The Speed of Souls

by Nick Pirog

  I turn and glance over my shoulder and see Megan and Cassie both watching the pair intently. Megan is sitting in the sand with Cassie between her legs. Both of them have their eyes trained on Wally and Hugo wrestling. Megan’s dimple is visible from twenty feet away.

  ~

  When I pulled up to our small house twelve days earlier, Megan ran out the front door and tackled me with kisses. It took her a few moments to realize there was a little kitten sniffing Wally’s butt.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Megan shrieked. “A kitten!”

  She plucked him up from the ground and began kissing his little head. After eight to ten kisses, she asked, “Where did you get him?”

  “I found him.” I paused, then added, “Well, actually, I suppose he found me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I smiled meekly and said, “This might sound crazy, but I’m pretty sure—no, I’m positive—that little cat is Hugo.”

  I expected her to shake her head, to cut her eyes at me, to tell me I was off my rocker. And rightly so. But she didn’t.

  She simply said, “Wow, that’s amazing!” Then she turned to Hugo and said, “Hi, Hugo. How are you liking your new body? Probably took some getting used to, huh, buddy?”

  And that was that.

  A minute later, I was getting the grand tour of my new house.

  ~

  I walk over to Megan and Cassie and plop down next to them. I lean over and give Megan a long kiss, then scratch Cassie’s ears. Cassie glances up at me for a brief moment, then returns her gaze to Hugo and Wally, who are still wrestling in the sand.

  “You don’t have to watch him constantly,” I say with a laugh. “He’s fine.”

  She ignores me, her head making micro-adjustments as she follows Hugo’s every move.

  “Guess what?” Megan asks. She doesn’t give me time to guess. “My website just went live!” she says, clapping. Then she picks her phone up and passes it to me. “Tell me what you think.”

  I swipe her phone and the main page of her website comes up.

  Treats Pet & Hooman Bakery.

  I thumb through her site for a few minutes, then say, “It’s great!” Which is true. Alex designed it, so I knew it would be.

  The store is located in a busy shopping area four blocks from the beach—Seabluff Beach—where we are right now. Megan is planning on having a Grand Opening on Black Friday—in a little over a month—and she’s clocking tons of hours at the store, overseeing every last detail.

  I couldn’t believe the logistics that went into opening a new store: vendors, licenses, store design, signage, hundreds of tiny details. It made writing a book seem easy. On that note, I’ve been writing five to ten pages a day for the last week and my book is starting to take shape. I’m hoping to get it to Chuck by March or April.

  Megan and I spend the next few minutes chatting about the new Netflix series we’re currently binging. When she finds out I watched an episode without her, she gives me a soft slap on the leg.

  We both laugh and soon we’re half wrestling—but mostly kissing—in the sand. Cassie snuggles her way into the fun and a moment later, both Hugo and Wally join in.

  I realize in that moment, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.

  Hugo

  The bed is full. Jerry is on one side and Megan is on the other. Sometimes I still sleep on the pillow next to Jerry’s head, but Megan always picks me up and moves me. She likes to have her head right next to Jerry’s. Wally is in the middle of the bed, curled up in a tight ball. Cassie is at the foot of the bed, her chest rising and falling. A few moments ago, I was asleep next to her, curled into her side.

  I jump off the bed and land silently on the carpet. Then I pad out of the bedroom and to the back door. There’s a rubber flapping door—similar to the one at the farm—and I push through it and into the backyard.

  This backyard is bigger than our old backyard. Much bigger. There are trees—though not as tall as the trees before and shaped different—scattered all over. The trees’ leaves have fallen and cover the ground in large piles of gold.

  The leaves are the same color as the Big Cat’s eyes.

  The Big Cat, New Home, Sara, Mom…it all seems so long ago.

  A lifetime ago.

  I scamper through the yard to one of the large trees. I climb it, then crawl out onto one of the thick branches. I lie down and listen. I’m still getting used to the new sounds. The new chirps. The new rustles. The new barks of nearby dogs.

  There’s been a lot to get used to here. A new house (it’s not as big), a new dog (Wally!), a new human (Megan!), new smells, a new lake.

  As for my Lake, I never got to go in. But luckily, there’s something here even better than the lake. Something called the Ocean. It’s so big that you can’t see the other side. The water tastes the same as the lake that wasn’t my Lake and if you drink it, it will give you the poops. But it’s so much fun. There were only waves on my Lake every once in a while when it was windy, but even when it isn’t windy, there are waves in the ocean. (I’m not really sure about all this wave stuff.)

  After a few minutes, I jump down, then I climb the fence and make my way to the front yard and the street. I prowl my territory for the next couple of hours, following my nose to different smells. I keep watch for raccoons (there are lots of raccoons here) or other Outside cats.

  I don’t see any tonight.

  I hear a dog bark and head in that direction. I climb a fence and find him in his backyard, lying next to a doghouse that could easily be Leroy’s. He’s a big tan dog—nearly as big as I used to be—and half his body extends from the opening of the doghouse. I watch as he licks one of his giant paws with a massive tongue.

  That’s what I miss the most.

  The bigness.

  The big paws. The huge tongue. The long stride. And the loudness that came with the bigness.

  I think of how easy my journey would have been if I was big. I would have made it back in half the time. Maybe less. Then again, being so big would have made it nearly impossible to hide from the humans. I would have kept getting found. And if I was big, I never would have seen Calandia. I wouldn’t have been able to even get down into the sewer. So maybe I wouldn’t have made it. Maybe my smallness is what allowed me to make it back. Maybe I was only able to make it back because I was a cat.

  I jump down to the ground and walk a few steps toward the dog. His ears go rigid and he stops licking his paw. He glances up at me.

  “Hi,” I meow.

  He leaps up, growling, and races toward me.

  I run back to the fence and climb up. Once at the top, I peer down at the snarling dog reared up against the fence.

  I can feel his loud bark against my whiskers.

  Is this how I used to be?

  The backyard lights flip on and a human walks out and says, “Jerome! Stop barking!” The human squints, then says, “Leave that stupid cat alone.”

  Stupid cat?

  More like, stupid dog.

  I give Jerome a goodbye hiss, then find my way back to the street. The stars are out in full and I glance up.

  All those souls.

  I still don’t know why the Maker decided not to make me a star. Calandia said that I’ll have to ask Him. And I will. (But hopefully, not for a while.)

  I told Cassie about my entire journey, but her favorite part was hearing about “souls” and that when a dog dies their soul becomes a star. This made Cassie’s tail twirl and then she said something about still being able to watch over me, Jerry, Megan, and Wally. (I’m not sure exactly what she meant. She’s so smart; sometimes it’s hard to understand what she means.)

  On my way back to the house, I hear a light rustle in a bush and I go to investigate.

  Speaking of souls.

  It’s a mouse.

  I stalk him for a few minutes, then I pounce. Then I swallow him whole. I still prefer a big bowl of kibble or a tin of cat food o
r best yet, a can of tuna, but I still enjoy the occasional mouse.

  A minute later, I push back through the rubber door and stop. Cassie is lying on the floor next to the door. Waiting for me.

  Her eyes open and she pushes herself up slowly. She walks over and gives me a few sniffs, then a couple of licks on my head.

  Cassie doesn’t like it when I go out at night, but I assured her I’m fine. If I could survive living in the Mountains, survive snakes, bears, and owls, then there’s nothing here that could hurt me. (Well, except cars. But I learned my lesson there.)

  Plus, I told her cats are almost indestructible!

  I follow Cassie back to the bed, then jump up. Megan has moved over, and there’s plenty of room on Jerry’s pillow. I curl up next to his head and give his nose a soft lick.

  Cassie

  When I wake up to get a drink of water, Hugo is gone. I know he’s at it again. Back outside. Doing whatever it is that he does at night. I don’t think Jerry knows he goes out. That each night, he sneaks out the little rubber door and heads into the night. I followed him the first night. I watched him scamper up one of the trees, then jump the fence.

  From all the stories Hugo told about his long trip home, I know he doesn’t need me to watch over him. That he doesn’t need me to protect him. I know I shouldn’t worry, but I can’t help it. (I worry about raccoons and mean dogs and bad humans and all sorts of other things.) I don’t want to lose him again.

  After a long drink of water, I go and lie down near the small rubber door. My eyes grow heavy and I think back to what Hugo said about how dogs’ souls become stars after they die. My tail thumps against the floor as I think about looking down on Jerry from up so high.

  What a view it will be.

  I know it isn’t long until I will be a star. I know from the way my hips hurt and the way I breathe after I run down the beach and how I’m always tired and how sometimes I have to squint to see things. (I know I’m slowly becoming Storm). I’m in no rush, I still have plenty to do here, but like the tadpole headed toward Frogdom, I know I’m headed toward Stardom.

  (From what Hugo said, I’m pretty sure all dogs are Chosen Ones, except for a few that become mice. I would like to meet this Calandia, this “two different colored-eyes cat,” and ask her a bunch of questions myself. Such as: what is really happening on Bang Day? And where do magical grassy brownies come from? And is there such a thing as Super blueberries? And what is the number after ten?)

  It’s hard to imagine that a few months ago, it was only Jerry and me (and the tadpoles). And now it’s Jerry, Me, Hugo, Wally, and Megan.

  I love Wally and Megan more each day. Just when I think I can’t love them any more, Wally will go and do something so silly (like get stuck in one of Jerry’s sweatshirts) or Megan will scratch me in a new spot (how did I not know this spot existed?) or remind me how beautiful and special I am.

  As for Hugo, it didn’t take long for Hugo and me to get back to our old ways. Wrestling with him is different (I have to be a lot more gentle) and he’s much harder to catch (he’s so quick), but other than that, I hardly even notice he’s a cat.

  The biggest difference is with Jerry. Not bad different. Just different. I don’t think he needs me to protect him anymore. And it isn’t because he’s so happy (if Jerry had a tail it would be twirling all day long). I don’t think it’s my job anymore. It’s Megan’s job now.

  (I’m happy to pass the torch. Protecting is so much work.)

  And without having to worry about all this protecting (I still worry about Hugo; I will always worry about Hugo), I can concentrate on loving.

  There’s a soft thud and I glance up to see Hugo pushing through the rubber door. I push myself up, a sharp pain shooting through my back leg, then stand. I walk over and give him a few sniffs.

  Another mouse, Hugo!

  I give him a few licks on the head, then I watch as he jumps on the bed and then curls up in a ball next to Jerry’s head. I watch as he falls asleep. Then I walk around the bed and watch Megan sleep. (She hardly makes any noise at all.) Then I watch Wally. (He’s on his side and sometimes he makes little huffing noises. I hope he’s having a good dream.) Then I pad around the bed and watch Jerry. He’s on his stomach and he makes his loud urnggggggg, urnggggggggg, urngggggggggg.

  Still after all these years—these ten—this is my favorite sound in the world.

  I listen and watch Jerry for a long time, then I pad into the living room and jump onto the couch. There are big windows in the roof and I can see the black sky.

  And all the twinkling souls.

  Chapter 23

  “Epilogue”

  Jerry

  My character has just been extradited to the United States and he sees his parents for the first time since six weeks before 9/11. Six weeks before the towers fell and he fled to Mexico, leaving everyone to think he was one of the more than three thousand people who died.

  It’s a fun chapter to write; the bittersweet reunion of love and shame.

  Hugo is fast asleep in my lap. He never misses an opportunity to sit on my lap. Or Megan’s. And now that he weighs roughly a hundred pounds less than he used to, it’s a tad more comfortable for me.

  Over the past couple weeks, I’ve only noticed one thing about him that’s slightly different than before. He doesn’t chase squirrels. Or birds. Or even the one rabbit we saw.

  I’m not sure why.

  And I suppose I’ll never know.

  Wally and Cassie are both snuggled up next to my legs. Wally is asleep, but Cassie is awake. She gives my shin a lick every once in a while to remind me she’s there.

  I pop the jar of pickles on the desk open and slink one out. I’ve been going through a jar of pickles a week for the last three weeks. I crack a big bite off in my teeth. Wally stirs at the sound and I feed him a small bite. Of the three, he’s the only one that likes pickles.

  I finish the remainder of the pickle, clean my hands with a wet-wipe, then resume writing.

  Three hours later, I complete the chapter.

  “Who wants a snack?” I ask.

  Hugo jumps off my lap and I stand.

  All three follow me into the kitchen and I hand-feed each of them a few blueberries and little pieces of turkey.

  I make myself a sandwich and a smoothie, then I walk into the living room. It’s the second week of November and there are still ten boxes of Megan’s stuff that need unpacking.

  She’s been so busy at the store—it is opening in eleven days—and she promised to unpack the boxes once the “frenzy” was over.

  I walk over and open one of the boxes. It’s another box of cookware. How many different pots, pans, and utensils does someone need?

  I carry the box to the kitchen and spend the next fifteen minutes finding homes for the different items, many of which, I’ve never seen before.

  The next box is a bunch of blankets and I stuff most of them into a small utility closet, then drape a woven blanket at the foot of the bed. It’s been getting colder and colder each night, and we’ll need the extra warmth here soon.

  Two hours later and there are only four boxes remaining. I open the top of one and see a bunch of miscellaneous items, including a couple of books. I reach into the box and extract a well-worn novel.

  Where the Red Fern Grows.

  I shake my head and chuckle; just when you think the two of us can’t have more in common.

  I set the book on the carpet and reach in and grab the second book.

  The Hobbit.

  My eyebrows furrow slightly.

  I reach into the box and pull out a stuffed animal.

  It’s brown and tan.

  Gizmo.

  “What the hell?” I mutter.

  I pick up the box and flip it over, emptying the entire contents onto the tan carpet.

  I pull items from the pile one-by-one.

  A rubber-banded stack of Garbage Pail Kids. (Barfin Barbara on
the top.)

  A G.I. Joe.

  A recipe for chocolate chip and Skittles cookies

  A crumpled $2 bill.

  A Viewfinder with a Scooby Doo disc.

  A broken Game Boy cartridge—Skate or Die.

  It’s all there.

  Even my molar.

  It’s every single item from Morgan’s and my time capsule.

  ~

  I stuff half the contents into a backpack and then I hop on my bicycle. It’s a little over a mile to the shopping district near the beach. My legs pump wildly against the pedals and I screech to a halt in front of Treats less than five minutes later.

  I throw the door to the store open.

  The sound of a drill fills the small space and a man is on his knees putting the final touches on a large wooden display case. Megan is standing with another man near a long, glassed bakery window that will soon be filled with Pawcakes, Woof Crème Pies and other creations.

  Neither one of them hears me enter under the noise of the drill and I stomp forward. When I’m a few feet away, the man glances toward me and Megan’s eyes soon follow.

  “What’s wrong?” Megan asks. “Is everything okay?”

  My face must be telling quite the story.

  I’m not sure how to answer this question, so I just say, “I need to talk to you.”

  Megan nods, excuses herself from the man, and follows me to the back of the space and through a door to her office.

  “What’s going on? Are the pups okay?” Even though Hugo was technically a cat now, we both still referred to the three as the pups.

  “Yeah, they’re all fine.”

  She lets out a small sigh, then says, “So what’s going on?”

  I rip the backpack off my back and set it down on the small desk. A few papers cascade to the floor. My hands are shaking and it takes me a moment to unzip the bag. After two tries, I unzip it, flip it over, and let the contents rain down on the desk.