So there I was, trapped in the narrow confines of a cat carrier, waiting helplessly for what was inevitable to come. How I came to be in that situation is sort of a funny story, that is, if you are one of those strange people who finds cats with too many toes, really suspicious cat food factories, and nefarious characters following you around humorous. I certainly don't. But I digress; I have a story to tell, and my opinions regarding the matter are beside the point.
It all began with a note. Technically, I suppose it began with me waking up and eating breakfast, as I normally do. But there were a lot of boring events that occurred on that fateful day before the interesting things started happening, so I will spare myself the pain of trying to remember all the details that occurred before I found the note, since it was the details that occurred afterwards that are much more interesting.
It was mid-afternoon, and I was walking up the front steps of my Uncle Fry's house, with whom I was spending the summer in a very boring town in Georgia, while my parents summered in Egypt (and no, you do not detect any jealousy there, none at all). I unceremoniously dumped an armload of groceries onto the counter and hurried upstairs in pursuit of a chocolate bar that I had left on my bed.
But when I entered the bedroom, I stopped short. The chocolate was there, all right, but it was not alone. Beside it was a note, if you could call it that. It was on my Uncle's special note paper, the kind that says 'From the Desk of Albert Fry' in curvy letters across the top. But instead of words, the only thing on this piece of paper was a single paw print in dark blue ink. I instantly recognized it as being that of a cat. This was odd since Uncle Fry and I are both terribly allergic to cats, so there was no reason why one would be in the house. I wondered if one had gotten in through a window carelessly left ajar, but upon investigation, I discovered they were all sealed, and that Uncle Fry was nowhere to be found.
I returned to my room and carefully scrutinized the paw print. It had the marks of seven cat toes. Seven! I had heard of six toed cats, but seven was something else entirely. And the ink was still wet – the cat had been here recently. There was also a spot of blue paint on my window.
This was by far the oddest event of my rather uneventful summer (thanks Mum and Dad!), so, naturally, I decided to investigate. I grabbed my side bag and filled it with all the essentials one needs when one goes investigating: a pair of binoculars, a tiny notepad, pencil, fingerprinting kit, tape recorder, and, of course, my chocolate bar. In retrospect, I should have grabbed the bottle of allergy meds off my bedside stand, but I of course had no idea at the time how many cats would be involved in this adventure, so I left them behind.
First I went outside and around the side of the house until I was directly below my window. Sure enough, there were a few blue splotches on the ground, trailing in the direction of the Morgan estate.
I sighed dramatically. Why did it have to be the Morgans? Certainly they thought I was crazy enough as it was, what with me being Fry's niece. Oh, and there is the fact that I speak in a British-Bostonian cross–accent that no one can ever identify and wear large thick glasses that magnify my eyes to a very unflattering size (though that's not my fault!). And there's the fact that all my jeans have so many patches in them that they look like they were made out of old quilts, since I can't stand how stiff and awful new jeans feel and just keep altering my old ones. I've been wearing the same pair for three years now.
Also, I am a vegetarian, which, in this particular town in Georgia, happens to be synonymous with 'freak', making me something of a pariah.
I digress once more. Enough about me. As strange as I am, the events that occurred on this fateful day were far stranger than even I.
Swallowing what remained of my pride, I hopped the fence, marched up to the Morgan's front door, and knocked.
The door was opened by a small blond haired boy with a snotty expression on his face. I tried to recall his name – Billy, or Willy, something along those lines. He was wearing a Superman costume and had melted chocolate smeared on his face. At least, I hoped it was chocolate. I refused to consider the alternatives.
"Hello," I said cautiously, noting that he had a fireplace poker clenched fiercely in one hand. Granted, it wasn't red hot or anything, but still...
"Whaddaya want this time?" he sneered. Yes, I had been in this situation before. Only last time, I was here to retrieve a bunch of balloons (to which I had rigged a tiny camera, though there was no way I was telling them that) that had landed on their room. It wasn't really as creepy and spy-like as it sounds. I was just trying to make a documentary! (Things can get boring 'round these parts, and desperate times call for desperate measures, right?)
"I was wondering if I could ask your family something. It'll just take a minute."
"Okay," said the little boy. He turned and shouted into the house: "Ron, the weirdo is here and she wants to talk to you."
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that by doing so my strong urge to strangle little Billy-Willy would subside. It didn't.
There were footsteps, then silence. "Yeah?" said a voice after a while.
I opened my eyes. A larger version of the little boy had appeared in the doorway. This was Ron, I knew all too well. He was my own age and he had a nasty habit of always catching me at my weirdest. Like now. I wondered briefly how long he had been standing there while I had my eyes closed. I figured I probably didn't want to know.
"Well, yes," I said. "Ahem." I cleared my throat self-consciously. "I was wondering if you'd seen a cat with seven toes on at least one paw anywhere around here."
Ron's face went blank, and I realized how strange that must have sounded. "Well, guess you haven't," I said quickly, preparing to launch into my routine 'sorry-to-have-bothered-you-I-will-be-going-now-before-I-further-humiliate-myself-though-it's-probably-too-late-to-salvage-the-final-tattered-scraps-of-my-reputation' speech, when, to my surprise, he said, "Might've."
I stopped short mid-backpedal. "Really?"
"Yeah..." he said slowly.
"Wow!" I exclaimed. "'Cause there was a weird cat print on a piece of paper on my bed, and there was a trail of blue ink leading towards your house, so I thought – "
Okay, now he was staring at me weirdly.
"Wow, you're weird," observed Ron's brother.
"You're pretty weird yourself, little man," I said.
"You know what's really weird?" he said, a sneaky look in his eye. I knew what was coming.
"Yes, my face. You've already established that," I replied tiredly. He looked surprised.
"So..." cut in Ron.
"Yes," I said impatiently. "Have you or have you not seen a cat with seven toes on one paw? Because if you haven't then I have no reason to be here, so – "
"I have," interrupted Ron. There was a pause. "I think."
Ron's father chose this moment to appear. "Hey Billy, Ronnie, what's shakin'?" Then he saw me. "Oh, hi," he said suspiciously. I swear I saw his lower lip starting to curl in repulsion. Or maybe it was just my imagination. Or maybe it wasn't...
"Hello," I replied, equally suspiciously.
What are you doing here?" he said accusingly.
"I was asking your sons a question," I replied, trying to come across as a normal person, which was quite a feat for me.
"Uh, huh," Ron's father said, his eyes narrowed. And I thought that was something that people only did in novels! "See you later, Ron, Bill." He disappeared back into the house.
"So...you were saying you saw a cat with too many toes?" I prompted.
"Yeah." As you may have noticed, Ron was one of those people who talked like he was being charged per word, and having a conversation with him was not unlike talking to a slightly dull-witted child. Or a wall.
"Which way did it go?" I was starting to feel like Ron didn't exactly want to be interrogated. Well, too bad for Ron.
"Over there," he said, gesturing in the direction of the cat food factory.
Oh, did I forget to mention that our town is built quite literally in the shadow of Smitten Kitten Cannery and Manu-'cat'-uring Plant (referred to by the locals [and semi-locals such as myself] simply as the Cattery), the largest cat food/catnip factory in the country? No? Well, it is. Which is why the air here always smells like a combination of catnip and processed fish. I swear, it drives the local cats positively mad, especially on days when the wind doesn't blow and the aroma of halibut hangs over the town in a stinky cloud. On such days, it's not uncommon to see cats sitting by the chain link fence that surrounds the factory, staring in with crazed expressions on their little cat faces.
Uncle Fry's house happens to be right up against the Cattery property, so we have it the worst stench-wise. Also, his house is conveniently located so that during most hours of the day it is shaded by either the Cattery or the Morgan's very large mansion.
I bet Mum and Dad aren't constantly in the shade in Egypt. I bet they're wishing for shade in the hot desert sun as they ride around on camels...
"Uh..." Ron said. I jumped.
"Camels, I tell you! What? Oh yeah," I exclaimed a little too loudly. "Cat with a bunch of toes went into the Cattery. Got it. Goodbye."
I went over to the chain-link fence that separated the Cattery from Uncle Fry's property and pressed my face up against it. Sure enough, blue cat prints went through a small gap under the fence and in the direction of the factory. Beyond, the large building loomed menacingly. If a building can do that. The Smitten Kitten logo, a creepy smiling kitten licking her chops, looked even creepier than normal.
"What'cha gonna do?" It was Ron again. He had followed me to the fence.
"I'll probably dig a hole under the fence, crawl through, and follow the prints to who-knows-where," I said. I probably would have, too. Boredom can make a person do strange things.
Ron's face scrunced up, and I figured that wasn't the answer he was expecting.
"What, you have a better plan?" I asked him indignantly.
"...maybe..." said Ron slowly. I waited patiently. Actually, that's a lie. I was waiting impatiently, but I was polite enough to hide this from Ron. "...we could..."
"Wait, 'we'?" I said. "As in, you and I?"
Ron nodded.
"Well," I said, "I was picturing this as a solo mission, but I suppose it could be handy to have an assistant-y henchman of sorts..."
"Sidekick," said Ron firmly.
"You sure? I see you as more of the henchman type, but I suppose 'sidekick' works fine. Just don't go and get yourself killed like sidekicks always do in movies. However, you aren't providing comic relief, so I think you're safe. It's always the funny ones who bite it."
Ron cocked his head at me inquisitively, but said nothing.
"So...you were saying something about a plan?"
In response, Ron pointed to a tattered poster pinned to the fence. On closer examination, I found that it read –
Smitten Kitten Cannery and Manufacturing Plant Tours! Come, explore, and learn about the fascinating history of the largest cat food factory in the United States! Free tours every weekday at 3:00!
"Ron, you're a genius!" I exclaimed. I glanced at my watch. "We have ten minutes before it starts. Come on!"