The Death & Life of an American Dog Page 9

  Levi and Yoda waited by the Men’s Wearhouse store while the two cats moved into the central hub. Only dim security lights shone in the closed stores but the dogs saw cats slinking and leaping in the murkiness, bounding in the dim starlight that filtered down through the split roof. They walked over benches, sat atop closed kiosks that sold phone covers, cheap bling and baseball caps during the day, and raced along the walkways of the multiple levels facing the open courtyard. They ran singly and in clowders of a dozen or more.

  “I smell trouble,” Yoda whispered. “It smells like cats, but it also smells like trouble. I see some gangs we’ve tangled with.”

  “And I see lots of cats we’ve helped,” Levi said. “As well as many cats who have helped us. Besides, not all clowders run to gangsterism, just as not all packs do.”

  Yoda nodded, but he seemed unconvinced.

  Smokey was one of the largest cats in the shopping center, and one of the most eccentrically colored, but that was not why the cats gave him a wide berth as he approached or gathered around after he passed. He was recognized as the best brawler in Chula Vista, not a cat with whom to start anything, but he was also something of a mystery cat, a reputation enhanced by his odd accent and obscure origins. The most any cat outside his inner circle of friends, and that was a very small circle, knew about him was that he was a ratter on many ships in myriad ports before the capricious tides of chance and circumstance brought him to Chula Vista. None of the other cats challenged him, but they were all curious as to why he was taking such an active part in the night’s activities. Normally, during the few times he showed up, it was as an observer, a protector of his ward, Groucho. That he was moving amongst them, causing them to follow patterns that brought them together, was cause for wonder. He leaped to the top of a platform and waited.

  “Greetings to all in the strength of Primal Cat and the peace of Bast,” Smokey said when every glittering eye was upon him.

  The gathered cats returned the ancient greeting according to the depths of their beliefs, or held a sullen silence.

  “I am Smokey,” he said. “Most of you know who I am.”

  Almost all the cats nodded in assent.

  “Yeah, the weird cat who hangs around with dogs,” called a voice in the crowd.

  As Smokey serenely turned his head toward the sound, all the cats who had not spoken quickly distanced themselves from the cat who had. Before he realized what was going on, an orange tom of mixed-breed found himself alone within a circle of cats who wanted nothing to do with him.

  Gazing languidly at Smokey, the tom grinned with a smugness born of a confidence grounded in anonymity. The grin faded as the realization of his sudden isolation dawned on him. His eyes went wide with alarm. He was almost as big as Smokey, but his size came from too many hours lying on silk cushions and a food bowl that never went empty; whereas Smokey was sinew and bone, the tom who had made the cat-call was flab and fur. He might have fled into the supposed haven of night but he was transfixed by Smokey’s gaze, held by bright green eyes that swirled with flecks of gold.

  Smokey leaped down from the stage and approached the tom who had spoken out of clowder. The tom began to quake as Smokey drew near.

  “You were saying?” Smokey purred.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I heard you say something,” Smokey countered softly. “Seems everyone else heard you say something too.”

  “I…uh…didn’t mean anything by it,” the fat tom stammered. “I was just joking around.”

  “I like jokes and funny stories,” Smokey replied. “I like telling them, and I like hearing them. Especially from hobo cats, they have the best stories, don’t you think?”

  “Uh…yes, I…I guess so.”

  “But jokes and stories should be funny,” Smokey pointed out. “Or at least amusing in some way. Was your ‘jokey’ comment in any way funny?” Smokey moved so close to the terrified tom that their muzzles nearly touched. “Even remotely amusing?”

  “I…I…don’t…” The cat’s throat was so constricted with fear he could not force anymore words out of his mouth.

  “On the other paw, I’m glad you brought up the matter of the dogs,” Smokey said, abruptly turning and leaping atop the platform.

  The orange tom was so surprised and relieved by Smokey’s sudden departure he nearly flopped onto his side. He felt faint, and the looks from the other cats told him it was past time to slink back home, lie down on his silk cushion, and thank Bast his smart mouth had not got him maimed, or worse.

  “It is true I work with the Three Dog Detective Agency, help them with cases when I can,” Smokey continued as calmly as if the interlude with the orange tom had never happened. “Some of you have also helped the dogs, and quite a few more of you, I think, have either been helped by them or know some cat who has.”

  There was a general nodding of heads and purrs of assent.

  “By their actions, these three dogs have set themselves apart from their species,” Smokey continued. “By any standard you want to apply to them, canine or feline, they are very much animals of character, and all our lives are better for them being here.”

  Again, there was no dissent, but Smokey saw that a restlessness was beginning to spread among the cats. The solitaries and the cats who were there as part of a clowder were beginning to wonder what point he was trying to make, but the gangs, especially outlaws like the Claw Masters and Chop Ears, were already starting to swarm, usually a prelude to either a rumble or a leapaway.

  “A situation has arisen, a dog lost somewhere in the shopping center, hurt and afraid and needing to be found,” Smokey said.

  The cats looked at each other in alarm, and even the gang members ceased their swarming and centered their attention on Smokey. For most of the cats, dogs were to be ignored at best, or at least tolerated as long as they knew their place. But an injured and fearful dog was bad news for everyone since it might lash out at anyone, even a dog or cat trying to help. That such a dog might be in what they considered a safe haven was alarming indeed.

  Smokey turned his head slightly.

  Before the cats knew what was happening, Levi emerged from the shadows, bounded across the tiled floor, and leaped atop the platform with an adroitness that even the nimblest of cats had to admire. As Levi attained the platform, Smokey arched into the night and came down not far from Yoda. So fixated were the cats on Levi that it seemed to almost all of them that Smokey simply vanished, adding a new facet to his mystery.

  “My name is Levi, and we’re looking for a German Shepherd named Baron,” he explained. “He is hurt, afraid and has amnesia. He’s a military dog, a hero. Will any of you help us?”

  Still stunned by the appearance of a dog in their midst, and one so old as to be considered ancient, it took a few moments for Levi’s plea to sink in. Most of the gangs immediately took flight, for they wanted no part of the Three Dog Detective Agency, having all, at one time or another, received comeuppance from the dogs for their depredations against their fellow cats. If anything, seeing the gangs run for their lives enhanced Levi in the eyes of the remaining cats, for few of them had escaped bullying or demands for tribute.

  “What do you want us to do?” ask Chloe, a white Persian who headed a clowder of about a dozen housecats.

  Others stepped forward and echoed the question.

  Levi breathed a small sigh or relief. He described Baron and related some of the events leading them to believe the Army dog had taken refuge somewhere in the shopping center, though he kept many facts to himself. He also warned them of the foreign dog who appeared to be stalking Baron.

  “We need all of you to fan out through the complex,” Levi said. “Pay attention to all nooks and crannies, any crawlspace or hidey hole, but if you find Baron, return here and tell Smokey.”

  As if by magic, Smokey was again on the platform with Levi.

  “And Yoda,” Levi added.

  Yoda emerged from the shadows and stood at the base of th
e platform. He thought there was a good chance he could jump to the top of the platform, but he also thought there was a slight chance he might not make it, and there was no way he was going to let any of these cats see him fall on his keister.

  “Wow, dig that wild hair!”

  “Did he stick his paw in an electric socket?”

  “Is that a dog or a dust-mop?”

  Yoda growled.

  “That’s enough of that,” Levi warned. “Those of you who want to help us, and earn the Three Dog Detective Agency’s gratitude, fan out; those of you who don’t, just stay out of the way.”

  Most of the cats, about seventy or so, set out on the search for Baron, knowing that it was better to be in the dogs’ good graces than out. There was, of course, no pattern to the search, no system, just cats running every which way, checking everywhere they could, crossing and re-crossing their own paths, but Levi was content to let the cats search according to their own inquisitive natures; besides, Levi was old in the ways of the world and knew the folly of trying to herd cats.

  Yoda started off into the shadowy shopping center.

  “Where are you going?” Levi asked.

  “To find Baron,” the Pomeranian replied. “I can’t just sit here and wait for cats to report. I have to try to find him.”

  “The cats will do better on their own,” Levi replied. “Besides, I don’t think all the gangs are gone. The Claw Masters, especially, have a grudge against us, and they would like nothing better than to get one of us alone. And don’t forget the Chop Ears.”

  “I owe it to Baron,” Yoda explained. “It’s my fault he is lost now, that we have to depend on these cats to do our job for us.”

  “Nonsense, Yoda,” Levi said. “If not for you, Baron would be beyond our help. As for asking the cats for help, no animal is truly an island. We all need each other.”

  “If I had kept my wits about me when that car crashed into the alley, I could have kept Baron calm,” Yoda said. “Brought him back to the house where he would have been safe, where we could have done a proper job of finding out who he is, what happened to him, get him back to a normal life.”

  “And at the same time lead the Gull Dong to us, providing the others with a sure location for Baron,” Levi pointed out. “We do not always understand the twists and turns of fate, the reasons why we are taken off one path and put on another, but we do have to believe that as long as we are doing the right thing whatever happens is part of what is supposed to happen.”

  Yoda sighed and shook his head.

  Levi gazed into the sad eyes of his friend and understood this was no time for platitudes and philosophy. Nothing was ever going to convince Yoda he had done anything but fail Baron at his worst moment in the alley.

  “Be careful,” Levi warned. “And good luck.”

  As Yoda headed into the depths of the shopping center, Levi glanced at Smokey, and Smokey looked to Groucho. In a flash, the sleek Calico followed after the worried Pomeranian. Levi nodded his thanks, then set off on his own search.

  At first Yoda heard nothing but the soft patter of cats’ feet all around him, on every level, echoing through all the corridors and reflecting off the windows of closed shops. He stood still for a long moment, sifting through all the sonic babble, tuning out sounds interfering with his search. He knew other animals, even his friends, teased him about his ears, huge even for a Pomeranian his size, but they were his greatest gift. And curse…he heard so many things.

  With eyes half closed, Yoda swept his head one way, then the other, listening for sounds that did not belong. Suddenly, he tensed. He heard the beating of a heart, heard the escape of quiet breaths from an animal very close to him, not moving…waiting. Ready for the worst, he swung about, eyes wide and sharp choppers bared.

  “Great Bast!” the stalker swore, leaping back.

  “Groucho!” Yoda gasped. “You scared me.”

  “That’s nothing compared to what you did to me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Levi and Smokey told me to…”

  “Never mind,” Yoda said. “I get the picture.”

  “They thought you needed someone…”

  “Yeah,” Yoda moaned. “Send someone to watch over the Pom. He might get himself in trouble.”

  It’s not like that hasn’t happened before, Groucho thought, but he wisely kept his musing to himself.

  “Someone to baby-sit the hairy little guy who just can’t take care of himself,” Yoda continued. “Well, I’ll tell you, I may not be as big as Sunny or have the mad fighting skills Levi learned in you-know-where, but I’m plenty able to…”

  “They wanted someone at your back you can trust,” Groucho snapped. “I’m even smaller than you, and all I know about fighting is what I’ve picked up from Smokey, but I am trustworthy.”

  Yoda let his gaze dip in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, I know how it is,” Groucho said. “You do what you do; I’m on your six.”

  Yoda nodded, appreciating both the sentiment and the reference to one of his top five favorite shows. He turned away from Groucho and once more went through the process of sifting through the sonic clutter. He tuned out the patter of the cats, which, in the soundscape forming around him, sounded like early morning fog, and the sound of their massed breaths, like a night wind off the sea. Eliminating all the sounds born of cats and weather and the center’s machines, Yoda was left with very few sounds, which he began to track.

  To Groucho, it seemed as if Yoda had fallen asleep on his feet, so when the Pomeranian started forward it was almost like he was following a somnambulist. He had no idea whatsoever what Yoda heard—nor did he think he wanted to—but he followed Yoda as he walked, keeping a distance behind him. Yoda drifted one way, then another, like a ship without a rudder from Groucho’s point of view, but his track did not seem entirely at random.

  Groucho knew they were being observed from the upper levels of the shopping center by at least one of the gangs, but he could not tell whether it was the Claw Masters or the Chop Ears or one of the other gangs of felonious felines which had tangled with the Three Dog Detective Agency in the past. Any one of them would love to get Yoda alone. But if something did happen, Groucho though, what could he do?

  Yoda was vaguely aware of the watchers, the cats who were not assisting in the search for Baron, but he ignored them. His only goal was to find Baron and anything that did not contribute to reaching that goal was a distraction to be ignored. Even Groucho, as near as he was, vanished from Yoda’s senses.

  Yoda passed the trendy shops that sold ragged jeans, torn tees, and outlandish shoes, ignored the eerie faceless mannequins frozen behind darkened windows. Following an extremely faint sound that seemed apart from the worlds of either cats or companions, Yoda traced the curve of the inner structure, heading deeper into the dark, toward the huge Macy’s building at the center.

  Along the outside of the department store, its once-monolithic base had been chopped and partitioned to create specialty stores, some not much bigger than closets, that sold everything from snacks and e-vaps to shades and knock-off imports. During their attempt to squeeze a dollar out of every possible square-inch, however, the companions had also created a myriad of alcoves, crawlspaces and alleys, some of which were no more than a few inches wide, almost all of them hidden behind vending machines, wheeled carts and sign boards. It was to one of these hiding places, behind a machine that dispensed overpriced water bottles, that Yoda was drawn.

  Vague security lights shone within the department store, but the pale illumination did not even reach the locked glass doors. The only source of light this deep in the shopping center was the single tube at the rear of the vending machine, and by the time it had filtered through the bottles of water the area around the gadget seemed more like a deep sea grotto than anyplace on land.

  The machine hummed, the light-tube buzzed softly, but Yoda let those sounds fade to silence in his mind, concentrated on th
e soft whisper that could have been a zephyr over a lake except for its rhythmic nature.

  Yoda passed out of the aquatic light cast by the machine, came around the side, approached the blackness behind it. Groucho knew Yoda was there, but the Pom was lost even to the cat’s night vision.

  Yoda could see nothing, could smell nothing but the sharp oil scent of the machine’s inner workings, but he knew the deep narrow hole behind it was occupied.

  “Baron,” Yoda whispered.

  There was no answer to his call, but Yoda detected a change in the air movement he had heard and followed, a slight quickening, as if someone were suddenly wary, yet still determined to remain in hiding from enemies in the night.

  “It’s me, Yoda,” he said. He stayed clear of the opening. He did not want to panic the big dog, to cause him to attack or flee or hurt himself in the narrow confines. “Do you remember me from in the alley today? My name is Yoda. Remember? I wanted to help you.”

  There was still no answer from the creature hiding in the space behind the machine, but the fact that it had not rushed forward or scurried away was encouraging. Yoda had no way of knowing of a certainty that he had tracked down Baron and not an opossum or a large rat, but his faith gave him a hope unwarranted by facts.

  “You really gave me quite a turn, running off like that after the car crashed in the alley,” Yoda continued in a soothing tone. “I was really worried about you, wondered where you went.”

  Yoda scratched the tiles with his claws, surreptitiously calling Groucho to his side.

  “Go find Levi,” the Pomeranian whispered. “Bring him back.”

  “I can’t leave you here alone.”

  “Get Levi,” Yoda said. “Our only hope of controlling Baron in his present state is to have an alpha present.”