Hissy Fitz (3 page)

The lawn mower across the street roars to life.

Dogs howl at it from somewhere.

A crow and a gull scream at each other.

Downstairs, Dad starts the washing machine.

I won’t be stealing anything.

I go down to the kitchen in the hope that Georgie freshened my water dish. Dad is there with Abe. They’re sitting at the table, having a snack: crackers, peanut butter, apple slices. I don’t understand human tastes.

Abe eats with one hand. His other is in his rabbit puppet. He eyes me as I creep along the cabinets toward my dishes. Dish, actually. My food dish is probably still in the pantry. I left a little Salmon Supper in it for later. The stagnant water in my water dish has been freshened. As I drink, I listen in.

“How many time-outs did your brother get today?” Dad asks.

“Six,” Abe says.

Dad sighs. “How many did you get?”

He’s joking. He knows Abe never gets time-outs.

“Zero,” Abe says.

“Did you build anything?”

“A castle.”

“How many turrets?”

“Four.”

“Did Zeb leave it alone?”

“Nope.”

“Was that one of his time-outs?”

“Yep.”

“Did you nap?”

“A little.”

“Zeb wake you up?”

“Yep.”

I feel his pain.

“Want to do some hammering in the workshop?” Dad asks.

“Yep.”

Add hammering to the barking dogs, shrieking birds, grating lawn mower … I may as well give up.

Can one give up on sleep?

Heavy steps on the back stairs. Zeb has returned. I dash into the pantry. He opens the back door, then slams it behind him. He clomps across the kitchen.

“One cracker at a time, Zeb,” I hear Dad say. “Don’t stuff them in your mouth. You’ll choke.”

I hear a cough.

“Oh, Zeb!” Dad says. “Cracker crumbs everywhere!”

“Time-out?” Abe asks.

“Zeb, sit down,” Dad says. “Don’t put your feet on the chair. Sit on your bottom. On your
bottom
.”

A chair crashes to the floor.

“Now a time-out?” Abe asks.

“We’re at home, Abe,” Dad says. “Mom doesn’t want us to do time-outs at home. We’re supposed to clean up our messes. Come on, Zeb. Help me pick up the chair, then we’ll wipe up those crumbs.”

“I want to hammer!” Zeb shouts.

It’s something Dad does with the kids after school. Dad wears noise-canceling earmuffs. How do I get a pair of those?

“After you clean up,” Dad says.

Georgie comes through the door, puffing. “There you are! Daddy, he was chasing Peanut Butter again! He chased him all the way down the street!”

Dad sighs.

The washing machine shuts off.

“The clothes need to go in the dryer,” Abe says.

“Let’s go do some hammering!” Dad says.

“Yay!” Zeb cheers.

“You didn’t clean up,” Abe says.

“Don’t push your brother, Zeb,” Dad says. “Let’s all clean up so we can go hammer, okay?”

“But you’re doing all the cleaning up, Daddy,” Georgie says.

“Let’s all help each other,” he replies. “Zeb? Can you help?”

Zeb runs to the door, opens it, slams it. From the backyard he yells, “Tool Time! Tool Time!”

There’s a silence. I lick my Salmon Supper.

“Zeb?” Dad calls, walking across the room in his heavy work boots. “Zeb? No Tool Time till we clean up, Zeb. Zeb?”

He goes out the door.

The pantry door opens. I squint at the light.

It’s Abe. He steps inside and peers over the cans at me. He knows my hiding places, too. Everyone knows my hiding places. There are only so many places to hide in this house.

He sits down on the floor, cross-legged, with Medium Sad Guy in his lap. I step over the cans. Abe understands things his older sister hasn’t learned. Don’t go after a cat. Let the cat come to you.

I go to him. I curl up in his lap, on top of Medium Sad Guy.

Abe holds his hand up over me. He also knows that you don’t pet a cat. You let the cat pet you.

I raise my head up into his hand and guide it where I want it to go. Which is to my cheeks. He massages them with his fingers.

I hear hammering coming from the shed, and Dad yelling, “No Tool Time until we clean up, Zeb! We need to clean up first!”

“Tool Time!” Zeb hollers between bangs. “Tool Time!”

I look up at Abe. He lifts an eyebrow. His eyes look tired. We could both use a nap.

Bang! Bang! Bang!
goes Zeb’s hammer.

“We’re in a time-out,” Abe says.

Smart kid.

Three hammers hammer in my head. Or so it feels.

Bang! Bang! Bang!
— over and over and over and over and over …

I can’t take it. I
will
not take it!

Forget about the dangers. I’m leaving the pantry, leaving Abe’s strokes, leaving the property.

I go out my door and slink through the grass to the fir tree beside the house. Through the open door of the workshop, I see Dad, Georgie, and Zeb swinging hammers. The kids have small hammers and are not driving nails; they’re just banging
their hammers on blocks of wood. Dad is wearing his earmuffs … and smiling. Hammering cheers him up.

Not me.

I shimmy up the fir tree, along the sturdy branch to the neighboring house’s oak tree.

A young married couple, Kim and Gil, live next door. Gil often works on cars in his driveway. More noise. He’s below me, his head under the hood of a car. The engine is running. He walks around and sits in the driver’s seat and guns the motor.
Grrr-RRRRRRRR!

I run along the branch to another tree, then to another, till the noise of Gil’s car fades. Of course, there’s plenty of noise from other cars in the neighborhood. And trucks. And buses. In fact, a school bus is rattling down our street at this very moment. It comes to a stop, then,
Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!
Some kids step off the bus, then run down the street yelling.

Humans are the noisiest creatures alive.

I’m not sure there is any escape. At least, not until late at night.

I can’t wait that long. Besides, I can’t always get to sleep at night. It’s a cat’s time to hunt. Even house cats — who don’t need to hunt — feel this nocturnal urge. It’s an instinct.

None of my friends have as much trouble sleeping, but then none of them live with Zeb. Or with Dad’s tools. Or with Georgie. They leave me too tired to sleep. Too wound up. The more I try, the harder it becomes.

Georgie’s grandma has this problem. She doesn’t sleep well, either. She calls it insomnia. I guess I have insomnia, too.

I stay off the ground as I make my way through the neighborhood. I walk along on fences, branches, cars. I climb trees, leap onto rooftops. I hesitate when I come upon a bird on a perch. I crouch. I stalk. I pounce. I don’t catch it. That’s all right. I’m fed. If I keep up all this exercise, however, I will soon need to eat again.

Before long I am at Igloo’s house. I see him lying on his family’s couch, in the sunshine. He’s sprawled out on his back, his paws resting on his
chest. That’s a deep-sleep pose. That’s because he’s home alone. Georgie’s best friend, Tillie, has no siblings. Her parents both work till late in the afternoon. Tillie usually goes to an after-school program. Sometimes she comes over to our house. Either way, she doesn’t arrive home till after five o’clock. Igloo has the house to himself
all day
. Lucky cat.

I think it’s time I drop in for a visit.

I slip in through the upstairs hall window, which has been left open. By the time I reach Igloo, he’s awake and lying on his side. He wouldn’t be much of a cat if he didn’t sense a feline intruder entering his house.

“What’s new, Hissy?” he asks.

“Nothing new. Zeb is out of control. Dad broke out the hammers. Listen.”

We prick our ears. Despite the distance, the hammering can be heard. Igloo winces.

“Poor you,” he says.

“Dad was banging around in his workshop all
day. And not just hammers. Saws, too. And power tools.”

“Try to calm down, Hiss. You’ll never sleep if you don’t relax.”

“How can I possibly relax? I don’t have a moment’s peace!”

A smile spreads across Igloo’s snout. I want to smack it off.

“You have a moment right now. Look how the sun is shining on that ottoman. It’s all yours.”

The sun is shining, bright and golden and warm, on the padded footstool. It looks divine. Tears come to my eyes.

“You are one frazzled feline,” Igloo says.

“I know,” I say.

“Up you go. Nap time.”

I leap onto the ottoman.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh
.

“Sweet dreams,” Igloo says.

“Sweet dreams,” I answer.

I close my eyes. The closed windows mute the sounds of cars, kids, birds, and dogs. I listen to the sound of my heart beating in my ears. It lulls me. Sweet, sweet slumber, at long last.

I’m on a branch of a tree. There is a warm breeze ruffling my fur. A flock of starlings moves across the sky, like a black cloud. I leap from my branch. I don’t know how, but I can fly. I have no wings. I don’t flap my legs. I can simply sprint through the air. I sprint after the starlings. I’m so fast! I gain on them easily. The birds are mine for the picking —

“Iggy!” a girl’s voice calls. “You’re having a playdate! Hi, Hissy!”

Tillie is home.

It must be five o’clock.

How long was I asleep? It seemed like moments.

Tillie rushes up to me. She reaches out a hand, and I hiss. I didn’t mean to. It just came out. She backs away.

“Whoa!” Tillie says. “Somebody’s waking up on the wrong side of the ottoman!”

“Maybe Hissy should be going home,” a woman’s voice says. It’s Tillie’s mom. She waves her arm at the door. “Come on, Hissy. Out you go. Out.”

I step down from the warm, comfy ottoman and move groggily toward the door.

“Did somebody leave a window open again?” Tillie’s mom asks.

Someone did.

“Sorry, Hiss,” Igloo says. “See you later tonight?”

I nod.

Tillie’s mom closes the door behind me.

I walk down the front steps in a daze.

A dog gallops up to me.
Woof!
it says. It’s Peanut Butter. I coil, flatten my ears, and bare my claws. If he comes any closer, he’ll be sorry.

He comes closer.

Hsss-hsss-HSSSSSSSSSS!
I say, and swipe at his nose. Dogs’ noses are extremely sensitive. He yelps in pain and runs off in the direction from which he came.

He’s sorry.

I’m not.

I’m tired of being annoyed.

Everybody had better watch out.

I am Hissy Fitz, and I have had enough.

I’m so dangerous I don’t bother climbing trees or buildings. I just walk down the middle of the sidewalk, daring anyone to mess with me. I
hope
someone messes with me.

I walk and walk, not paying much attention to where I’m heading. There’s no point in going home. I’ll never get any rest there, at least not until the humans go to bed. I feel wild and hungry, like the tigers and lions I’ve seen on the Fitzes’ TV. I’m savage. A predator. A killer. I wouldn’t come near
me if I were a bird or a mouse. Or a cat or a dog. Or a human.

A group of kids turns the corner and walks toward me. One of them points.

“Look at the blue kitty!” she says.

“Awww, it’s so cute!” another says. “Here, kitty! Here, kitty kitty.”

As they approach, I give a warning growl.
Grrrrrrrrrrr!

The “here, kitty kitty” girl steps within my striking distance. I scream like a tiger —
RrrOWRRRRRRR!
— and pounce.

The girl screams and leaps backward. A claw catches the lace of her right shoe. She tries to shake herself free, but the claw is stuck.

Hssssssssss! Hsssssssssss!
I say.

“Help!” the girl yells. “Help!”

None of her friends help. They’re too terrified. As they should be. The girl kicks her foot and drags me back and forth with it. Which makes me even nastier.