting curve of the plastic frames had pressed down during the day.

  The woman’s head rested on an extra-long pillow, which she shared with a furry orange and white cat. Light snoring sounds whiffled out of Rupert’s mouth as his body snuggled beneath the blankets.

  The moon carefully lifted a sun-lightened strand of hair from the woman’s cheek as it peeked into her head for a quick sample of her dream. After a moment, the moon drew back, perplexed by the peculiar stream of images it had glimpsed inside.

  A grizzly bear roared up on its back haunches, growling viciously at a five-pointed red star. As it howled, the bear’s belly began to swell, pudging out into a wide bulging pouch. The image rotated to the now-rotund animal’s rear, where its stubby tail lengthened into a thick thumping appendage.

  Then the creature began to hop . . . very distinctly . . . like a kangaroo.

  Chapter 26

  THE STARTING LINE

  I WOKE THE following morning feeling remarkably refreshed for having spent the night asleep on the van’s metal floor. After filling up the cats’ food and water dishes, I cracked the windows and checked that the van would remain in the shade for the next twenty minutes while I ducked into Monty’s room to freshen up. Carrying my toothbrush and shower kit, I crossed the parking lot to the hotel’s back entrance, fully expecting I’d have to pour a bucket of cold water on Monty to get him out of bed.

  To my surprise, I found my typically late-rising neighbor already decked out in his cycling gear, sitting at a metal table in the middle of the courtyard, sipping a coffee and reading the local paper. Apparently, he had been up for some time—the citrus scent of his aftershave had already diminished to sub-sneeze strength.

  “Is that a third green jersey?” I asked, noticing the fresh-out-of-the-box sheen of his shirt. It looked too crisp to be the one he had changed into after his cycling accident the previous evening.

  Snapping the newspaper, Monty arched an eyebrow at my tousled hair and blotchy, sleep-ridden face.

  “Saved some hot water for you,” he replied, tossing me the room key. “Chop, chop,” he said briskly as I headed inside for my shower. “We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

  A COUPLE OF blocks away, Dilla Eckles walked out onto the front porch of a small Nevada City bed-and-breakfast. It’s a shame we’re headed back to San Francisco so soon, she thought with an appreciative glance at the morning sun shining down on the manicured yard.

  Her brow furrowed with concern as a light breeze fluttered the pink scarf around her neck. Her husband had been quite adamant that they return to the flower shop as quickly as possible. She had a sneaking suspicion she knew the reason why.

  IN THE FENCED-in yard behind the bed-and-breakfast, John Wang sat in a wheelchair beneath the protective shade of an elm tree. Harold Wombler huddled next to the chair, grumpily conferring with the invalid.

  “You’re sure Napis knows the next location?” Wang asked softly, his wizened face deep in thought.

  Harold nodded with a sour grimace. “My source was unequivocal.”

  “I’ll brief Dilla on the way back to the city.” Wang said with a slight wheeze. “Your source, are you still sure we can trust him?”

  Harold spat at the ground. “We have to.”

  Mr. Wang stroked the long, spooling thread of his beard, a nonvocal agreement with Harold’s assessment. After a long minute, he finally spoke. “I suspect that is what Oscar intended.”

  IT TOOK A bit more convincing to get Isabella into the stroller on the second day of our trip, but I eventually convinced her that with thousands of pedestrians and several hundred bicycle tires cruising the streets, the inside of the stroller was the safest place for a cat to observe the start of the race. At long last, the three of us left the van and headed off toward Broad Street—Monty had departed earlier to meet with the race organizers.

  The cats and I rounded the corner of the hotel parking lot to find that Nevada City had been transformed overnight. The downtown area had been taken over by a traveling circus of hospitality tents, vendor booths, and temporary metal barricades.

  Oodles of people had gathered on Broad Street, which was now closed to vehicular traffic. It was a festive family affair, with mot
hers holding little hands, fathers carrying toddlers on their shoulders, and one intrepid antique dealer pushing a large stroller containing two orange and white cats.

  From a temporary stage positioned beneath the National Hotel’s green and white balcony, an announcer jabbered details and statistics about the coming race to a growing throng of spectators. One by one, the riders were introduced to the crowd as they checked in and received their race numbers.

  Rupert and Isabella were the only cats I saw at the event, but the local canine population was out in force. Representatives of almost every breed and mix were on hand to enjoy the sunny starting line, from pony-sized wolfhounds to stubby-legged wiener dogs. Some sported colorful bandanas around their necks; others wore lightweight coats over their bodies. I think Isabella managed to hiss at each and every one of them.

  A half hour and several disgruntled dog encounters later, the race was finally ready to begin.

  The riders massed behind the yellow starting banner, a melee of shiny painted metal, mirrored sunglasses, colorful nylon shirts, and turtle shell–shaped plastic helmets. Each cycling team was identified by a unique color scheme; the team members matched one another right down to the color of their socks.

  A loose formation of riders congregated behind the starting ribbon that stretched across Broad Street, ready to set out on the parade lap through Nevada City. It would be slow going for the first couple of kilometers as the riders were primarily concerned with avoiding any dangerous pileups in the crowded city streets. The real racing would begin once they hit the open road outside of town.

  The music that had been blaring off and on all morning faded out, replaced almost immediately by the raucous commotion of the noisemaking devices dispersed throughout the crowd. Rows of fans pressed in toward the street as the chief organizer of the race shepherded Monty’s green goblinlike figure to the starting line.

  Above the scene on the National Hotel balcony, the producer crouched in front of Will Spigot and Harry Carlin as he counted them down to the live broadcast.

  Four, three, two, one . . .

  WILL SPIGOT TOOK in a deep breath and began.

  “It’s a beautiful morning here in downtown Nevada City. The time has finally come. The start of the first stage of the Tour of California will get under way any moment now.” He turned toward his partner. “Harry, the Tour has never seen crowds like this.”

  “Without a doubt, Will,” Harry Carlin agreed as the cameraman widened his shot to capture the heads and shoulders of both broadcasters. “And, I have to say, we have one of the best seats in the house. We have a view up the entire length of Broad Street, and let me tell you, it is literally packed with people.”

  The camera returned its focus to Spigot. “The rest of this week we’ll be set up at each day’s finish line, but we wanted to be here this morning for the big send-off.” He tilted his head toward Carlin for an aside. “It’s just as well that I didn’t have far to go this morning. That bed I slept in last night did a right number on my back.”

  “Oh dear,” Carlin said, his face blushing uncomfortably as the producer’s head jerked up in alarm. “You didn’t enjoy your room then?”

  Spigot bridled with indignation. “I’m all for historic, mind you, but there are some aspects of modern society that should not be shunned. Plumbing, hot water, and, above all else, bedsprings.” He shook his head wearily. “Look here, I’d wager that bed has been around since the establishment first opened. Probably last slept in by some old coot miner. I should have shaken out the bedsheets to look for gold dust!”

  Eying the producer’s exasperated prompting, Carlin broke in to change the subject. “The, ah, riders are lined up and ready to go. All of the team cars are assembled behind them. Any second now, and we’ll be under way.”

  But Spigot wasn’t finished recounting his night’s travails. “Do you know,” he interrupted, waving his hand to attract the cameraman’s attention, “I think I saw a mouse in my room. I woke up in the middle of the night, and the little creature was sitting on the edge of my bed. It was the strangest thing. It didn’t have any fur, and I think it was wearing a . . . ”

  The camera swung abruptly back to Harry Carlin. He looked temporarily startled, and then sputtered, “All that’s left now is the ribbon cutting. That must be the designated VIP stepping up to do the honors. There he is, walking out in front of the riders.”

  “What—the man in the shiny green tights?” Spigot interjected. “Say, isn’t that the bloke we saw on the sidewalk last night?”

  ISABELLA AND I watched as Monty stepped up to the ribbon with an excited, expectant air. The smile on his face reflected a magnificent grin. He was already imagining the glorious photo that would hit the papers the following morning.

  Monty brushed a hand through his towering brown curls before tamping the plastic bike helmet down onto his head. The organizer of the race handed him a gigantic pair of scissors, indicating that the moment had arrived. Photographers leaned in from either side of the street to get the perfect ribbon-cutting shot. Monty raised the scissors, gripped the handles, and extended the mouth of the blades.

  Just as the organizer nodded for Monty to begin, a voice shouted out, “Hey, there’s the Mayor! It’s the Mayor of San Francisco!”

  A group of men burst from the crowd near the starting line. They charged in front of Monty as one of the scissor blades caught the rim of the ribbon, shearing it in half. Flashbulbs blinded us all—which was just as well.

  Each of the men who’d jumped into Monty’s photo shoot wore rubber masks mimicking the Mayor’s long face and sculpted, swept-back hairstyle. The rest of their bodies were completely bare.

  Chapter 27

  THE WILD, WILD WEST

  “CRIMINAL CHARGES,” MONTY muttered bitterly as he climbed into the van’s front passenger seat. “They should round them up and press criminal charges.”

  The group of streakers had slipped away into the melee of bicycles, security personnel, and photographers, easily eluding the flailing grasp of the crazed man in the shiny green spandex leggings. The start of the race had been delayed a full twenty minutes while the organizers sought to regain control of the starting line.

  Monty’s cheeks were flushed and streaked with grime. The purple argyle pattern on his cycling shirt was stained with the contents of a chocolate ice cream cone and a pink-colored energy drink, both of which he’d run into while chasing the streakers through the crowd.

  I stared straight ahead through the van’s front windshield, desperately trying to keep a straight face as Monty continued to stew over the scoundrels who had upstaged his photo op. He shook his head again. “I just can’t believe it.”

  “Well,” I replied, struggling to strike a conciliatory tone. “At least the picture is sure to make all the local papers.”

  Monty was not amused by this prospect. He threw a towel over his head and collapsed into the passenger seat’s cushions. “Wake me up when we get to Sacramento,” he moaned plaintively.

  It is not unusual, here in the Wild, Wild West, to come across free-spirited individuals with an unorthodox approach to style, fashion, and, yes, even the necessity of clothing. On a warm spring day after a long rainy winter, certain young Californians find themselves overwhelmed with an exuberance that can be released, it seems, in only one way—particularly when the lowering of their inhibitions is encouraged with the promise of some extra weekend drinking money.

  A FEW BLOCKS off Broad Street, several young college students gathered around Harold Wombler’s rusted-out pickup. As the recently reclothed men handed back the rubber Mayor masks, Harold grumpily peeled off dollar bills, doling out twenty-five per streaker. One by one, the young men disappeared with their payments into a nearby bar, eager to convert the morning’s earnings into glasses of cold beer.

  Harold counted out a final wad of cash and handed it over to the last of the streakers. There was a faint fried chicken scent in the air as he folded up his wallet and tucked it into
a pocket of his overalls. He added a few more crickets to the frog terrarium on his front seat; then he climbed into the cab and rumbled off toward Sacramento.

  Chapter 28

  DOWNTOWN SACRAMENTO

  WILL SPIGOT’S VOICE described the scene as television cameras panned the Sunday afternoon crowd waiting for the riders to arrive.

  “Welcome back, folks. It took some doing, but we’ve made the journey here to downtown Sacramento. We’re stationed across from the State Capitol, right above the finish line for Stage One of the Tour of California.”

  The camera briefly switched frames to a wide shot of the broadcast booth before focusing in on the commentators.

  Harry Carlin smiled warmly to the viewers. “I must say, it’s a beautiful spot we’ve got here. As we look up L Street where the riders will be coming in, we see a gorgeous row of palm trees, and beyond that, Capitol Park, which is absolutely blooming right now with all manner of brightly colored vegetation.”

  Spigot arched a wary eyebrow. “Do you know, Harry, there are orange trees sprinkled throughout that park? Shady characters, those. You’ve got to watch your back in there. The fruit is enormous, and the trees don’t give you any warning when they decide to let go of one. If you hear a rustling above your head, it’s time to duck and run for cover.”