Skeeter: A Cat Tale Read online

  “If cats wore bumper stickers, Skeeter’s would read ‘Question Authority.’ He’s everywhere, expressing his opinions, giving and demanding affection, and bending the rules. More than once, I’ve decided there must be two of him.”

  When a stray kitten romps into Lynne’s life, she has no idea what she’s getting into. As Lynne describes in letters to her friend Angie, Skeeter is all cat—high-spirited, contrary, and inventive. He’s so goofy that he reminds Lynne of her own nuttiest escapades; so irrepressible that even Lynne’s neighbor, Mark, gets wound around his paw. And when Angie visits to see Skeeter for herself. . . . Well, no one who meets Skeeter will ever be quite the same again.

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  ANNE L. WATSON

  Skeeter

  A Cat Tale

  Shepard & Piper

  Friday Harbor, Washington

  2009

  Copyright © 2005, 2009 by Anne L. Watson

  All rights reserved.

  Originally published in paperback by Shepard & Piper, 2005

  Kindle Version 1.1

  For my beloved critters

  1

  Dear Angie

  October 6, 1999

  Dear Angie,

  I made it back to California without mishap or even a traffic ticket, although I was eligible for speeding tickets in every state along the route. That was the quickest move of my whole life. Thanks for helping me pack. Also for pointing out that I’d better not dither and procrastinate much longer if I expected to make it over the Rockies in decent weather. I must have lived in L.A. too long—it wouldn’t have occurred to me to plan for snow.

  The offer to take back my California job was irresistible. But I enjoyed Chicago, even in the winter. I’m going to miss it. I’ll miss you, too. Don’t quit keeping the place stirred up just because I’m gone. I’m counting on you.

  The trip was amazing. Did I tell you that, when I moved from California in 1997, I had my car shipped? This time I couldn’t afford to do that, and I wasn’t looking forward to driving. I don’t know what I expected—city traffic all the way, maybe. But it turned out to be fun. I started wondering whether I even want my old job. Maybe I’ll get a truck-driving license and go back and forth.

  I got to Lincoln the first night. That seemed far enough. The next morning I started early, only to get caught in fog on the freeway. It was too thick for me to see any exits, so I couldn’t get off. All I could do was hope there wasn’t anything slow in front of me or anything fast behind me. Eventually it cleared. I made it to Cheyenne by afternoon, though I got a little lost.

  I could see I wasn’t making good enough time, so I got a dawn start the next morning and reached Elko by night. Over six hundred miles—ouch! The next night, I was in Monterey, exhausted. It was out of my way but I wanted to see some friends there before I settled down in L.A. Somehow, once I’m working, I can never get away.

  I spent a couple of days with them, then drove down to Long Beach. I’m staying with my friend Nancy here till I find a place. I think I’ll look in San Pedro. It’s always been my favorite town in the L.A. area. Right on the beach, but not too expensive.

  Back to work tomorrow! Thanks again for your help.

  Love,

  Lynne

  October 15, 1999

  Dear Angie,

  I’ve gotten settled at Nancy’s now. My furniture and boxes aren’t coming for a couple of weeks, so I’ll have time to find an apartment first. For now, I only have what I could carry in the car. I brought necessities—clothes, books, my CD player, and the coffeepot. I forgot a few items like towels and sheets, but those are easy to borrow.

  I’ve known Nancy for years, so it’s like coming home to stay with her. Her household is awash with cats, dogs, and relatives, but somehow everyone manages.

  Work is interesting, but of course more high-stress than I’ve been used to. Too many jobs to do at once. Besides, Nancy’s house is in Long Beach, an hour—or more—commute each way. I’m so harried, I would scream—if I could find the time.

  I’m going apartment hunting this weekend. If I can find something in San Pedro, it would cut my commute in half. Also, there are plenty of old buildings there, which I like better than new ones.

  I’ll write again when I find an apartment.

  Love,

  Lynne

  October 21, 1999

  Dear Angie,

  I found a place! It’s in the part of San Pedro called Point Fermin—lots of fine old buildings and a beach. Well, a sort of beach. A cliff plunges down to a cobble strand—stark but spectacular. When the waves break, they toss those stones around with a noise like dumping a load of bricks. On the cliff top, there’s a park with a bandstand, and even a Victorian lighthouse.

  My apartment is in a two-story building from about the same era. There are only four apartments, two upstairs and two down. My place has big rooms, oak floors, redwood cabinets, and a dining room. Also nine-foot ceilings.

  And the landlady says I can have a cat! It’s against the lease, but I asked anyway. She said, “Well . . . we-don’t-really-allow-pets-in-the-apartments” (more or less one word), “but . . .”—looking at a black cat sunning on the porch—“I see Armando has one. There’s a stray kitten hanging around my nephew’s house. I’ll take you over there tomorrow, if you want to see about it.”

  She made it clear I don’t have to take this particular kitten, but I think I’ll go look at it. The price will be right, and maybe it’ll be a good one.

  I’ll be moving November 1. Till then, I’ll be at Nancy’s.

  Love,

  Lynne

  November 3, 1999

  Dear Angie,

  Moving day was crazy, but then, what else is new? Nancy helped, and we hired a couple of guys. I’m sort of settled. The living room is still full of boxes, but the kitchen stuff and clothes are unpacked.

  I adopted that kitten! I wasn’t looking for such a young one, and I think it’s a male, but it’s a sweetie. It’s a gray tabby with white markings on the legs, head, and tummy. It was already housebroken, so no problems there. I named it Skeeter, which is a Southernism for “mosquito,” in case you don’t know. The way it circles and whines is just like one.

  The neighbors are friendly—also quiet, thank goodness. There’s a family downstairs, and single guys live in the other two apartments. I think the downstairs guy has a steady girlfriend. I share a utility room with the guy in the other upstairs apartment. I have a washer and dryer, but the only hookups are on his side. So we’re going to cooperate. He’s a children’s author, and he works at home. He doesn’t seem too crazy about cats. But he’s OK, I think.

  Work is about the same. There’s always more than enough of it to go around.

  How are you? How’s the office? Did they hire anyone to replace me, or are you doing both our jobs?

  Love,

  Lynne

  November 9, 1999

  Dear Angie,

  Mark, the guy in the other upstairs apartment, invited me to go downtown with him to see the Pompeii exhibit at the L.A. County Museum. We wanted to get there early, because of the crowds. Good thing we left in plenty of time, because we got held up by a parade before we were even out of San Pedro.

  First a policeman motorcycled up and stopped traffic. Then an almost-in-tune brass band marched past us. A disorganized swarm of people followed, mostly in ordinary clothes, some dressed in red, white, and green for a fiesta.

  Arches of helium balloons echoed the festival colors, swaying in the offshore breeze. Six men carried the Virgin of Guadeloupe on a small platform, followed by more people, more ballo
ons. The parade was past.

  Mark said they were probably on their way to bless the fishing fleet. I sent a blessing of my own to the boats—not that I think I could make a difference to their safety or their catch, but it made me feel good to do it.

  Parades are common here, especially near the holidays. They used to have a boat parade at Christmas, but I haven’t heard anything about it this year. Maybe it’s too early. I missed it there in Chicago last year. When I asked if there would be a boat parade, my family looked at me like I was crazy. “Lynne,” my sister said, “this time of year, the lake’s frozen.” Scratch the boat parade.

  Nancy came over to meet Skeeter. She says he’s a boy. He isn’t going to remain one for long, though. I can’t have a tomcat in the house.

  Love,

  Lynne

  November 15, 1999

  Dear Angie,

  I keep buying toys for Skeeter, hoping to find something he’ll enjoy. Most cat toys bore him. He plays with a chosen few, and also has stolen a couple of my possessions: a furry computer mouse cover someone gave me, and my floppy stuffed dog Wolfie, just the size for Skeeter to fight with.

  Once in a while, a toy scares him. That was the trouble with the feathered mouse. If his problem had been aesthetic, I would have understood it, since the thing was hideous. However, I couldn’t see why he was afraid of it.

  I dangled it in front of him. He gave it a horrified look and ran. I tied it to a string and pulled it across his path. He hid. I decided he needed time to get used to it and left it in the hallway. It stayed there for several days, seemingly untouched. He wasn’t getting used to it.

  When I got home from work yesterday, the feathered mouse had disappeared. It wasn’t under anything, or behind anything. It wasn’t anywhere.

  I know what happened, of course. Skeeter watched me drive away in the morning and when he was sure I was gone, went into the hallway and stood by the feathered mouse. In an annoyed way—this was almost more trouble than it was worth—he stood on his hind legs and began to grow like the Christmas tree in The Nutcracker. By degrees, he turned into a ten-year-old boy, the kind of boy who would be nicknamed “Skeeter.” I can see him now, hazel eyes, sandy hair, and freckles. His transformation complete, he bent and grabbed the feathered mouse, unlocked the back door, took it downstairs, and threw it into the garbage can.

  Then he returned in a hurry. I rarely come back home once I’ve left, but once in a while I do. He closed and locked the back door. With a sigh of relief, he turned back into a cat.

  How else could it have happened?

  Love,

  Lynne

  November 20, 1999

  Dear Angie,

  Skeeter never does anything without a reason. There may not be much point, but there always is a reason, if only I can find it.

  I’m still puzzling over his nighttime antics, though. I wish I could ask him what he thinks he’s doing.

  I go to bed early. Skeeter does not. This is normal, since cats are more or less nocturnal. My bedtime coincides with his high-energy evening play session, so I shut him out of the bedroom.

  However, I usually wake in the middle of the night. As I wander down the hall to the bathroom, Skeeter sneaks into my bed.

  When I return, he snuggles and purrs, the ideal cat. This is to fool me into letting him stay. Once he manages that, a demon gets hold of him. He jumps into the open window and yowls, then thunders back across my prone body to my desk, where he chews pencils and shreds all the paper he can get his paws on. Then he attacks the wind chime and the sewing basket. He sharpens his claws on the bed skirt, turns over the wastebasket, and raids my jewelry box.

  At this point, I eject him from the bedroom and shut the door. He doesn’t like this. It’s a good thing he can’t talk.

  If he could, I’d undoubtedly have the same problem my friend Juanita got into with her bird. Juanita had parrots, lovebirds, cockatiels, and even a white cockatoo. But the bird that caused all the trouble was an ordinary-looking parakeet.

  She was teaching this parakeet tricks, and he was doing well. He could balance on one foot, walk backwards, and do the loop-de-loo on his swing. She was also trying to teach him to talk, but without success. The bird wouldn’t say anything but awwwk, awwwk, awwwk.

  One morning she had a coffee party for some ladies from her church. The bird tried one of his tricks, and he took a header. He fell on his little blue tush and said, loudly and distinctly, “Oh, shit.” He hadn’t learned that word from her, but there was no way to tell that to the church ladies.

  That would be the problem if Skeeter could talk—the things he’d say. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for his language or his opinions. On the other hand, I’d be able to ask what he means by all those stupid antics in the middle of the night.

  Love,

  Lynne

  November 30, 1999

  Dear Angie,

  I had Thanksgiving dinner with Mark’s family. Since they live nearby, it wasn’t a big deal. I was worried because it seemed like the wrong occasion to ask for vegetarian. But it turns out he’s a veggie too, and so is his mom. That’s California for you.

  The holiday is over now. I’m back to nonstop work, chores, and errands. My first task this week was taking Skeeter to the animal birth control place to be fixed.

  He had kept me awake for most of the night, and I was having a bleary time of it. A good many people had brought their pets, so the receptionist was busy. She gave me a tag to put on Skeeter’s carrier. It had blanks for my name and address, daytime phone number, and a small line for “type.” I asked what was supposed to go on the line.

  “What kind of cat is it?” explained the receptionist.

  What kind of cat is Skeeter? A short line like that wouldn’t begin to cover it. And I was sure she had no time for that much information.

  “He’s just a cat,” I said, and wrote C-A-T. They taught me to spell this in first grade. She looked in astonishment at what I’d written.

  “Cat,” I said helpfully, in case her first grade curriculum hadn’t been the same as mine. With the L.A. Unified School District, you can never tell.

  She looked at me like I was crazy and she had no time for a therapy session. She peered into the carrier, scratched out what I’d written, and wrote D-S-H above it.

  The carrier looked official, sitting there with the tag on it. DSH? I know ORD, that’s Chicago; and MSY, New Orleans. LAX is us, which has always seemed apt. But DSH?

  “Wait,” I said, “I don’t want you to ship him anywhere. I want you to neuter him.”

  The receptionist was obviously having a bad morning too. Right behind me was an impatient guy who had brought a Rottweiler to be spayed.

  “DSH stands for ‘domestic shorthair,’” she told me, somewhat testily.

  Well, this was wonderful news. I had thought Skeeter was just an alley cat. But now that I know he’s a genuine domestic shorthair, I wonder if I made a mistake getting him neutered.

  Love,

  Lynne

  December 2, 1999

  Dear Angie,

  The earthquake didn’t do any damage here. I know they say animals can predict them, but Skeeter didn’t. Or at least if he did, he didn’t tell me.

  But I predicted it. About ten days before it happened, I said I believed we’d have about a magnitude seven quake within two weeks. I said it in public, too, in front of witnesses. Everyone is impressed with me at the moment. I wish I thought I could do it again. An ability to predict earthquakes accurately would take care of my retirement. I’d live in a cottage over at Cal Tech and let them know when one was coming.

  The quake happened in the small hours of the morning. Skeeter usually sleeps in his own bed, but he happened to be in mine at the time—my bad luck. I was wakened less by the temblor than by the gyrations of a hissing, terrified cat. I came fully awake as he disappeared under the bed.

  This was a relief. Twenty-five years of owning cats in Southern California has taught me to
avoid them in earthquakes. Their claws and teeth are far more hazardous than anything described in the pamphlets of the Governor’s Office of Emergency Services. From a cat’s point of view, humans are responsible for everything. If the house is shaking, better bite your owner fast, to make it stop.

  I looked out the window, keeping back from the glass a bit, just in case. The sky was alive with lightning-like flashes. There was no thunder, and a storm didn’t seem too likely. The Northern Lights, on a holiday? Probably not. The temperature was about eighty. Electrical installations shorting out? Yes, that would do it. The wind chime tinkled, swinging eerily in the still air.

  The earthquake lasted only a few seconds, but Skeeter kept the memory alive by pouting for several hours. He couldn’t be convinced it wasn’t some trick I had played on him. He finally emerged from under the bed, but he made it clear I was on probation, and I’d better not do it again.

  And then last week, I got a private flash that Los Angeles might have a major quake in the year 2000. I hope it doesn’t happen. Skeeter would never forgive me. And I’m not at all certain about those accommodations at Cal Tech.

  Love,

  Lynne

  December 10, 1999

  Dear Angie,

  Mark and I went to my friend Lisa’s house. She has cats but they are not Skeeter-cats. They are pedigree Persians, lovely and expensive. Her halls are decked with red and blue award ribbons, and I wondered whether to point out that those colors were better for July 4 than for Christmas. I thought of suggesting she replace the blue with some green, but decided she wouldn’t think it was funny.