fiction – Page 9 – Pain In The Bud

Buddy left the chubby house cat and the porch behind before dawn, putting some distance between him and the houses before seeking refuge in the woods where there would be no humans grabbing his tail or house cats looking at him with pity.

It was time to hunt. You know how to do this, Buddy told himself. You’re really good at it! Just stay calm and remember all the times you played hunting games with Big Buddy…

Buddy stalked the brush, listening for rodents and watching for the sudden movements of birds and squirrels. An hour passed, then two.

His tummy rumbled. He’d never thought about food so much in his life. Back home, it was just there, reliably plopped down in front of him several times a day. Chicken, salmon, beef, tuna, duck, shrimp and his beloved turkey. Pate, sauce and gravy. A different meal every time. If he didn’t like a meal he was served, he could meow in protest until he was given something different. He actually turned down perfectly good food! It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Now most of his waking moments were dedicated to food: Where to find it, how to get it and where he could eat it in peace. He thought of the dull pain of his empty stomach versus the risk of eating something he wasn’t sure of. His mouth watered at the scent of things he never would have eaten as a spoiled house cat.

There! Up ahead a squirrel crouched low in the brush, focused intently on something at the base of the tree.

Buddy slowed his gait, locking his eyes on his prey. He crouched, butt raised, waiting for just the right moment to…

Pounce!

Buddy was fast. The squirrel was faster. It sidestepped in a blur and was already scurrying up the tree when Buddy belatedly skidded to a halt and hit the trunk, getting a mouth full of bark for his efforts. Above, the squirrel chirped.

“I will have you for breakfast!” Buddy meowed. “Just you wait!”

But after circling the tree for several minutes, Buddy realized the squirrel was gone. It must have jumped to a branch from another tree.

Buddy collapsed in the brush, dejected. He was so hungry. He didn’t need to be picky: He’d eat anything without complaint at this point.

He started thinking of home, then quickly squashed the thoughts. He would not cry. He was a big boy, and big boys did not cry. Was his human out looking for him right now? What would happen if Buddy found his way home and his Big Bud wasn’t there? Would another cat take his place, eat from his bowl, knead on his blanket?

No, he told himself. Not in my house.

His ears pricked up. Beating wings. Slowing. A chirp.

Buddy bounded to his feet, ears swiveling like satellite dishes toward the direction of the sound as he padded slowly and silently.

The bird was plump and gray, and it was standing on a tree stump, picking at something between the crags of wood. Buddy had a light step — not a leaf was disturbed, not a branch snapped as he inched forward.

Just like we practiced at home, Buddy thought. Remember, you’re a great hunter! You have really big muscles! You’ve got this!

The tabby took off in a bolt of speed and energy, building momentum over two or three swift paces before he launched himself at his meal.

The bird panicked, realizing it was reacting too late. There was a shrill chirp, a beak unsuccessfully snapping at fur as Buddy scooped his prey up, and then they hit the ground hard, the birdie held tight with one paw as they tumbled in a cloud of dust, fur and feathers.

Sweet, sweet victory! Buddy thought. The thrill of the hunt!

Then he did what he always does after he wins at hunting games: He bounded up on his hind legs, jumped around happily and bobbled his prey. Except this prey saw its opportunity and took off.

buddyyawningjungle1 — The mighty hunter roars!

“You’re telling me you caught the bird, then let him go?” Clyde asked, incredulous.

Their paths had crossed again at a joint known in the cat world as Chez Bacon: The bins behind a chain donut shop where cats could sometimes get lucky and find expired precooked breakfast sausages and soggy slices of bacon.

Buddy was defiant. “No! I just thought, you know, I had won and…”

“You were expecting a human to come out from behind a tree, tell you what a good boy you are and open a can for you?” Blackie meowed.

The two strays exchanged glances and laughed uproariously. Just when it felt like the laughter was dying down, one of them imitated a human — “Who’s a good boy? Does the good widdle boy want a can?” — and the howling began again. Clyde was rolling on the ground, slapping his paw against the dirt. Blackie was laughing so hard he was choking back tears.

Buddy considered asking them for help capturing the bird again, but by then he’d amplified the truth and told them he’d taken down a huge, vicious raptor that could have fed all three of them.

Clyde was still giggling when he sat up, wiped his moist eyes with the back of his paw, and coughed.

“We know a nice lady,” he said, turning to Bud. “She always feeds us when we come by.”

Buddy’s eyes lit up.

“But,” Blackie said, “a word of caution. The nice lady’s neighbor has some sort of demon dog.” He shuddered. “We’ll reconnoiter and if she’s there, we’ll lay low until the coast is clear.”

“What kind of food does the nice lady give you?” Buddy asked, his stomach churning.

“Sometimes it’s diced chicken, sometimes it’s scrambled eggs,” Clyde said.

“Love me some eggs, mmmhmmm!” Blackie said, skipping along through the trees.

“And sometimes,” Clyde continued, “it’s that nasty crunchy stuff that tastes like cardboard.”

Buddy stepped around a thorn bush. “You mean dry food? Dry food is good!”

Clyde gave him a pitying look.

“To a house cat like you, maybe,” he meowed. “But to a free-living lion of the jungle like myself, nothing tastes better than a mouse or a bird you’ve caught and killed yourself. You’ll see, kid, if you ever manage to catch something.”

They continued on in silence until Blackie stopped just short of a clearing ahead. He crouched low, scanning the area, then held up a paw.

“Back,” he whispered, retreating into the bushes in slow motion, careful not to give away their presence.

Buddy smelled the beast before he saw it. They were downwind of it, thankfully. It smelled of sweat, pee and tennis balls. And something else too. Something strange. If aggression had a scent, Buddy thought, this would be it.

A shadow moved beyond the clearing, then resolved into the pooch as it stepped out from beneath the leaf canopy. The dog was behemothic, all severe angles and stout muscle, with rivulets of mucusy saliva oozing from its open maw.

“Peggie the Pittie,” Clyde whispered, his dilated gaze never leaving the monster.

Peggie paused and lifted her snout, sniffing the air.

She smells us, Buddy thought. His fur stood up and his tail looked like a spiked club.

Sure enough, the tank of a dog fixed her gaze on the bushes where the feline trio was hiding and let loose a low growl.

One. Peggy’s front left paw hit the dirt, kicking up dust. Two. Her right paw slammed down, followed by thick strands of drool. Three. Her powerful hind legs followed, propelling her forward.

Her growl became a series of vicious barks as she picked up speed.

We’re gonna die, Buddy thought, paralyzed. We’re gonna die!

Day Three: Lost, Cold and Hungry
Buddy felt an overwhelming sense of relief when he heard the unmistakable sounds of another cat coming from a garbage dumpster.

“Meow!” he called.

Two tiny heads appeared over the rim of the dumpster.

“Whattya want, kid?” asked one of the cats, a filthy ginger tabby with a clipped ear.

“What are you guys doing?” Buddy asked.

“What does it look like we’re doing?” said the second cat, who looked like a pair of disembodied yellow eyes against his jet black fur. “We’re panning for gold!”

There were kitchen sounds coming from the building next to the dumpster — the rhythmic chop of someone cutting vegetables, meat sizzling on the grill, dishes clinking — but otherwise the alley was quiet. Buddy climbed onto a discarded desk next to the dumpster and leaped over the rim, landing in a heap of black garbage bags.

“It smells in here!” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“Yes!” the tabby said. “It smells like luck!”

Buddy watched as the two strays rummaged through the trash. The black cat dug out a banana peel, sniffed it, then tossed it behind him.

“Aha!” the orange cat meowed triumphantly.

He was holding a half-eaten bologna sandwich in one paw and using the other to shoo away a cloud of fruit flies.

“You always have the best luck, Clyde,” the black cat said.

“You think I don’t share with mi amigo?” Clyde tore the sandwich in two, handing the other half to his friend. “Now this is good eatin’!”

Buddy’s stomach rumbled as he watched the two strays happily gobble down their rotten sandwich.

“Uh, speaking of food,” he meowed. “When’s lunch?”

Clyde burped. “Whenever you want it to be, kiddo. Grab yourself somethin’ from the trash.”

Buddy eyed the mountain of garbage with disgust. In the kitchen next door, a chef and a waiter exchanged obscenities. The smell of sweet, sweet meat wafted from the open door.

“No, I mean when do they bring us lunch? The humans, I mean. My Big Buddy always brought my lunch at the same time.”

Clyde and the black cat exchanged a glance.

“They should be here any minute now to take your order,” Blackie said.

Buddy sighed with relief.

“Thank God!” he said. “I’m so hungry I could eat a whole turkey! When do they get here?”

“Any minute now,” Clyde said.

“Really?” Buddy’s eyes were wide and hopeful.

“Sure, kid! They’ll serve it to you on a silver platter too!”

Blackie and Clyde looked at each other again and burst into laughter.

“‘The humans bring me lunch!’” Blackie said, imitating Buddy.

Clyde’s laugh turned hoarse. He coughed, then hocked a huge loogie that landed an inch or two from Buddy’s front paw.

There was a shout from outside the dumpster, then angry human noises. Clyde and Blackie were already scurrying out of the dumpster on the other side.

”Guys, wait!” Buddy meowed.

“Stay out of my garbage, you little shits!” A human hand clamped around Buddy’s tail, lifting him out of the dumpster.

Buddy screamed in pain, then saw the human winding up his other arm. He pivoted, chomped down on the human’s skin and started pumping his little legs before the human released his grip. He landed on all fours.

With the human still yelling, Buddy took off at full speed and never looked back.

"Now that's good eatin'." — “Now that’s good eatin’.” A veritable feast if you know how to look.

The temperature had dropped considerably, but now the wind picked up and Buddy felt fat drops of rain on his fur. The angry human from the dumpster was far behind him now, but Buddy kept up the pace. He had to get someplace warm, someplace with shelter.

His nose caught a scent — real food? — and he followed it, padding along a driveway, slick now with rain, that was paved equidistant between two houses.

Buddy’s stomach rumbled as the scent became stronger. He followed it over freshly cut grass, up a short flight of wooden steps and onto a back porch.

There it was: A single bowl with some soggy kibble, the remnants of some well-fed cat’s meal. There was a time Bud would have turned up his nose at that bowl, when he would have complained that he could see the bottom of it. Not now.

He scarfed down every last kibble, the aching in his stomach beginning to subside a bit as he sighed with relief.

That’s when he realized he was being watched. On the other side of a sliding glass door, where it was dry and warm, a plump white cat sat looking at Buddy with curiosity and disgust. The cat bared its teeth.

“Easy!” Buddy meowed, backing away from the glass door. He caught the reflection of a wet, shabby street cat with unkempt fur and a nose crossed with jagged claw wounds. He nearly took off before he realized he was looking at himself.

“Oh Princess!” a human female called in a sing-song voice. The white cat gave Bud one last pitying look and went to find her human.

On the far side of the deck was a barbecue covered by a protective tarp. Bud circled the tarp, looking for a way in, then squeezed himself through an opening.

There was a compartment for fuel. It wasn’t warm, but it was dry. He settled down, shivering in the cold, and listened to the rain drops pelting the tarp as he drifted off into a longing dream about home.