Cat Raise the Dead by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Read Free Book Online Page B

pitifully sick little cat; he had almost died in that gutter. Joe had known, from the time he was weaned, to play human sympathy for all he could get.
    From the moment he first curled up in the bright new chair, that article of furniture was his. Now the chair wasn’t blue any longer, it had faded to a noncolor and was nicely coated with his own gray fur deposited over the years. He had also shredded the arms and the back in daily clawing sessions, ripping the covering right down to the soft white stuffing. This texturing, overlaid with his own rich gray cat hair, had created a true work of art.
    The old dog, reclining, sniffed the fabric deeply, drooled on the overstuffed arm, and sighed with loneliness and self-pity.
    â€œCome on, Rube. Show a little spine. Dr. Firreti’s a good vet.”
    Rube rolled his eyes at Joe and subsided into misery.
    Joe crawled over onto the big dog’s shoulder and licked his head. But, lying across Rube, Joe felt lost himself. He was deeply worried for Barney. Barney’s illness left him feeling empty, strangely vulnerable and depressed.
    He stayed with Rube until long after the old black Lab fell asleep. He had managed to comfort Rube, but he needed comforting himself. Needed a little coddling. He studied the familiar room, his shredded chair, the shabby rug, the battered television, the pale, unadorned walls. This morning, his and Clyde’s casually shabby bachelor pad no longer appeared comforting but seemed, instead, lonely and neglected.
    Joe rose. He needed something.
    He needed some kind of nurturing that home no longer offered.
    Frightened at his own malaise, he gave Rube a last lick and bolted out through his cat door. Trotting up the street, then running flat out, he flew across the village, across Ocean, past the closed shops, past the little restaurants that smelled of pancakes and bacon and coffee, fled past the closed galleries and the locked post office.
    From a block away he saw that Wilma’s kitchen light was on, reflected against the oak tree in her front yard. He could smell fresh-baked gingerbread, too, and he raced toward that welcoming house like some little kid running home from schoolyard bullies.
    Galloping across Wilma’s front yard and up the steps, he shot straight for the bright glow of Dulcie’s plastic cat door and through it, into Wilma’s friendly kitchen. The aroma of gingerbread curled his claws and whiskers.
    Dulcie stood on the breakfast table looking down at him, startled by his charging entry. She watched him with amazement, her green eyes wide and amused, her muzzle damp from milk and flecked with gingerbread crumbs. “You look terrible—your ears are drooping, even your whiskers are limp. What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
    â€œIt’s Barney. Clyde took him to the vet.”
    â€œBut—not a car accident? He’s never in the street.”
    â€œHe’s sick, something in his middle, hurting bad.”
    â€œBut Dr. Firreti will…”
    â€œHe’s old, Dulcie. I don’t know how much Dr. Firetti can do.” He leaped to the table and pressed against her for comfort. She licked his ear and and laid a soft paw on his paw. Around them, Wilma’s blue-and-white kitchen shone with warmth and cleanliness.
    Above the tile counter, the rising morning light through the clean windows lent a pearly glow across the blue-and-white wallpaper and the blue cookie jar and cracker jars. Behind the clean glass of the diamond-paned cupboard doors, Wilma’s blue pottery sparkled. Wilma’s homey touches always eased him, eased him this morning right down to his rough cat soul. He sighed and licked Dulcie’s ear.
    She nosed the gingerbread toward him and bent her head again, nibbling gingerbread and lapping milk from her Chinese hand-painted bowl. Hungrily, he pushed in beside her. Whoever said cats don’t like freshly bakedtreats didn’t know much about cats. Not until