Cat Shout for Joy by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Read Free Book Online Page A

garden flowers and the pines—­maybe he hadn’t paid attention to subtler smells.
    She sat down on the tiles, licking her paw, watching him. He stood silently looking at her, speechless and grinning. When he could talk again he said, “Kittens! They’ll learn to hunt as soon as they can toddle, I’ll bring them mice to learn on. They’ll learn everything they need to know, to hunt, and to defend themselves. And to be the best detectives ever.”
    Oh, my. Dulcie hadn’t thought of that.
    â€œThey’ll learn to read from police reports,” Joe said, “right there on Max Harper’s desk, learn so cleverly that Harper will never know . . .” On and on he went, happily planning. Dulcie watched him uncertainly, her tough, practical tomcat laying it all out . . . bragging over his clever babies, his rookie-­cop babies . . . Oh, my tender little babies, she thought nervously.
    But then she thought, Okay. They’ll grow bigger, they’ll grow strong. Kittens grow up, you know. Cop cats, she thought tremulously . Well, I guess I can live with that. I’m pretty good at cop work myself.
    But they’ll learn more than what Joe teaches them, she thought stubbornly . They’ll learn about poetry. About literature . . . and so much to know about the ancient past. They’ll learn to dream, Dulcie thought . They’ll learn to dream from   me.

 
    5
    M isto didn’t spend his waning days in the veterinary clinic, but next door in the Firettis’ cottage, tucked up in John and Mary’s king-­size bed among a tangle of soft pillows. Since John had discovered Misto’s fast-­growing cancer, which was already too widespread for surgery, he and Mary had kept their beloved companion as comfortable and well tended as any ailing human could ever be.
    The Firettis’ bungalow sat back from the side street, down a long stone walk through Mary’s flower garden. The clinic was off to the right, its original two cottages joined now by a glass-­domed solarium that had turned the structure into a tall and airy hospital. The rooms of one cottage offered the feline clinic, lobby and office; the other cottage held the surgery and examining rooms. The solarium itself housed the dog hospital and exercise yard. Dr. John Firetti, tall and slim and quiet, had made the clinic a safe and welcoming sanctuary for his treasured patients.
    But for John and Mary, their own Misto was the most beloved of all. He had come to them when he was an old cat, returning, after a long journey, to his kittenhood home. The instant love between the three was solid and deep. The Firettis were heartbroken when John did not discover the old cat’s disease early on. They were distraught that Misto had kept his secret as the illness fast progressed, that the old cat had hidden his early pains. Those first days, the yellow tom had shown no weight loss, no loss of appetite, no dullness of eyes or of coat. Certainly he showed no flatness of spirit; he was as lively as ever. Misto had no clue himself until, quite suddenly, he began to feel weak, deeply tired. Then the pain was fierce, and he knew.
    For some time, he kept that malaise to himself. When at last he told John that something was wrong, the cancer had spread and was not operable. Indeed, Misto told them, he would not have wanted surgery. The big yellow tom seemed far more at peace with his illness, with the numbering of his last days, than were his human and feline friends.
    But now as the end of Misto’s life drew near he had much to speak of. He remembered his earlier deaths more clearly, just as he remembered his earlier lives. He shared bright fragments with John and Mary from times long past and from distant places, the old cat lying before the hearth fire of an evening, telling his exotic tales.
    Some days John would carry him over to the clinic, to a comfortable bed on his desk. And when,