Hissy Fitz (6 page)

“Hi, Sid. Where’s your fisherman?”

“Asleep in his cabin.”

“Did he bring you home any fish?”

She lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t have a home. But yeah, he tossed me a snack when he came in.
We’re friends. I keep rats out of his boat. He tosses me fish.”

“Any left?”

“Nope.”

That’s too bad. Prowling makes a cat hungry.

“So what’s up, Hissy? Can’t sleep again?” She gives a snort.

I give a growl.

“Take it easy, Hiss. Come out onto the boat. It’ll rock you to sleep.”

It’s worth a try, though I do still feel pretty wound up. Being mocked by Sid doesn’t help.

“It’s worth a try,” I say. “Lead the way.”

We walk the dock till we come to a fishing boat named
Louise
. The word is painted on the hull. Sid leaps aboard, and I follow. We settle down on the bow. Sid stretches, then curls up. I do the same. She closes her eyes; I close mine.

My fatigue catches up with me. Boy, I’m tired. Bone-tired. Wiped. My eyelids are as heavy as lead. A warm tingle washes over me. This is it. Aside from the creaking of the dock, the lapping of the
waves, the occasional donging of a bell on a buoy, it is quiet. Time for a nap.

My stomach, however, begs to differ. It’s upset. It tightens. Turns. I may be sick.

I’m definitely going to be sick.

Yeowwwwwwww!
I say, and leap to the dock.

“What’s the matter, Hiss?” Sid laughs. “Seasick?”

Hssssssssss!
I answer.

She laughs again.

It’s not funny.

“I guess that comfy bed back home doesn’t rock,” Sid says.

The dock does, though. My stomach is churning. I run back along it.

“Adios, landlubber!” Sid calls after me.

A landlubber is someone who doesn’t sail on the sea. Sid has called me — and Igloo, and other cats — that name before.

“Adios, sea dog!” I call back from dry land. A sea dog is an experienced sailor. I know she doesn’t like the name.

“Sea
cat
!” she yells.

I make my way downtown. Walking on solid ground soothes my sour stomach. A few restaurants are open. People walk in and out. I climb a tree that grows out of a perfectly round circle in the sidewalk to the roof of a one-story building. From there I climb a fire escape to the third floor of an old brick building. I leap to a windowsill. The window is open.

This is Quiche’s apartment. He lives alone with an old man named Gary Rodriguez. The man speaks to Quiche in English, but scolds him in
Spanish. At this hour, the man will be asleep. He’s an early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort of human.

I mew, and instantly hear the padding of cat paws.

Quiche, a black-and-white tabby with a black jaw that looks like a beard, enters the room and leaps up onto a table beneath the window. He knocks over an empty vase. The sound makes us both flinch. Quiche is one clumsy cat.

“Hi, Hissy,” he says. “You can’t sleep?”

Why does that question always raise my hackles? I should be glad that my friends know me so well. Quiche is a genuinely kind cat. I’m sure he asks only because he cares about me. Still, I growl, then answer in a testy voice, “Obviously.”

“I’d invite you in, but Mr. Rodriguez is up. He can’t sleep, either.”

“Insomnia,” I say.

“Right. He’s reading in his chair.”

“Want to come out and do some prowling? Find something to eat?”

“I shouldn’t leave. Mr. Rodriguez likes company
when he can’t sleep. I was sitting in his lap when you mewed. Besides, I just ate.”

Everything is annoying me. It’s no wonder. I’m absolutely exhausted. Wired. Edgy. Touchy.

Grrrrrrrrrr!

“I’m awfully sorry, Hiss.”

I snarl, then turn to leave.

“When the old guy goes to sleep, I’ll come find you.”

“I’ll be Dumpster diving,” I grunt over my shoulder.

I pad down the fire escape, retrace my steps back to the sidewalk, then make my way toward the Dumpsters. Even before I reach them, I sense that someone has beaten me to it.

There is the scrabbling of claws and a familiar light chattering sound. It’s a raccoon.

I normally steer clear of them. They look somewhat cute and cuddly, yet they’re anything but. They’re vile and vicious. I’m feeling fairly vile and vicious myself at the moment, so I bound up a board that is leaning against one of the Dumpsters. The raccoon isn’t inside, so I dive in and start pawing through the garbage. I find some cooked chicken, part of a burger, some trout, and plenty of
vegetables, which I ignore. As if I’d eat a potato! I start with the chicken. I had fish already today. The beef will be dessert.

That’s when I hear the raccoon walking up the board.
Ticka-ticka-ticka-ticka-ticka-tick!
the beast says when it reaches the top and looks down at me. This is a raccoon’s warning sound, and, frankly, it’s sad. It reminds me of the sound Georgie’s bike wheel makes when she puts a playing card in her spokes. Not scary.

HSSSSSSSSSS!
I say, baring my fangs, flattening my little ears. I throw in some spitting for good measure:
Ffft! Ffft!

I don’t like that the raccoon is above me. Cats like being above. We like to plunge down onto our prey, and onto our foes. But my mood is so foul, I don’t think it will matter. Nothing is nastier than I am tonight.

The raccoon keeps ticking, so I give a panther cry:
RrrrOWWWRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

It’s one terrifying cry, if I do say so myself. I’d be terrified of me.

The raccoon stops ticking, but doesn’t back down.

This makes me even angrier, which I didn’t realize was possible.
RrrrOWWWRRRRRRRRRRRRR!
I cry again, then fly at the disrespectful beast. My aim is short, however; I hit the metal wall of the Dumpster with a loud
CLANG!
The clumsy raccoon loses its balance and falls into the garbage with me.

This is what Zeb would call a “cage match.” Two foes, locked in a closed space, go to battle. Many times has Zeb slammed a closet or bathroom door behind us and yelled the words, “Cage match!” With Zeb, I scream and swipe at him till he opens the door. Once I had to draw a little blood. With Zeb, a little is enough.

I’m willing to go further with the raccoon.

It hunkers down in the garbage and growls. It’s a deep, snorty growl, like a hog’s, interrupted by forceful puffs of air through its nose. Meanwhile, it pumps itself up and down with its forelegs, like it’s doing push-ups. What a goofy creature.

I likewise crouch, tightening my hind legs for another powerful launch. Hopefully, this one will be better aimed. No, it
will
be better aimed. And when I land on the clumsy, goofy, ticking animal, with my eighteen razor-sharp claws slashing, it will learn that I deserve respect.

HSSSSSSSSSS!
I say. I feel strong and fierce and very, very,
very
awake. I am a cat in the nighttime, and this raccoon doesn’t stand a —

He pounces.

The masked intruder is on top of me, but only for a moment. I whirl and let loose a flurry of swats and kicks.

A sudden sharp pain in my left ear causes me to fly into a frenzy. I scream, scratch, spit, snap. We tangle, rolling around in the garbage, banging into the metal walls. The raccoon has a thick pelt, but my claws are hooked knives, and they pierce through it. The animal yelps and pushes itself away. I slash its striped tail as it retreats. It yelps again.

A rapid chirping now comes from the wounded creature. It wanders around the Dumpster, its nose
up in the air. It’s finished fighting. It’s looking for a way out. I’ve won. Huzzah!

Raccoons are excellent climbers, but they can’t jump. They’re too fat and squat. This raccoon let its nose lead it into a trap. It peeked into the Dumpster to see what was inside, and now it’s inside and can’t get out. Curiosity killed the raccoon?
Heh
.

Still, somehow I feel sorry for the beast. It’s small. I doubt it’s an adult. Still a child. Like Zeb, or Georgie. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to defeat. Maybe I should let it be. I’ve won the battle. I’ve had my snack. I have my battle scar. Time to move on.

I give the raccoon one last hiss, then spring easily to the Dumpster’s rim. I perch there a moment, smiling down at the marooned animal. I’m sure a human will hear its chirping and release it. In time. While it waits, it can think about the mistakes it’s made, including the damage it did to the ear of Hissy Fitz, Panther of the Night.

I jump onto the closed lid of the neighboring Dumpster, then to the fence that encloses the bunch of them. From there I scramble up the trunk
of a tree to a branch, to the ledge of a building, to a low roof, to a taller one, and on like this, making my way across Downtown.

I stop sometimes to groom and tend to my wound. I must keep it clean. I’ve made too many trips to the animal hospital. I don’t like it there. It’s filled with whining, whimpering pets, all ill or injured. Some are birds and rodents, which is nerve-racking. With prey all around me, I’m locked in a tiny kennel. The vet prods and pokes me and even stabs me with a needle. Humans have odd ideas about healing. I prefer just to lick my wounds.

As I near the humans’ sports field, I hear familiar voices. Cat voices. I’d guess there are more than ten of them. I can make out three: Igloo, Sid, and Quiche. Why are they all together? And why here?

I can’t see what’s going on inside, as the field is surrounded by a wood-slat fence that begins and ends at a set of concrete bleachers, so I scale the fence and perch atop it.

What I find is surprising. Even shocking. And absolutely ridiculous.

There are cats on the field. I can’t tell how many, as they’re milling about in a group. My guess would be there are a dozen or so. Many of their tails point upward. An upward-pointing tail is a sign of a happy cat. I would not expect a group of cats to be happy.

Cats don’t hang out in groups. Is there even a word for a group of cats? Dogs hang in packs, birds in flocks, but the house cat, like the panther and the tiger, is a solitary creature. Seeing so many together without their fur flying is strange.

Among them is a ball with a pattern of black and white shapes. The cats are playing soccer.

They can’t kick the ball, of course. It’s too big, and their paws are too small. They bump and push it with their heads. A pair of teammates sometimes run at the ball together, for more impact. Opposing pairs run at it from the opposite direction. The result is often cats sprawled in the grass around the ball, which hasn’t budged. The players laugh, then spring back to their feet and lunge at the ball again.

I jump down from the fence and walk out onto the field.

“Igloo!” I call. “Have you gone crazy?”

“Hissy Fitz!” he answers, lifting his head above the fray. “We’ve been hoping you’d show up!”

“Time out!” Sid yells.

The scrimmage pauses.

“You’re on my team,” Sid says. “I’m the captain of the shorthairs. It’s a close game. Zero to zero. But we’re outnumbered, six to five. We could use you.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” I say. “Why on earth are you playing
soccer
? You’re cats! Cats aren’t ballplayers. Cats aren’t
team
players.”

“Maybe, but it’s working,” Igloo says with a smile.

The rest of the cats smile in agreement. It’s weird to see eleven cats standing together, smiling.

I recognize a few of them: Martin, the ash-colored calico that lives a few blocks from us; Teacup, the elegant Balinese from the condos by the park; Schmookie, the longhair calico with tiger stripes; and some others I’ve seen around but whose names I don’t know, or have forgotten.

“It was my idea,” Igloo says. “After you left my house, I got to thinking how tired you were, and how much trouble you were having getting to sleep at night. I wanted to help somehow. I thought maybe a game would take your mind off the terrible day you’ve had and would tire you out in the process. So I rounded everyone up. I pushed the soccer ball here myself.”

“All the way?”

“Well, it’s mostly downhill.”

“You did this for me?” I ask.

“I did. But we’re having fun, so it ended up being for everyone.”

The cats all smile again.

“How did you get them to come?”

“I just told them to meet me here, that something unusual was going to happen. I let feline curiosity do the rest. I looked but couldn’t find you.”

“I had a cage match with a raccoon. In a Dumpster.”

The group gasps.

“I won,” I say, “though the beast did slice my ear.” I tilt my head so they can see the slice.

Another gasp.

I puff out my chest.

“So come on, Hiss,” Sid says, nudging me with her shoulder. “That’s our goal line over there.”

She points to the north end of the field. There are no goals on the field, just lines in the grass.