"I've often seen a cat without a grin, but a grin without a cat?"
"Right, now, about this deduction for the Flamingo croquet mallet . . ."

Intruder

by Michael R. Warren © 2003

The quarter moon hung above the lake like a crescent of bleached bone. The lake’s surface was black and placid, scarcely disturbed by a ripple. The only sounds came from cicadas, frogs, and the occasional lake loon. The cat carefully navigating his way through the short grass and weeds along the shore made no noise at all.

Though not primarily interested in game tonight, the cat, Junior, conscientiously watched for signs of motion. He’d never pass up the chance for a fresh mouse. A trim, feline Adonis, his coat was short, silky, and a uniform dark gray. Beneath the coat, supple muscles rippled and jounced as he moved. His nose and whiskers were dark, his eyes were golden, inset with large inquisitive pupils that looked like twin black moons.

Even though some might presume that he was a relatively insignificant creature in a big world, Junior assumed himself to be the master of it. Like most cats, nothing mundane experience provided could persuade him otherwise.

While pausing to investigate a dead fish, Junior heard a high-pitched whine. He angled his left ear around, too late to identify the location. Sounds tended to echo around the lake, making it difficult to quickly identify their location. He glanced back the way he had come. A light from his house was still visible through the trees. Maybe it was the man, working some of the noise makers he kept in the basement.

Junior heard the whine again, high-pitched, this time of longer duration. It came from the pasture, just past the woods that bordered the left side of the lake. He heard a rustle of leaves ahead, also to his left. Maybe a possum moving about by the sound of it. Best be still until it passed. Possums were stupid, even more so than dogs, and could be troublesome if confronted suddenly with a cat in their path.

He looked toward his house again. If he stayed out too late, everyone would be asleep when he returned and he'd have to stay outside all night. Some punishment--particularly since he didn't plan on returning before dawn anyway. He wondered why they never thought to just leave the back door open all night for him. Living with people, and their shortcomings, was difficult sometimes. But all in all, Junior had a perfect life--despite his inauspicious beginnings.

The girl, Sissy, had brought him home in a box smelling of over-ripe bananas.

"No! Absolutely not. He's not staying. Understand?" the man had said.

The meaning of the words was unclear, but Junior had understood the man’s tone, and knew that his future was on the line. He chose that time to peer over the edge of the box at the mother. With disproportionately large ears, comely whiskers, and immense eyes, he looked at her and opened his mouth in an almost silent yowl--the cat equivalent of pleading. For good measure, when he shut his mouth, he left a bit of tongue sticking out.

"Ooooh," mother and daughter cooed simultaneously. The woman lifted him out and set him on the floor. Like baby bunnies don’t have to be taught to hop, kittens don’t have to be taught how to charm people. Rising up in the tippy-toes position, back high, tail curled in an S, Junior gave her leg an appreciative head butt, then started slowly, sinuously, winding back and forth between the mother’s legs, rubbing affectionately as he went. Then he left her and started doing figure eights around the man’s legs, purring loudly, giving him the full treatment.

"Can’t we keep him?" the daughter pleaded.

"Well . . . only for a couple of days, till you find him a home," the man said. "I'm serious. Don't get attached to him."

Bending down to pet his silky fur, the woman asked, "What kind of a cat is it?"

"I think he’s a Russian Blue," the daughter replied.

"I think he’s a Somah," the man snorted. "Some of this, some of that."

"Oh, Bill." The woman picked Junior up, rubbed her nose against his--a little too hard, as people tended to do, causing him to gently swat at her cheeks with his paws. "Oh, look at that. He’s sooo cute."

"Yeah? Charlie Manson was probably cute when he was a kid," the man said as he reached over to scratch him under the chin.

That had been nearly three winters ago.

Eventually, of course, the man became his biggest admirer. At first he grumbled about the "damned cat," but began giving him milk and table scraps--when Sissy and her mother weren't around to say "I read that milk is actually bad for cats" or "Bones aren't good for cats."

This was the kind of thing Junior didn’t understand about Sissy or her mother. What did they think birds and mice were made of?

People’s behavior was inexplicable in many ways. They were noisy, clumsy, showed no inclination for hunting, and were generally ignorant when it came to good grooming behavior. Thankfully, they at least understood the fundamental order of being: It was their fortune to share habitation with him and bask in the splendor of his being. It was their duty to feed him, and their obligation to worship him. They understood this, at least. In fact, sometimes when he stayed out real late, the man would step out on to the back porch every hour or so and loudly sing a song of praise to him about his admirable embodiment of cat nature. "Junnnnior. Here, kitty kitty kitty. Junnnior . . ." The song varied little (with a spoken chorus of ‘where is that damn cat’ added in on occasion) but Junior felt inordinate pride at these times. He’d discovered that it was best not to show himself during the songs, for whenever he did, the man invariably quit singing, picked him up and took him inside. ! So he’d learned to sit close by, in the shadows where the man couldn’t see, and listen to see how long the man would stand there and repeat the song.

All in all, Junior was well situated. His house had two stories and a southern exposure, giving him plenty of high perches to lounge on while soaking up the sun. He had indoor and outdoor privileges and was pretty much left to do as he pleased, sleeping the days away in lazy splendor, playing or hunting when the spirit moved him--languidly, stretching and yawning at enticements to activity when otherwise inclined. The house was close to the lake shore and the woods, so, in addition to all the canned food he could stand, Junior had access to a variety of small game--though he could go the rest of his life without tasting frog again. Apparently realizing this, his people had recently put a bird feeder in the back yard to lure game in for him--though, oddly, they didn’t seem to revel in his kills.

There were other houses nearby, and a few across the lake, where other cats lived--in particular, a little female tabby--hence, his destination tonight.

Junior’s thoughts were disrupted again by the strange whine. The whine rose and fell in pitch, then stopped. Normally, he would investigate. But tonight he had more important business.

Junior stepped into the line of pine trees that bordered the lake--then froze. A pair of glowing eyes, one light blue, one gold, were facing him from a few feet away. Bad Tom!

It was too late to run. He had been spotted. Bad Tom was older, solid white, with some really nice scars on his ears and nose, had wide shoulders, and outweighed Junior by at least three or four pounds. Bad Tom lived in the woods most of the time. In fact, Junior wasn’t sure whether Bad Tom had a permanent home or not. Tom’s hair was short, but his pelt was thick, making it hard to land a good bite on his body or to rake him to pieces with his hind legs--a move that worked so well on birds. They had tangled before, when Junior had inadvertently wandered across his path. Both times the results had been a loss of dignity, soreness, abscessed bites, and a trip to the Vet’s. Fortunately, Bad Tom rarely came this far around the lake. Tonight, he was obviously headed for the same place Junior was.

Bad Tom didn’t like competition.

So much for romance tonight, Junior figured.

Junior had no shame in turning tail and running. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy a good fight now and then--there were few things as exhilarating as rolling around in a tumble of fur, claws and ferocious screams--but he preferred to pick his battles, usually with smaller cats whose skills he was familiar with, and where victory was more or less assured. When you faced an adversary who was larger and tougher, who could chew your tail off, and you both knew it, where was the fun in that?

It would be best to try and bluff his way out of a fight. Junior only hoped that Bad Tom was more eager to get around the lake to the little tabby than he was to send him back to the vet with infected bites, or, worse yet, bite him in such as way as to neutralize him forever as a rival lover.

Having no other choice, Junior assumed the pose--crouched down, ears flat, pupils dilated to the max, tail sweeping back and forth nervously--and began a low-throated growl/yowl that sounded like the village peasants were boiling a witch in oil. Bad Tom approached slowly, a sideways step, ears angled back like a Chinese Pi Dog, nervously licking his lips, voicing his own menace convincingly as he advanced. He stopped, leaving a couple of feet--easy leaping space--between them.

Bad Tom’s eyes darted about, seeking the optimum point to jump in and begin busting up Junior.

Junior’s eyes blinked in anticipation of a bad whipping.

Suddenly, the whine he had heard earlier came again, this time louder and accompanied by several pulses of light that illumined the bushes and tree trunks around them in an eerie red glow.

Being a backwoods cat, hence terrified of the glare and bustle of machines, Bad Tom broke from the confrontation and ran. Junior was tempted to give chase and try to land a few swats at Bad Tom’s backside. Such chances were rare. Gloating would be fun, if only for a night. However, since there was always a chance that Bad Tom might turn and fight, he didn’t pursue. Though full of arrogance and false bravado, Junior was not stupid--as cats go. Junior turned toward the source of his salvation. Lights and noise meant people. People meant a potential new source of food.

After a few minutes of cautious travel, Junior found the source of the sound and lights. More curious than afraid, he eased from under a bush and eyed the thing sitting in the pasture where the cows stayed. It was a new house. An odd house. One that hadn’t been there the last time he’d passed, just a new moon ago. Sitting on three legs, it looked like two shiny plates stacked face to face. A ramp descended to the ground from an opening in the bottom. It was small, as houses went, and was lit with the same blinking, colored lights the people around here decorated their houses with every winter. It smelled funny, causing his tail to swish back and forth nervously. He wondered what the cows thought about it. Probably not much.

Then he spotted the cow, and the two people. The people were small, thin-limbed, bulbous-headed, and had large black eyes that reminded him of a lizard’s. Dressed in matching silver suits, they moved in an odd, jerky fashion. One was standing in front of the cow, pointing a light stick-looking thing at it. The other seemed to be examining the cow’s rear. The cow was immobile. More so than usual.

Vets? Junior was wondering if the cow was about to experience the indignity of the tube under the tail, when the one at the rear took a green flash stick from his belt and pointed it at the cow, making its insides visible.

Interesting, but not overly. Junior had seen bones and organs before.

A buzzing noise came from the two vets. Simultaneously, Junior felt a tingling in his head, and promptly scratched it, assuming that a flea had somehow worked its way down one of his ears and deep inside. The buzzing turned into intelligible sound, words, some of which made pictures flash in his head. Somehow, these people were talking inside his head.

". . .Yes, Wise Elder and Source of Knowledge, Zennomoid. It is an exemplary bovine uterus. Shall I use the Eviscerlaser on it?" Junior saw a picture of something in the man’s four-fingered hand, an intense, glowing red light that cut cow flesh.

Wide-eyed, but passive, the cow seemed oblivious to the conversation about the fate of its uterus. No wonder most people worshiped cats instead of cows.

Junior considered the situation. Indeed, these were queer acting people; but he could detect no menacing vibes from them--though he suspected the cow had a different view of things.

And they had left the door to their house invitingly open.

Junior slowly moved from beneath the bush. While the people were preoccupied with the cow, he made his way up the ramp that led to the interior of the house.

Junior entered quietly, unobtrusively, his paw pads noiseless on the smooth floor. The room was round. The walls were filled with screens and panels of blinking lights. Unobserved, Junior sat on his haunches with his tail wrapped around him in a pose that indicated dignity and a willingness to be approached. There were two more of the odd people in the room, standing in front of a picture screen, their backs to him, doing things he did not understand, nor care to. A door opened on the far side of the room and a new one entered. He approached the taller of the silver people in front of the picture screen.

"Greetings, Wise Navigator and Instructor of Interdimensional Travel, Almatron. Where have you been?" the tall one said to the new arrival.

"Greetings, Being of Power and Authority, Alareal. I have been in my chamber entertaining myself by trying to visualize what perception must be like for a being who experiences only three dimensions." A picture of a crowd of doltish-looking humans appeared in Junior’s head.

The other, Alareal, buzzed something unintelligible, which Junior interpreted as akin to laughter.

"Where are Wise Elder and Source of Knowledge, Zennomoid and Favorite Replication, Almatron IV?" Almatron asked.

"They are getting the cow garnish to take back to The Elderly One, Source of Family Who Doesn’t Travel, Beta Beta." A picture of the two people standing with the cow appeared in Junior’s head. Junior was perplexed by the pictures at first--but his perplexity vanished quickly. The faster one accepted things, the easier one got along. Such was the way of the cat.

"Did you instruct them not to forget the lips. In her longevity, Beta Beta has developed the trait of irrational response to partially filled requests."

"I shall reaffirm the request," Alareal said. "It would be much easier to go into the prior time zone, the pre-industrial earth, and procure Beta Beta’s needs. The deeper into this zone we go, the more difficult it is to find secluded places to extract what we desire."

"Affirmative," Almatron responded. "But the bovines of the prior temporal zone have not been supplied with the proper chemical additives needed to maximize their taste. Have we encountered any humans tonight?"

Alareal waved his hand in front of a screen, causing the scene on it to change. Junior recognized the farm house that was over the hill. The farmer stood frozen behind the chicken coop, a look of stupefaction on his dull face.

"He was lured in by the blinking lights from the drone, moved in too close, and is now entranced by the psychotronic field. Doubtless, he is having a fantasy of being a world savior."

A picture of the farmer ranting excitedly to others appeared in Junior’s head.

There was a laughing buzz again, from both of them this time.

The smaller one, who had been busy at the console, turned and saw Junior. She gave a trill of terror--that Junior’s brain interpreted as a trill of terror--and Junior saw a picture of himself, larger than life, fangs bared, jumping across the room and raking her with his claws and tearing out her throat. Odd.

"Joyous Androgyny of Being, Metaquid, what is the matter?"

Metaquid pointed a long finger at Junior.

Alareal and Almatron turned to face Junior.

"How did . . .?" Almatron began.

"Don’t move," Alareal cautioned. He removed a stick from his belt and pointed it at Junior. The device hummed and Junior found he couldn’t so much as twitch a whisker.

"There. It is harmless now."

"Ship. Close the exterior portal and identify the intruder."

The door closed. Pictures of animals flashed rapidly on the screen, stopping on a racoon. Managing to make a look of disgust with his thin lips, Alareal shook his head. The screen flashed pictures again, pausing briefly on a tiger--which flattered Junior--then finally settled on a picture of another cat, more or less similar to Junior.

"Domestic feline?" The screen said. "A small, quadruped predator."

"Harmless?" Almatron asked.

"Affirmative," the screen replied. "They only pose a danger to creatures that are smaller, slower, weaker, or dumber than themselves."

"Are they a source of food?" Alamatron asked hopefully, thinking of gaining favor with Beta Beta. Their visits to earth had been brief and contact limited to what Beta Beta had wanted. Much earth flora and fauna was still beyond their experience.

"Negative. An earlier expedition reported trying them, but found most of their parts unpalatable," the screen spoke.

A picture of a dead frog appeared in Junior’s mind.

"Are they sentient?"

"Barely," the Screen replied again.

A picture of a possum appeared in Junior’s head. Junior was beginning to dislike the screen.

Alareal released Junior from the akinetic ray. Junior hadn’t minded the experience so much. Other than his hair standing on end, it wasn’t much different than napping. The fleas apparently didn’t agree. Immediately after he was released from the ray, a couple of dozen specks leapt from him and bounded madly away in all directions. Cowards.

"It seems docile," Metaquid said. "And it has an engaging symmetry of form. It came aboard of its own will. Bold for an earth creature. Perhaps we could keep it?"

"No. Absolutely not,"Alareal said, setting the freezing stick on the edge of the console.

It was time to begin his show. Slowly, he approached the one called Metaquid, gave her a head butt, then began rubbing her legs.

"Wha . . . what is it doing," Almatron asked, incredulous.

"I think it is being affectionate," Metaquid said.

Alareal and Almatron exchanged glances.

Metaquid stooped over, carefully placed a hand on Junior’s back, and began stroking his fur.

"And what are you doing?" Alareal said. "Are you fondling it? Perhaps I should have Q-Voh . . ." A picture of a vacuum cleaner looking thing with multiple appendages and legs appeared . . ."take it to the lab and sterilize it first?" A picture of a room, much like the vet’s, flashed in Junior’s head. Not a nice picture..

Alareal was the hard case here, Junior surmised.

Junior moved away from Metaquid and toward the console, walking sideways, his ears almost flat. Part of the freeze stick was hanging over the edge of the console. Junior leaped and swatted. The freeze stick came down, bouncing across the floor, and Junior pounced on it. As the silver-suited people watched in fascination, he batted it about the floor several times, controlling it with the finesse of a hockey player handling a puck. Then he somersaulted over it, caught it, and knocked in the air; finally, with a look of intense feline concentration on his face, he curled around it on the floor, grasping it with his forepaws and giving it mock bites as his hind legs kicked it furiously.

"What amazing athletic skills," Almatron observed. "But why is it attacking the akinetic ray."

"I think it is . . . playing," Metaquid said.

"Playing?" Almatron said. "I have never seen a creature move in such a fashion. Remarkable."

Junior looked up. They were impressed. Finally.

Junior sat up, lifted a paw, wet it, then used it to groom his whiskers. While they were considering him favorably, it would be a good time to ask for milk. "Meow."

They didn’t respond.

He decided to try for food. "Meow."

"Why is it vocalizing?" Alareal asked.

Junior gave them the endearing silent yowl.

Nothing. Then . . .

"I . . . have a sense that maybe it is hungry?" Metaquid said.

"Ah," Almatron said. He fished about in a pocket in his suit.

"Don’t feed it," Alareal said, too late, as Almatron tossed a supplementary nutrition cube to the floor.

This was more like it. Junior sniffed it, licked it once, pawed at it, then looked up, disappointed; it wasn’t that Junior was a connoisseur--the hinder parts of a horse were just as palatable to him as caviar or filet mignon--but that this stuff was putrid. It reminded him of the tofu Sissy had tried to get him to eat once as a joke. Junior began scraping the floor around the cube, trying to cover the offal like any dutiful cat would.

Junior told them the food was putrid. "Meow."

"What is it saying now?" Alareal inquired of Metaquid.

"I think . . ." Metaquid paused, puzzled, as she slapped at a small stinging speck on her arm, "it is expressing gratitude for the nutrition cube. Oh, Alareal, we should keep this creature." A picture appeared: Metaquid looking longingly at a tiny, big-eyed humanoid dressed in a silver like her own. Then one of her petting Junior--dressed in a silver suit.

"Perhaps," Almatron offered, "Beta Beta would like one of these cat creatures for her Earth Menagerie?"

The novelty had worn off for Junior, and the night was still young. He asked them to let him back out. "Meow."

But the people were talking among themselves now, ignoring him.

"Very well. It is decided. We will take him back and place him in Beta Beta’s menagerie." A dizzying picture of unfamiliar plants and trees, a confusing merging of up, down and sideways--more sliver clad people, and animals, some familiar, most not. Junior shook his head rapidly, until he dislodged the vision. "Summon Q-Voh and have him sterilize and neuter it."

The picture that accompanied the word neuter was very clear. It was definitely time to leave--and only one sure way of getting let out.

"Then the menagerie it is," Almatron said, raising his eyebrows in puzzlement as he scratched his leg. He surveyed the room. "Where is the cat creature?"

"There," Metaquid said, pointing to the grate above the Fluxion drive, where the feline was squatting and shaking its tail in an odd fashion.

"What is it doing?" Almatron asked.

"Basking in the rays of the Fluxion drive, perhaps?" Metaquid offered.

"No . . . it’s . . ." Alareal’s small nostril flaps quivered in distaste. "What is that toxic smell? Great Cosmic fluctuation! It’s expelling liquid body waste into the Fluxion drive. Stop it!"

The one called Almatron grabbed at him but was eons too slow. Junior leaped from the grate and began running around the circular room in a panic, somersaulting, sidestepping and reversing course when needed to dodge his pursuer. With a trill of fright, Metaquid climbed up onto the console.

Finally, having found no outlet, Junior came to rest by the gravitator housing, where he huddled defensively.

"Freeze it!" Almatron said.

Alareal reached for his akinetic ray, then realized it was still lying on the floor, next to the gravitator housing--and the cat. "Retrieve it!" he ordered Almatron.

Almatron advanced cautiously toward the creature. "Nice, creature. Be calm, creature. Be calm," he buzzed. Keeping his eyes on the cat’s, Almatron stooped and reached a hand forward. There was a sudden hissing sound, a simultaneous blur of gray motion, and a stinging pain. Shocked, Almatron snatched his hand back and examined it: there were three long scratches on the back of his hand, each displaying a trace of blue blood. Almatron fainted.

After scrambling up onto the console with Metaquid, Alareal turned toward the screen. "Send Q-Voh up at once!"

Suddenly, the outside door reopened with a whoosh as Zennomoid and Almatron IV entered. "We have the . . . whoa!" Zennomoid exclaimed as a small gray streak shot through his spindly legs. The streak was down the ramp and bounding across the ground before he could turn around completely. "What was that?"

Junior leaped the cow lying in his path--briefly noting its terrible state as he did so--and headed for the underbrush and safety without looking back.

As Q-Voh entered the room, Alareal climbed down from the console, stepped over Almatron, and peered down the ramp. "Never mind. He can not get far. In the air the thermal imager will find him. Q-Voh can use the extractor beam on him." Alareal’s nostril outlets crinkled again with distaste. "After that, Q-Voh, remove the grill cover from the Fluxion drive and disinfect it." Alareal swatted--too late--at a jumping speck on his arm, "Eight-fold Chronos! What is this plague?" then glanced authoritatively at Metaquid and the others. "And under no circumstances is that creature ever to be allowed in the control center again."

Sitting on a rise a distance from the lake shore, his four legs tucked tidily beneath him, Junior calmly watched the new house rise above the tree line, move toward the lake, and pause, colored lights spinning around it’s middle. He saw the beam of light shoot down, quickly skirt the shore, and pass over Bad Tom. Startled, Bad Tom gave a screech of terror and fled toward the tree line--but only managed to go a few steps before the beam caught him again. Then, Bad Tom, frozen in classic Halloween cat pose--back arched, fur puffed out, mouth and eyes wide in terror--flew up the beam and toward the house.

Until this time, Junior had no idea that Bad Tom could fly.

After Bad Tom disappeared into the bottom of the house, it moved across the horizon, quickly shrunk to a pinpoint of light, then vanished altogether.

Junior paused to clean his whiskers. Running through the undergrowth had left him feeling a little tattered. After grooming, he was bored. The tabby would be inside by now. No game was out but frogs. The new neighbors had moved away suddenly. And Bad Tom had flown away into the sky, perhaps forever. That was a good thing, at least. But now he had a whole night looming ahead of him, with nothing to do. Except . . .

Junior found a comfy place in the pine straw under an azalea bush in his back yard, and waited with keen feline interest. Minutes later, his efforts were rewarded. The back door opened and the man stepped onto the porch to sing.

"Heeere, kitty, kitty, kitty. Heeeeere, kitty . . . "

x x x

With her penchant for charming cat stories, I thought our editor emeritus would be fond of this tail . . . er . . . tale.
Hey, Jean, howza 'bout this one?




Chat about this story on our BBS?
Or, Back to the Front Page?