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the garden.
    The
flowers obstructed my view of his face, though from his gait I judged him to be
a man of advanced years. Considering my success with Mr. Jolley, I had less to
fear than I’d originally thought. I unsheathed my claws and lifted my paw to assault
the oldster. I would be home for tea.
    “There’s
a pretty kitty,” he said. He stopped at the flower patch, casting me in a
crooked shadow. It was the man with the bent spine.
    I spat
in terror, not at his outstretched hands but at the object between them—a
net.
    ***
    The
struggle had been epic—a vicious roiling of claws and teeth and tail—and
one, I dare say, worthy of Eddy’s pen, yet it belonged to me alone. Once the Butcher
threw the net, he stood aside and let me wind deeper into the ropes until even
my whiskers could not wiggle. What a sight I must have been—Philadelphia’s
only ball of yarn with a cat inside. After I surrendered, he scooped me up and dumped
me into the large birdcage next to the front door. The Gazette lined the bottom of the prison, completing the indignity. What
next? A cup of seeds?
    The
Butcher knelt and appraised me. A wave of white hair and beard covered much of
his face, though his eyes remained bright. The faded green of winter grass,
they shone beneath his hooded lids, suggesting a quick mind. He stood and picked
up my cage with some effort. “Oh, me, you’re a heavy thing, aren’t you? They’re
feeding you well.”
    He took
me inside where he placed me on the kitchen table next to a cutting board of
diced onion and carrot. A pot of water boiled on the stove. Queasiness replaced
hunger when I realized the scoundrel meant to serve me for dinner. I imagined
myself, tied up like a pot roast, surrounded by vegetables. In a panic, I pawed
the latch to free myself.
    The
Butcher bent the wire hook and fastened the cage door tighter. “Not to worry,
pretty kitty.” He chuckled. “I’ll take you out when it’s time to eat.”
    I settled
into the corner of my enclosure and watched as he retrieved a leather-bound notebook
and a stick of charred wood from the cupboard. He sat down at the table,
flipped to a new page in his book, and started to sketch. I assumed I was the subject of his portrait since a
handsome cat with patches of light and dark fur and the most exquisite ears took
shape beneath the charcoal. To finish, he scribbled a series of notes beneath
the drawing. I could not read them, of course…I swished my tail. Great Cat
Above! I had been entered into the cookery book!

 

The
Water Giants
    HORRIFIED BY THE CAT cookery
book, I lurched against the cage, thinking to knock it sideways and break it
open. The Butcher responded by depositing my prison beneath the table and
draping a large kitchen cloth over its top. I thumped my tail. I was a cat,
nay, a tortoiseshell cat, and I would
not be hidden away like a noisy parakeet. There I keened with great volume: yoooow, yoooow, yoooow, yoooow . I hoped George
and Margaret would heed the call since they—not Eddy—lived close
enough to hear it.
    “Hush
now, pretty kitty,” he said. “Just a little longer.”
    The
Butcher’s admonishment mattered not, and I continued to wail, stopping only when
he banged lid and pot together. Alarmed by the noise, I ceased and prayed for deliverance.
I imagined Eddy at the kitchen table, drinking tea and eating gingersnaps, his
shirtfront full of crumbs. With the strong connection between us, my visions
usually held some veracity of mood,
if not manner, so it jarred me to picture him joking with Sissy and Muddy,
giving no thought to my whereabouts. Who could blame him after my spat with Mr.
Jolley? I crouched in the corner, remaining quiet lest the Butcher bang another
pot.
    Come
sundown, the Poe household would suffer if I weren’t there to help Muddy with
the leftovers, warm Sissy’s lap, or coax another page of writing from Eddy. The
Butcher tossed another log into the woodstove. Come sundown, I would suffer. I had but one