Hissy Fitz (5 page)

“Oh, no,” Georgie says, pretending to be disappointed. “I guess it really did get away this — no,
there
it is!” The bug flies back and flitters in circles right over my head. I swat at it and miss. Georgie laughs.
I spin around and swat again. I miss again. Georgie laughs harder.

“You can get it, Hissy! Don’t give up!”

She continues to make the thing dance in the air. I want to teach Georgie a lesson for waking me. I will catch it and rip it to shreds before her eyes. Then we’ll see who laughs best.

I leap into the air, but she jerks the toy away in the nick of time. She lifts it higher. I leap higher. She jerks it away. I land awkwardly and fall on my side. She laughs. I spring to my feet.

Hssssssssss!
I say.

“Oh, don’t get mad, Hissy. Keep trying. You’ll get it.”

I lunge at the wire and catch it with my right paw. My claw slides along the wire, pulling the toy downward, where I can reach it. The “bug” is a twisted pipe cleaner. I feverishly claw at it. I bite it. I growl. I win.

“You got it!” Georgie squeals. “Good boy, Hissy! Good boy! Now let go and we’ll do it again.”

I let go. She hovers it over my head again. I yawn. There will be no rematch.

I walk across the bedspread to the edge and jump down. Through the window I see it is dark outside. I guess I did fall asleep.

The nap was too short to help, though. And I spent what little energy I had saved chasing after Georgie’s toy. Soon Zeb will be on the loose again.

It may be dark, but the human day has not yet ended.

I hide in the pantry during bath time, behind the cans. Zeb and Abe bathe first. The only voice I hear is Zeb’s. He is imitating the sounds of motors and weapons. Revving sounds. Machine-gun fire. Explosions. There are also the sounds of splashing and tussling. It is a scene to avoid.

Just as I’m drifting off, Georgie steps into the pantry.

She sits cross-legged on the other side of the cans.

“I can’t believe that Ethan lets Peanut Butter run around without a leash like that,” she says. “Then he gets mad at poor Zeb for chasing him. It’s not Zeb’s fault. If Peanut Butter was on a leash, Zeb wouldn’t chase him.”

No, he would just torment him. Maybe try to ride him. He’s done that to dogs before.

“Did you see Peanut Butter lick my face? He has such a big tongue!” She sticks hers out in disgust. “But it’s not his fault. He should be on a leash.”

I agree with her, though I wouldn’t like to be leashed. Cats are lucky that way. We can go where we want. Most of us, anyway. I know cats who are kept inside. Igloo, for example. Their owners don’t want them to get run over by cars, or get into fights with other cats, or catch diseases, or kill birds. Igloo’s family tries to keep him inside, but he always escapes. I’m glad my humans don’t try to keep me inside. I’d go crazy locked up in this house.

Not that I don’t feel crazy now. I must get some rest.

I hate to do it, but I’m going to have to …

Hssssssssss!

“Hissy! What’s the matter?”

I rise up, arch my back, repeat myself.
Hssssssssss!
Then, to be sure I get my point across, I spit:
Fffft! Fffft!

She inches away.

“Is it because I’m talking about Peanut Butter? Is that why you’re so upset?”

She’s not getting it. I want to be left alone.

Hssssssssss! Fffft! Fffft!

She reaches out a hand, as if to pet me.

I swat at it, and, again, say,
HSSSSSSSSSS!

I won’t lie. It feels good. Besides, it’s not as if I have the option of politely asking her for some privacy.

“Georgie!” Mom’s voice calls. “Bath time!”

“I have to go take my bath,” Georgie says to me, climbing to her feet. “Let’s talk about this later.”

Hssssssssss!

She scoots out the door.

I close my eyes. All the hissing has made my heart race. It will take a while before I can calm down enough to sleep.

Feet pound on the stairs overhead. The pantry is under the staircase.

“Hissy cat!” I hear. “Where are you?”

“Zeb!” Mom yells. “You’re soaking wet! Get back here!”

“Hissy cat! I’ll find yooooooou!”

Oh, help.

The footsteps I hear in the kitchen are light and slow. They’re not Zeb’s.

Abe slips into the pantry, quiet as a mouse. Clearly, he’s trying not to be seen by his brother.

Though I’d prefer being alone, I’m relieved. I don’t have to worry about Abe talking my ear off, as Georgie does, or pulling my ear off, as Zeb tries to do. Abe sits on the floor and sets Medium Sad Guy in his lap. His face is flush from the bath and his hair is mussed from the towel drying. He’s wearing his pajamas. He smells like apricots.

He sits a while without saying a word. It’s soothing, his silence. My eyelids close on their own. I breathe deeply. I feel safe, as if I had a protector. Then Abe moves, and my eyes open. He’s lifting Medium Sad Guy to his ear. He “listens” to it, nods, then sets it back in his lap. He does this with such seriousness that I begin to wonder if somehow the stuffed-rabbit puppet really does speak to him.

I’m getting loopy. I
desperately
need sleep.

I close my eyes.

“Medium Sad Guy says good night, Hissy. And sweet dreams.”

I open my eyes, halfway. The boy is looking at me, his hazel eyes wide, his mouth puckered. For a human, he’s pretty adorable.

I’m sliding my eyelids closed again when Abe brings the puppet back up to his ear. He listens. He lowers the puppet. I wait for him to relay the message.

He says nothing. I guess Medium Sad Guy had nothing further to say to me. His message was for Abe alone.

So I close my eyes.

“Medium Sad Guy told me I should say good night and sweet dreams to you, too,” Abe says. “Good night, Hissy. Sweet dreams.”

I open one eye, halfway. I love the kid. I don’t want to have to hiss at him. So I glare at him. I’m telling him with my half eye that he needs to stop talking. Then I lower the eyelid the rest of the way.

He says nothing more. There is silence in the house. I have no idea why Zeb isn’t making noise, but he isn’t. I enjoy this little miracle.

I don’t fall asleep, though. I keep expecting another message from the rabbit. I try to put it out my mind, try to relax, try to drift off. But I’m afraid the second I let myself drop off, Abe will lift the puppet to his ear again.

I open an eye a crack and peek at him. He’s inspecting Medium Sad Guy’s fur the way his mom inspects his hair for lice. Or me for fleas. I close my eye. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about.

The door bursts open.

“BOO!” Zeb shouts, leaping into the room, wrapped in a towel. “Snuck up on you! Ha!”

HSSSSSSSSSS!
I say, and fly over the cans. Or part of the way over the cans. I accidentally kick them with my hind paws, and they topple with a clatter. Abe leaps to his feet and hits his head on a shelf, which causes a bag of flour to fall. It explodes on the floor in a white cloud. I dive through it toward the door.

I’m hissing, snarling, spitting, and swatting as I pass Zeb. One of my claws catches his towel and I end up dragging it into the kitchen. I stop and, in a fury, shake it off. Then I fly up the stairs to the parents’ room and dive under their bed. I start cleaning the flour from my fur.

I hear calling and pounding of feet as Mom and Dad run to find out what happened, then more calling and pounding as they try to catch Zeb.

Georgie joins in the chase. She’s angry that Zeb’s been chasing me again and is scolding him loudly. I don’t hear a peep from Abe. I hope he didn’t hurt his head badly.

My heart is pounding like one of Dad’s hammers. Will this family ever stop tormenting me? Will they ever let me sleep?

Maybe now’s the time. They’re all busy. And the kids’ bedtime comes next, so the parents won’t be coming in here for a while. If I can tune out the noise, maybe I can doze off.

“Zeb! Come here and put some clothes on!” Mom says.

“Zeb! Stop chasing Hissy!” Georgie says.

“Zeb! Come down off that ladder!” Dad says.

I doubt I can tune out the noise.

Besides, night has fallen, and the hunting instinct has switched on. It’s as if a light has been turned on inside me, and it’s shining out through my eyes. I feel the urge to go outside, to go hunting. It’s not something I want to do, or need to do. It’s something I
am
.

It’s time for the cat to go out.

The night air is chilled. Through the trees, the sky twinkles with stars. I feel energy surge within me. The night is where I belong. I feel alive.

The humans say the night is dark, but not to a cat. I don’t see darkness. The world is always bright, just a little less so at night.

I move along from branch to fence to roof, every step made softly and surely. My tail shifts angles to keep me balanced. The breeze whiffles my fur. What a fine thing it is to be a cat in the nighttime!

“Hissy!” a feline voice calls. “Hissy Fitz! Who are you running from?”

It’s Igloo, sitting on the slanted roof of his house. His white coat seems to glow in the starlight.

“No one. I’m just running. How’d you get out this time?”

“They forgot to lock my cat door. Did you finally get a nap?”

I give him a look.

He laughs. “You do have a noisy family.”

“You don’t know how lucky you are, having only Tillie to deal with.”

“At least you have your freedom,” Igloo says.

True. I can escape.

“Why don’t you come and have a nap with me?” Igloo asks.

“Later. I need to prowl a while first.”

“Can I come along?”

I prefer to prowl alone, but tonight I wouldn’t mind having someone to talk to. To complain to. Maybe if I talk about my problems, I’ll be able to relax.

“Sure,” I say. “But you have to keep up.”

Igloo’s a longhair. The fur on his belly grazes the ground when he walks. It’s often snarled and
littered with debris. It slows him down. I’m glad I’m a shorthair. A British shorthair, to be exact.

I move on. Igloo runs after me.

“How was your day after you left my house?” he asks.

“Frustrating,” I say, and tell him about my afternoon: about the shoelace, Zeb trying to grab my tail, Georgie’s bug, Medium Sad Guy, Zeb scaring Abe and me to death.

“That does sound frustrating,” Igloo says. “But it’s over now. There’s no point in —”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” I interrupt. “You get to sleep all day. Missing a day of sleep makes me crazy. And then they all go to bed, and I’m supposed to drop off. It isn’t easy. I mean, it’s
night
. And I’m all wound up.”

“You need to let it go, Hiss. You’ll never get to sleep.”

If he doesn’t stop talking about how I need to relax, I’m going to swat him. I know I need to relax. I know I need to let it go. But I’ve got a fire in my belly, and in my brain. That’s why I’m prowling. Sometimes exercise cools the flames.

“Keep up!” I say with a hiss. He’s lagging behind.

“I’m trying,” Igloo says, “but you’re moving pretty fast.”

“Then don’t keep up! Go back to your roof and sleep!”

“Hissy, try to calm —”

Hssssssssss!
I say, whirling around on him. I lash out. He recoils in fear.

“Take it easy —”

I swat at him again and scream,
RrrOWRRRR!

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” he says with a light laugh. He turns away. “But you really do need to chill —”

RrrOWRRRR!

He chuckles. “Come by when you’re ready to nap. I’ll be on my roof.”

We part ways. I leave the family and my friend behind. I’m too dangerous to be around anyone. Too wild. Too savage. I’m a savage predator, gliding through the town’s canopy, like a panther.

RrrOWRRRR!

I feel alive.

There are fewer trees as I near the marina. Soon there are no treetops to glide through. I drop to the ground and slink around under bushes and cars.

At the docks, the boats rock lightly in the dark water, their bare masts swaying.

“Hissy,” a voice says. “Hissy Fitz. What are you doing here? And at this hour? Shouldn’t you be home, snug at the foot of your owner’s bed?”

It’s Sid. She’s a sleek black cat that lives on the waterfront. She’s not feral; she has tags. A fisherman bought them for her so she wouldn’t be thrown into an animal shelter. She lives on
his boat, but says she doesn’t belong to him. She doesn’t belong to anyone but herself.

I don’t answer any of her questions because I don’t think they’re really questions. They’re comments. She looks down on house cats.