Spy Cat

“This is an outrage,” Pete said as he tried to wiggle out of Mr. Kendrill’s grasp. “I’m the one who found Pearly; I should get to see her.”

  As Alex hurried back toward the trees, he felt angry and frustrated. Those burglars had no right to break into houses and steal things and let animals loose and frighten little kids.

  Until today, when there was news of any crime, Benjie had wanted to grab his spy kit and go hunt for the bad guys.

  Now Benjie was scared. He had cried when he heard about the burglary at Rocky’s house, and he had been watching for criminals rather than flying green panthers when he found Lizzy. These break-ins had been too close to home.

  Alex hurried toward the brush pile.

  “I think I see her,” Mary said. “While you were gone, we could hear rustling right about there.” She pointed to the center of the brush pile. “We waited for you to get back so that the two of you can guide her into the cage while I hold it open.”

  “Let’s take the branches off the top and work our way down into the center,” Rocky suggested.

  “I’ll go on the other side,” Alex said. “We can prop our flashlights on the ground so they’re aimed where we’re working.”

  Alex went to the far side of the brush pile. He put the handle end of his flashlight on the ground and stuck a small stone under the wide end to aim the light toward the center of the pile. Mary did the same on her side, and Rocky aimed his light at one end of the pile.

  They began pulling branches from the top of the heap, and tossing them aside.

  “I hope we aren’t destroying any bird nests,” Mary said. She tugged at a large branch whose twigs were twined with the branch beneath it like clasped fingers.

  “The police are at your house,” Alex said.

  “They don’t need to talk to me,” Mary said. “Gramma knows as much about what happened as I do.”

  They pulled more branches off the pile. “We should have worn gloves,” Rocky said. “We’re getting all scratched and cut.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t say anything,” Mary whispered.

  Alex and Rocky nodded agreement.

  A light rain began to fall. Alex shivered as a raindrop hit the back of his neck. He heard rustling in the brush pile and saw Mary move the carrier closer.

  Alex peered down through the branches toward the sound. He saw a patch of gray fur. He waved to get Mary’s attention, then pointed. Rocky pointed, too.

  Mary pulled two more branches off the pile.

  Alex looked down at a triangular-shaped white face with a pink nose and small dark ears. He had never seen a live possum. The rest of the fur looked light where it was close to the body and silver-gray at the edge.

  She had whiskers, much like Pete’s. Not counting her tail, Pearly was about a foot long. Her pink feet scrabbled in the leaves as she tried to burrow into the brush pile.

  Mary grabbed the pet carrier and held the open door toward Pearly.

  Alex clapped his hands and shouted, “Run, Pearly!”

  The startled possum turned back toward Mary and waddled out of the brush pile. Mary positioned the carrier so that Pearly went straight into it.

  “I got her!” she cried as she latched the carrier door shut.

  “Is she okay?” Rocky asked.

  Mary shined her flashlight into the cage. “She looks fine. Let’s take her home.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow and put the brush pile back together,” Alex said.

  “I’ll help,” Mary said. “Thanks for coming with me to find Pearly. I don’t think I could have caught her by myself.”

  “I’m glad we found her,” Alex said.

  The boys went to Mary’s house, where Alex and Rocky answered questions from the sheriff about the van. They told exactly what they had seen, which didn’t seem like much.

  “How did you happen to look out the window at two in the morning?” Mrs. Sunburg asked.

  “My cat woke me up,” Alex said. He looked at Rocky and Mary, who both nodded as if to say they knew Pete had awakened Alex because of the van, but they weren’t going to say that.

  When the sheriff left, Alex, his mom, and Rocky ran through the rain to Alex’s house. Mr. Kendrill had hot chocolate ready for them.

  Benjie had stopped crying and was petting Lizzy. “Did you find Pearly?” he asked.

  “Yes. She’s back in her cage.”

  “Thanks to me,” said Pete.

  “I’m going to bed,” Mr. Kendrill said.

  “So am I,” Alex said.

  “Me, too,” said Rocky. The boys finished their hot chocolate and rinsed their cups.

  “I’m going to stay up and play with Lizzy,” Benjie said.

  “You are going to bed,” Mrs. Kendrill said.

  “Lizzy wants to play.”

  “You can take Lizzy upstairs with you, but leave your door open so she can get out if she wants to.”

  “She won’t want to,” Benjie said as he carried the kitten up the stairs. “She needs me to protect her if the burglars come here and try to steal her.”

  Alex noticed that his parents didn’t try to convince Benjie that this wasn’t possible.

  Alex flopped into bed, and Rocky crawled back into the sleeping bag. Tired to the core, they lay listening to the rain on the roof.

  “It’s raining hard now,” Rocky said. “I’m glad Pearly and Pete are both safely inside where they belong.”

  Alex was glad of that, too, but he couldn’t relax and fall asleep. Even after he heard Rocky’s soft, even breathing, Alex thought about the burglaries, and about Benjie. He heard the grandfather clock downstairs strike four, then five. The knot in his stomach didn’t go away.

  First Rocky’s house and now Mary’s. What was next?

  7

  The next morning after Rocky left, Alex started into the bathroom. He stopped when he saw his brother. Benjie was so absorbed in what he was doing, he didn’t notice Alex watching him.

  Benjie had six envelopes lined up on the bathroom counter. He had printed on them in black marker, with a single word on each envelope: MOM DAD ALEX BENJIE PETE LIZZY.

  Benjie ran a comb through Mom’s hairbrush, removed the loose hair, and stuffed it into the envelope that had her name on it.

  “What are you doing?” Alex asked.

  “I’m collecting DNA.”

  “What?”

  “DNA. The police can identify people that way. It’s like a fingerprint, only better. I read about it in one of my spy books. They can tell from a bit of skin or blood or hair which person it came from.”

  “I know what DNA is,” Alex said. “Why are you collecting it?”

  “I’m getting some DNA from everybody in our family,” Benjie said, “in case the burglar kidnaps one of us. Then the police can check the clothes of any suspects for hair or blood or skin, and if the DNA matches, they can prove he did it and that will help find the kidnapped person.”

  Using tape, Benjie carefully sealed the envelope marked MOM. Then he returned the hairbrush to its drawer.

  “The burglar isn’t going to kidnap any of us,” Alex said. It made him sad that Benjie was so worried. Although Benjie already knew how to read well, he was only seven years old; he should be outside riding his bike or looking for one of his imaginary flying animals. He shouldn’t be gathering evidence to trap a possible kidnapper.

  “How do you know he won’t kidnap us?” Benjie said. “He’s a bad guy, isn’t he? Bad guys do lots of terrible things.”

  “The burglar only takes items he can sell,” Alex said. “He steals television sets, cameras, jewelry—stuff that he can get rid of in a hurry to raise some cash.” Alex tried to make a joke of the situation. “He won’t kidnap one of us because who would pay the ransom? Mom and Dad are always complaining that they’re short of money.”

  Benjie took an electric razor out of the cupboard. He opened the DAD envelope, held the head of the razor inside, then tapped it against the side of the sink.

  “I’d pay,” Benjie sa
id. “I’d give my allowance and everything in my piggy bank and all my birthday money to get you or Lizzy or Pete or Mom or Dad back.”

  Fondness for his little brother filled Alex. Benjie could be a real pain sometimes, but down deep he was a good kid.

  “Hey, I’d pay for you, too,” Alex said, “but it won’t be necessary.”

  “Do you have a hairbrush?” Benjie asked, after he taped the DAD envelope shut.

  “No, but you can empty my razor.”

  Benjie gave him a disgusted look. “You don’t shave yet.”

  “I was kidding. I don’t have a hairbrush, either. I use a comb.”

  “Would you comb your hair and give me what comes out?”

  Alex sighed. He could tell he’d never convince Benjie that his DNA project was unnecessary. Once his brother got started on a spy activity, there was no stopping him.

  “If you don’t want to comb your hair,” Benjie said, “you could prick your finger and let me have the blood.”

  “No way.” Alex ran a comb through his hair several times. Maybe this is a good thing, he thought. If it eases Benjie’s anxiety to feel prepared for a disaster, then let him go ahead and collect DNA.

  Benjie held the ALEX envelope open while Alex cleaned the comb into it.

  “Thanks,” Benjie said. “If you hadn’t come along, I was going to swipe your toothbrush. There’s DNA on a toothbrush, too.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t do that. I’d hate to have you carrying my old used toothbrush around in your spy kit. It would probably get moldy.”

  Benjie finally smiled. “Now all I have to do is brush Pete,” he said as he put five sealed envelopes into his spy backpack. “I already did Lizzy, but Pete ran away.”

  “Good luck getting him to hold still for the brush. I never can.” Alex didn’t point out that burglars were unlikely to steal Pete under any circumstances. For one thing, they’d never catch him. Pete disliked strangers and usually hid until he was sure of their intentions. Also, Pete was not an expensive purebred; he was a mixed breed of unknown background whom Alex had adopted at the humane society—hardly a target for kidnappers.

  Benjie carried his backpack out of the bathroom.

  “Forget it,” said Pete as Benjie approached him with the cat brush in one hand and an envelope in the other. Pete leaped to the top of the piano.

  “Get down, Pete,” Benjie said. “I need some of your fur for a DNA sample, in case the burglar kidnaps you.”

  “Ha!” said Pete. “Let that burglar lay a hand on me, and the only DNA samples you’ll find will be HIS skin.” He crouched on the back corner of the piano, out of Benjie’s reach.

  Benjie stood on the piano bench. Pete tried to jump down, but Benjie grabbed his collar and hung on with his left hand while he ran the brush across Pete’s back with his right hand.

  Pete growled. He was tempted to give Benjie a scratch on the hand to teach him a lesson, but he restrained himself. Benjie was usually good to Pete, and Pete believed it was wrong to hurt someone except in self-protection. He didn’t like to be brushed, but he knew he would survive it. He held still and let Benjie finish.

  After two swipes with the brush, Benjie let go of Pete’s collar. He carefully removed Pete’s fur from the brush.

  “Thanks, Pete,” he said. “This might save your life someday if the cat burglar comes here.”

  Pete watched as Benjie put the fur in an envelope and taped the envelope shut, then put it in his spy backpack.

  As soon as Benjie left, Pete jumped down from the piano. He licked his shoulder vigorously to remove any trace of the hated cat brush. Then he walked to the kitchen for a second breakfast. Being brushed, even briefly, gave him a craving for crunchies.

  After he ate, Pete went into Alex’s room and read the titles of the books on Alex’s desk. When he found the book he was looking for, he placed his paw on the spine and pulled. He had to tug three times before the fat red dictionary finally tumbled to the floor.

  Pete turned the pages until he came to the word he wanted: “cat.” He had decided to improve his family’s vocabulary. The only words he ever heard them say that began with “cat” were insulting.

  “Cat burglar” was the worst. No real cat would ever break into a house and steal what didn’t belong to him, but the news announcers on TV said cat burglar all the time when they talked about a thief. Even his own people had called the person who had stolen Mary’s computer a cat burglar because the robber had come noiselessly in the night.

  “Catnap” was another overused term. It implied that cats are lazy animals, forever catching a few winks of sleep here and there. While it was true that Pete liked a cozy bed as well as the next creature, no cat has ever been lazy.

  Yesterday Mrs. Kendrill had said “catastrophe” when she told about the problems at her friend’s house. Pete had heard that word before. Whenever something really bad happened, people said it was a catastrophe. Nobody ever talked about a birdastrophe or a cowastrophe or a humanastrophe.

  Why were cats blamed for everything? Humans get themselves into far worse messes than cats do. Cats don’t start wars or drop bombs on one another or hijack airplanes. Cats know it’s important to help other creatures, even when they’re different than we are. Many humans hadn’t learned that yet.

  There must be other, better cat words, Pete thought, and, it was time to find out what they were.

  His eyes scanned the page of the dictionary after the word “cat.” Some words were long and hard to pronounce. Others had such complicated meanings that Pete would never be able to work them into an ordinary conversation.

  He was pleased to find “cat’s eye” and learn that it referred to various gems, but dismayed to discover that “cat-tail” was defined only as a plant. Pete’s own dark tail was both handsome and useful—certainly worth as much of a mention as a plant. Of course, humans had written the dictionary, so it was bound to be slanted in their favor.

  Finally Pete found exactly the sort of word he had hoped for—“catapult: a device for launching an airplane at flying speed, as from an aircraft carrier.” Pete read on. The second definition made the word even better. “To throw or launch as if by a catapult.”

  Pete trotted downstairs and into the family room. His people had finished breakfast, and Mr. and Mrs. Kendrill were watching the news on TV. Alex was clearing the table. Benjie was trying to sneak cookies out of the cookie jar and put them in his backpack without his mother hearing the jar lid clink. Lizzy was asleep.

  Ordinarily Pete would have chosen a time like this to have a cat fit. Today he planned something even better.

  Pete crouched on the floor. His tail flopped back and forth. “Watch this!” he yelled. His hind feet gave a mighty shove and he leaped to the top of the piano. “Did you see me?” Pete said. “I catapulted! I am a catapulting cat!”

  No one paid any attention to him, so Pete jumped down. Next he crouched in front of the entertainment center, which was considerably higher than the piano. The television set was in the middle, with bookshelves on both sides and above it and cupboards below.

  “Look at this!” Pete shrieked, and he flew past the television screen to the top of the bookshelf.

  “Mercy!” Mrs. Kendrill said. “Did you see that? Pete jumped up there as if he’d been shot from a cannon.”

  “I catapulted!” Pete said. “I launched myself at flying speed!”

  “Wow!” said Benjie. “Look what Pete did!”

  “Maybe he has worms,” Mr. Kendrill said. “Is he due for his checkup at the vet?”

  Pete growled. Not the vet! “I won’t go,” he said. “You’ll never catch me.” He catapulted to the floor, raced across the family room, and ran up the stairs. He would practice his catapulting in Alex’s bedroom, where his behavior could not be misinterpreted.

  “You’d better catch him, Alex,” Mrs. Kendrill said, “before he tears the house apart. Perhaps there’s a splinter in his paw.”

  “I don’t think there’s anyt
hing wrong with him,” Alex said. “He’s having a cat fit because he’s bored.”

  “Maybe he saw a flying green panther out the window,” Benjie said, “and he’s trying to warn us.” He went to the window and peered out. “I think I hear one,” he whispered. “It’s probably landing on our roof.”

  Lizzy, awakened by Pete’s hollering, raced into the family room, jumped on the couch, ran across Mr. Kendrill’s lap, slid down his pant leg, and climbed halfway up the drapes. “Mrowr,” she said as she clung to the fabric.

  “Get down, Lizzy,” Mrs. Kendrill said. “No, no.”

  Mr. Kendrill clicked off the television. “This house is a zoo,” he said.

  “The news is too depressing to watch anyway,” Mrs. Kendrill said.

  “Was there another burglary?” Benjie asked.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Mr. Kendrill said. “With all the commotion going on, I couldn’t hear a word.”

  “There weren’t any more burglaries,” Alex said as he started up the stairs to check on Pete.

  “I think Pete’s giving Lizzy lessons in how to have a cat fit,” Benjie said. “This morning they both ran across my bed. That’s what woke me up so early.”

  “I knew it was a mistake to keep that kitten,” Mr. Kendrill said. “All we need is two of them screeching and racing through the house.”

  “We can’t take her back,” Benjie said. “We don’t know where she came from.”

  “We aren’t taking Lizzy anywhere,” Mrs. Kendrill said. She had plucked the kitten from the drapery and was petting her. “She’ll calm down when she gets older.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Mr. Kendrill said. “Pete seems to think the family room is a trampoline.”

  “It’s supposed to rain this afternoon, Benjie,” Mrs. Kendrill said, “so if you want to play outside today, you’d better do it now.”

  “I’m going to my spy hideout,” Benjie said as he collected his binoculars and his backpack.

  “If you see anyone drop off a box,” Mr. Kendrill said, “leave it there.”

  Benjie didn’t see any more boxes. He didn’t find any more kittens. He didn’t even see a flying green panther. Of course, he wasn’t looking for panthers now, he was looking for burglars. He was the only spy on his block; it was up to him to watch for anything suspicious.