Beware of Cat by Vincent Wyckoff Read Free Book Online Page B

he lugged a Winnie-the-Pooh backpack. His older sister, perhaps ten or eleven years old, accompanied him to the corner to catch the bus.
    When we spoke, he always referred to me as “Sir,” or “Mister.” A couple of times I was startled, turning from putting mail in a box, to find him, watching me in silence. He had an odd way of staring off to the side when we talked. Sometimes his expression became so serious that it looked like his eyes didn’t quite line up, as if he were studying something no one else could see.
    Because he was so young his vocabulary was limited, but he spoke with that intriguing, musical Ojibwe lilt. He had a peculiar way of stringing words together, or maybe it was simply his delivery, that reminded me of an old man.
    One day, he told me about a dog his family had once owned. When he said the dog’s name was Blackie, I thought of a black lab, or some big, mixed-breed animal, until he informed me that the dog was actually yellow.
    “Just his name was Blackie. He was a good dog,” he said. “We played together in the woods near our house. I could go there only if Blackie came with me. He was a good dog,” he repeated several times, shaking his head.
    “What happened to him?” I asked.
    “My uncle shot him,” the boy replied. “But he was a good dog.”
    Sometime later, I learned from his sister that Blackie had been very old, and his uncle had put him down when he became sick.
    The strangest conversation we had, however, occurred one morning when I encountered them waiting for the bus on the corner. Getting out of my jeep, I asked them how school was going. We stood there talking, the little boy describing a pet turtle he kept at school. Then the weirdest thing happened. I never saw the boy look up, but all of a sudden, midway through his description, he stopped and pointed at the sky. Then he slowly tipped his head back and searched the sky above us.
    “Sis!” he exclaimed. “An eagle! We have to go home and do the tobacco.”
    His sister put an arm around his shoulder, explaining that it would be okay to wait until after school for the tobacco. She used an Ojibwe expression for the ritual, which I didn’t understand. Because of the way the boy pointed at the sky before even looking up, I was a little suspicious of a practical joke. When I finally snuck a quick peek overhead, however, I was shocked to see a mature bald eagle gliding in lazy circles just fifty feet above the intersection.
    I’ve seen many eagles in northern Minnesota, or along the Mississippi River, but never over a residential section of South Minneapolis. And the fact that the bird flew so low was a little unnerving. The strangest part was that he looked down at us. He was probably just wary of our presence, but I would have sworn he looked right at the little boy.
    We watched the eagle for several moments before I asked the girl what her brother meant by “doing the tobacco.” It took a while for her to respond. She was thinking, pursing her lips, and I wasn’t sure if she didn’t want to say, or didn’t know how to say it. Finally, she told me they burn an offering of tobacco to honor the eagle’s spirit.
    I asked her why they honor the eagle. Even though she seemed uncomfortable talking about it, in the end I guess she decided it was okay because I was a friend of her brother.
    “The eagle is my brother’s totem,” she said.
    I nodded, although I wasn’t too sure what that meant. Then she added, “The eagle is my brother’s brother.”
    There were several ways to consider that answer, but the bus came before I could ask any more questions. Within seconds the children were gone, and the rumble of the school bus faded away around the corner. Before heading off down the block to deliver mail, I took one last look above me, but the eagle had disappeared, too.

Pride and Prejudice
    While casing mail one morning I came across a photo on a postcard that caught my attention. I have to admit that taking a