“That your cat, Jerry?” The question came from a man who looked a lot like Max’s new friend.
“It’s a kitler,” someone else said.
“Kitler?” Jerry asked.
“A cat with a mustache. Kitler cats are crazy. My mother used to have a kitler and it shredded her furniture.”
Everybody had to get in on the conversation.
“I saw a kitler jump on a dog’s back and ride it like a monkey on a bicycle.”
“My aunt had a kitler, and it stole her baby’s breath,” a woman contributed. “Kid almost died.”
Oh, the garbage people believed. But Max couldn’t deny that many cats were a little high-strung. Truth be told, Max came from a family of weirdasses. When Max was still on the teat, someone told him he was a descendent of Cleopatra’s favorite cat. He didn’t know if it was true. Most of the cats he’d run into claimed the same heritage. Regardless, he and his two surviving littermates were a bit unusual. His sister, a psychic, was living somewhere in Wisconsin, and his brother…well, Max had lost touch with him a long time ago. He’d once told Max that he could read minds, and Max believed it. All things considered, Max was the slacker of the bunch with no real talent.
Before Max knew what was happening, before he could run, Jerry scooped him up and held him against the rough fabric of his baggy coat. “Egyptians worshipped cats.” He looked into Max’s eyes. “Maybe I’ll worship you.”
Okay, this was getting too weird, and Max regretted the time he’d wasted on Jerry.
Max squirmed away, his feet hitting the ground with a thud. He was feeling uncomfortable with all of the attention, when the green door opened. The crowd let out a sound of approval, and people surged forward, cat forgotten.
Max stepped lightly inside the doorway, moving to the left in order to hide behind some stacked boxes. He watched Jerry make his way to a counter where a man with rolled-up sleeves and a white apron smiled and handed out steaming bowls that smelled like chicken. Max licked his lips and felt his stomach growl. If he’d been home, he would have noshed down several small meals by now.
He focused on the man behind the counter. Not as hairy as Jerry. Not as sad. And he was handing out bowls of food. What could be better? Jerry suddenly dropped completely off Max’s radar. This new guy had food. Lots of food.
Food hadn’t even been on his list, and now Max could see the error of his novice, matchmaking ways. And Jerry-well, he’d felt uneasy about Jerry from the beginning, which was days ago in cat time. Food should have been a priority. If this man could feed all of these people, he could easily feed Max and Melody.
Chapter 3
Joe ladled soup into white bowls and handed them to the people filing past the counter. Over half were men, the rest women and children. The children got to him the most. Children and-he did a double take. Cat. Yes, that was a cat. A black-and-white cat with a black mustache, sitting like a statue just inside the door.
A regular named Jerry reached across the counter. “Hey, Joe. How’s it going?”
They shook hands, and when they broke away Joe was left with a folded piece of paper in his palm that he slipped into his pocket. He would read it once the noon shift was over.
Jerry looked over his shoulder at the cat. “I asked him if he was hungry, and he followed me here.”
“Cat’s gotta eat too,” the woman behind him said, nodding.
The low ceiling contained the clatter and voices, making it hard to sort out people from cutlery. A wall of confusing noise, but the cat didn’t seem to mind.
“He looks pretty harmless to me.” Joe spooned a piece of chicken into a bowl and set it aside to cool. “Hungry like everybody else.”
Not all of the people who ate at Gimme Shelter were homeless. Some were simply unable to afford a decent meal. The building slept fifty, and they were seeing more families and turning away more people all the time.
Once the lunch crowd had been fed, Joe scanned the room for the cat. He was still sitting near the door, staring at him with brilliant yellow eyes. Joe picked up the bowl containing the piece of chicken, and slowly approached. The animal didn’t run. “Hungry?” Continuing to move carefully, Joe put the bowl down a couple of feet away.
The animal stepped forward, sniffed the cooked meat, and began eating with gusto. Homeless? Maybe not, because he was wearing a collar. But in this economy some owners were turning their pets loose when they could no longer care for them.
The cat licked its paws and washed its face.
“What’s your story?” Joe reached out to gently pet the animal on the head. He seemed to like that, so Joe got a little bolder and scratched the cat behind the ear, then under his chin. “That’s quite a motor you’ve got.” Joe turned the metal ID tag toward the light so he could make out the engraving. “Max. So your name is Max. That’s a good cat name.”
Below the name was a phone number, along with an address. Joe pulled out his cell phone and keyed in the number only to get a recording stating that it was no longer in service.
Joe straightened and closed the back door so the cat wouldn’t make a run for it.
Jerry shuffled over. “Gonna keep my cat?”
“I’ll drive him to the address on his collar and see if his owners still live there,” Joe said. “Kinda doubt it since the phone number is no longer in service.”
“You could use a cat here. The kids would love it.”
“A lot of people are allergic to cats. A dog would be better. But I hate to see such a nice cat end up in the animal shelter.”
“I heard all the no-kill shelters are full.”
The cat circled back to the door, stood there a moment, then began scratching with both front paws, trying to get out.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I heard that too.”
The cat seemed frantic now.
“Weird how a little bit of food can turn a tame cat into a wild one,” Jerry said.
Joe had no place to keep the cat, so he put it in the bathroom. Inside, with the door locked, Joe pulled out the small piece of paper Jerry had given him. A name. Just a name. He memorized it and flushed the paper down the toilet.
“Sorry, old boy. Can’t take you home until I get off work.” Joe exited the bathroom. Worried about leaving the cat in the dark, he slipped his hand inside, felt along the wall for the light switch, and turned it on before firmly closing the door.
Two hours later Joe ran to the pet store for cat food. While in the checkout lane, he plucked a bag of catnip from a clip and tossed it on the counter with the canned salmon purchase. He hoped Max would like his selections.
It wasn’t until early evening that Joe could get away from the shelter long enough to pack Max in his car and look up the address on the collar. He easily found the street and house-a tiny bungalow in an area of Saint Paul called Frogtown. Carrying the cat, Joe approached the residence fully expecting to find new tenants or owners in the home.
Melody was frantic.
She’d looked through the house twice, checking the closets and cupboards searching for Max. She’d gone over every corner of her tiny backyard. No Max. A few years ago she’d accidentally locked him in a closet for a full day, and she kept hoping that’s what had happened this time. But two more trips through the house failed to turn up even the faintest meow.
People used to say Melody led a charmed life. Once she’d even found the end of a rainbow. It was the oddest
