A Way to the Park of Gardens (Chapter 1)

Chapter One - Miles

As piercing eyes gazed beyond tree covered hills, a northern flicker, just a speck in the sky, circled above a tall loblolly pine. Ever circling, the brownish black spotted bird darted straight toward a bottom branch assaulting a cone for its cache of seeds. Snapping its neck rapidly, the bird relentlessly pecked at the shell-like cone, spreading the food about the ground, stopping for fear of an enemy, then continuing. For the pair of eyes glued to the action, it became a tiring exorcise to watch.

Miles the cat stretched his front legs, spreading his paws out along the window ledge. The heat emanating from the radiator just below felt good on his body. The house on Greenside Place was old; a cold draft throughout the first floor, but the window ledge facing the south held the sun for most of the morning. And besides, he had the radiator with its pops and hisses of steam.

Miles gave the bird one last regard, yawned, licked his left paw, yawned again and closed his eyes. It was still early, enough time for him to catch a few more minutes of sleep. The man and the woman would not be up for another hour.

Or so he thought.

There was a rustle from upstairs. Miles lifted his head up immediately. A footstep. Another footstep. They were both up. He looked outside the window searching for the suns position. It was behind a grove of gangly pitch pines just beyond the hills. The sunlight was piercing the landscape casting long, thin shadows on the hillside. He spotted a rabbit bound aimlessly searching for a clump of fresh grass or clover. He remembered this antsy rabbit jumping this way and that, not worrying about a dog or a hawk. Normally he’d be amused to see what might happen if someday the rabbit’s ears would betray. But not this day.

Why were the man and the woman up so early?

“Humpf," he thought, turning away as the rabbit was scooped up and taken away by an eagle.

It would mean an early breakfast for the reigning king feline of the house. It’s not like he’d have to push his nose through damp soil to find a meal, no, not him. The man and the woman provide everything. Food and shelter were his reward for an occasional purr and a rub on their legs or sometimes their faces and if he was in good spirits, a lick. Being a cat of young age, Miles was over a year, but not more than two. He didn't know. Cats cared less of age, as humans care so. He was born in a large litter of seven. Being a Siamese of noted pedigree, Miles stood out among his brothers and sisters. His extremities were dark brown to the point of almost being black. His body was of the lightest tan. Slick, long and beautiful to a fault, his owners fell in complete love at first sight. And for one so young, he was aware and flaunted it.

The footsteps had a sound of heaviness to them.

He wondered why they were not calling him. They usually made the sound all humans thought would bring their cats instantly to their side. Psss, psss, psss, the universal cat call. The sound Miles would turn a head to and walk the other way, over and over, to their vexation. And then, without their knowing, jump into their lap, as they were busy doing what humans do when they sit.

The footsteps stopped – both of them.

He looked outside for the bird. It’s battle with the cone strewn underneath the loblolly. Had he won his breakfast? He scanned for the rabbit. It too was no where. Did it find it’s morning meal? Miles looked towards the ceiling. The footsteps returned. But this time towards the room with the shiny metal and the spraying water. He heard the tapping sound as the hot water pipes heralded their usage. He heard them talk, grumbles and moaning. Cats don’t understand human talk, but they feel the inflections in their voice, the volume they project and their facial expressions.

“Okay, that’s normal,” he thought. They wash themselves at this time, but again, why haven’t they called him?

The radiator underneath popped and hissed its morning song. Miles could stay at this spot all day for love of its warmth, but his belly felt empty and he had to know why his humans were acting not at all like they normally do. He licked his front paw, went over his head grooming himself then finally rose from his perch. Stretching his body to work out any kinks, he leapt from the sill landing as quiet as a feather onto the hardwood floor. He smelled soap on the air, sneezed, licked his nose and started towards the stairs.

The floor was cold. It did not normally bother him, but this morning he was sensitive. Things seemed out of the ordinary. As he walked across the honey-colored pine floor going under the dining table in the adjoining room, he came upon something large and square sitting underneath. He sniffed it. He put his paws upon it to scratch. He liked cardboard boxes. Oh, there were scratching posts about the house, but this seemed fine enough. He grabbed a hold of the top which was about two feet tall and began to pull. It did not give like other boxes with shreds of cardboard strewn about like confetti after he was through. His claws were caught in something that had the feeling of his humans clothing. He tried to extract his claws from the clothe-like material, only dragging it. He tried again. This time his left paw tore from the thing pulling fine brown threads. He wanted to bite them, but he was determined to free his right paw. By now, the suitcase was dragged from under the table out into the middle of the living room. He was getting tired and he was famished.

The sound of water was over. The footsteps returned. Their voices were low, but close to the head of the stairs. Miles wailed.

“What’s wrong with Miles?” said the woman as she went down the stairs. “It sounds like he’s hurt.”

“He’s probably hungry,” answered the man as he followed his wife to the first floor caterwauling. “I’m surprised he’s even awake.”

They reached Miles, coming upon the stuck cat with their hands over their mouths.

“Ha, ha, ha, will you look at that,” said the man. “Is that the funniest thing you ever saw or what?” He bent down, turned his head so that it was level with the cat’s and howled in laughter. “Hon, grab the phone....” he sputtered between breaths, “You have to take his picture.”

“Oh, quit it. Don’t you see he’s not happy.” The woman went on her knees, pulled her large pajama shirt down over her exposed legs and reached out. Miles backed away hissing, angry for being stuck and hungrier then three full grown mountain lions. Cats generally escape worse predicaments, but this box had him stumped.

“Oh, ho, hooo...” said the man. “He’s not one to be rescued by a woman, hmm.” Sliding over, the man calmly pushed aside his wife. “Let me handle it.”

“Okay,” she said knowing what the outcome was going to be.

The man crawled next to Miles and reached for the paw still caught on the suitcase. As fast as a snapped back tree branch, Miles racked the man’s arm with it’s free paw tearing through his sleeve like a new razor blade on a sheet of paper.

“Yow!” shouted the man. “What the hell! I was trying to help you, you little bastard.” The man pulled his torn sleeve and revealed the damage. “Why you little...” he went to give Miles a smack when, with a tug leftward, Mile’s right paw came from the suitcase pulling it into his own face forcing him to let out a hiss. He swiped at it in retaliation and with amazing agility leaped over the obstacle like a hurdler and made a quick exit out of the room.

The man and the woman inspected the torn travel case as Miles, with his pride wounded, hid under the kitchen table. As the man and the woman argued about who was to blame for this crazy start of a morning, Miles began licking at his front paws. Finding threads from the suitcase wound tight around a claw on his left paw, he pulled at them with his teeth. Frustration set in as one of the threads wrapped around a front canine and dangled from his mouth. He hunched down, placing his right paw on the thread and yanked his head back. It came from his mouth dripping in saliva. Now for thread number two. This one had so wrapped itself around his front fang it started his gum to bleed. He never tasted blood before and began to gag. Normally, blood to a cat is something that, if he were feral, would be routine business. Feral or basic outdoor cats catch mice, baby birds and sometimes, if they’re lucky, a squirrel. Gnashing down on blood vessels of any wild animals and getting excited over the taste was completely natural. But Miles was a pampered little beast. It would be like drinking a flat glass of warm beer for someone who is used to drinking the most expensive champagne. On top of that, gagging is a normal practice for cats. Hairballs, grass and the occasional random spit wad cats would throw back up. Good for the digestion. All of this was new to Miles, other then the hairballs. He did not like this at all.

“Where did he go?” asked the man from the living room bending down to see under a pastel colored armchair. “I don’t get what’s bothering him.”

“Maybe he senses,” answered the woman. “You know how cats are, sixth sense and all.”

“What? That he knows what’s going to happen with the suitcase?” said the man back, looking behind a long blue sofa. “Pss, psss, psssss...besides,” he continued, “We haven’t called her yet.” He sat on the soft and comfortable sofa pulling up his legs from the floor sitting Indian style. “Come here Miles!” he shouted to the ceiling, “Aren’t you hungry?”

Miles recognized the word ‘hungry’. There are some words he understood, especially if they were at the beginning or end of a sentence. The emphasis on ‘hungry’ stood out and he doubled his attack on the thread. To heck with the blood, food was only moments away. He left the thread dangling from his mouth and called to his humans.

Merrroooow! Merrroooow! Merrroooow!

It was his usual moan, sad and throaty.

“Aw’, said the woman, ready to melt. “He’s in the kitchen.” She sprung from the floor and raced to find him sitting in the center of the large and bright kitchen. He moaned his displeasure as he sauntered over towards the cabinet housing his tasty morsels of spongy meat-like food. He put his paw to the sandy colored cabinet door turning his head towards the woman. She saw the thread trailing from the area under the kitchen table to his mouth and began to roar in laughter, tears forming around the edges of her dark brown eyes.

“Patrick!” she barely got out between fits of belly laughs. "Come here in the kitchen!"

The man bounded into the kitchen and had to skid to a stop. Here was his cat sitting in the middle of the kitchen with a thread as long as a fishing line looking up at him with the most pathetic look any cat has any right to have and his wife doubling over in pain from laughing. He couldn't help but join in his wife’s cachination.

Miles or cats in general don’t understand laughter. Happiness they can gauge. He may get extra food doing something special, like stepping on a spider or catching a fly. Sometimes, by just chasing his tail for a minute or three would get him a piece of fresh tuna. Miles never did these acts for the sole purpose of receiving an out of schedule meal or treat. Oh, he may get a pat on the rump, not exactly something he liked, or he would get a rubdown by the woman which he enjoyed immensely. But if he saw an expression on their face that had something to do with lips moving northward slightly and eyes squinting, he was sure something pleasurable was going to happen next. A thread in the mouth was a new one.

For all the rest of the morning, the man and the woman paid more attention to him then any other time since he was brought into this home. He was fed more food then he’d ever seen and was feeling extremely lazy. Flies, spiders or any other crawling thing would be ignored. He had naps to do. On top of the excess of food; toys of all types were bought for his use: a fake mouse, a rubber spider, a furry ball, and a sock filled with something that caused him to act spastically for a few minutes or twenty. It was common for them to give him a few minutes of their time for play. He enjoyed these moments, occasionally. There was the incident with the bowl of milk. Was it his fault the man felt like chasing him about, swiping his tail? He licked up the spill. Was it his fault when the woman left out a fresh basket of warm clothes to cover in his fur? He licked himself clean beforehand. Then there’s the young boy who comes over once in a while. Was it his fault he jumped on his head with claws extended? He has no control when the sock filled with that stuff is rubbed about some little boy’s hair.

But this day, Mile’s instincts were screaming red alert. There was an air of wrongness in the house. Besides the brown cloth-like box under the table, everything was in its place. His food bowl was next to the doorway leading to the dark place underneath the house, which led to his litter box, which led to his cache of play toys, which led to his hiding place in case the young boy came calling. He double-checked everything. Yes, everything was in place.

But...

As Miles went to check upstairs, he noticed a piece of paper sitting on the top step. He gave it a whiff. It had the usual paper smell and the ink was dry. He looked over the human’s markings. It had the lines going this way and that. Of course he can not read, but the lines did not have the same curves to it as other papers he had seen. He liked going into the room with the machine that the man and the woman liked to sit in front of. He enjoyed sitting on their laps as they struck fingers onto square buttons pressing them rapidly. The flashes and sounds were different from the other square shaped machine that hung on the wall. That one was loud and the man usually yelled towards it.

And then it dawned on him.

When the sun comes up and he sits on his favorite sill, the man would come down the stairs, eat some food, look over a large paper, drink from a cup, then leave. The woman would practically do the same thing, except the woman would look for him and give him a scratch under the chin before she’d leave. By the time the sun reached around the house to the front window, the man and the woman would be home. It was a ritual he became accustom to. It was normal for the man and the woman not to follow this ritual for two suns around the house, (Sunday and Saturday); it was part of the ritual. But, not knowing the number system, another sun around the house or three days not following the ritual, had occurred. This bothered Miles.

It was Monday of the last week of April.

Miles knew the man and the woman were home three days/suns around the house in a row. Was this the reason for his instincts red lining? The constant attention. Was that the reason? The extra food, toys...the brown box.

Miles looked over the paper again. He sniffed it one more time. He found a new scent. It was sweet, yet there was something else. Was it an animal smell? He knew by looking out the window there were animals not like himself; free roaming animals like rabbits, squirrels and birds. He did not know their basic classifications, but all animals are born with the sense of the Kingdom Animalia or animal world. So, this scent on the paper was not human. Did he get a whiff of this in the air earlier? He smelled it again. Then something happened. The hairs on his back starting between his haunches to the tip of his tail stood straight as if his body was being separated equally down the middle. His body arched. And he wanted to hiss.

“What is this feeling?” he thought.

His curiousness heightened. He walked past the paper heading down the narrow hallway. With his hairs still on end his claws would not withdraw, they clicked and scrapped on the old floorboards as he headed into the first room. Set up as an office, he looked at the empty chair in front of the desk. It was a small room that could barely be made into a bedroom if needed. A bookcase, a desk with a computer, some pictures of colorful beach scenes and a closet was crammed into the room. He walked inside and jumped onto the chair. He put his paws on the small squares of the keyboard and taped like his humans. The screen was dead and black. Cats don’t show emotions, but if they did, Miles would have shown a dejected frown. He pulled his paws from the small squares board and hopped off the chair. He walked out of the room and went onward to the next. It was the man’s and the woman’s room.

The largest room on the second floor, the bedroom was as long as it was wide. The bed with a beautiful and delicate white canopy sat at the far end. A tall dark cherry wood dresser was against the opposite wall. Numerous picture frames sat atop the dresser, a few of them broken courtesy of Mile’s frequent romps. Lower dressers were situated along side the massive bed with the man’s and the woman’s jewelry, hair products and other related items. In one corner was an old Quaker’s chair, a table and plain lamp. The other corner had a pile of laundry. Two large windows lit the entire room through shear drapes bathing the room with a daytime glow. Miles liked this room. It had many scents that interested him and there were things to play with.

He immediately noticed something in this room out of the ordinary. Near the pile of laundry were two more of those brown boxes, but this time they were bulkier and bigger. He walked up to the boxes and gave them a sniff. It was the same aroma as the one downstairs under the table. He put his paw to the one closest. It felt like the other, that cloth feeling. He retracted his claws. He did not want to go through that ordeal again.

Okay, it had something to do with these brown cloth boxes. He knew that now. And the paper at the head of the stairs was also involved. He was positive.

So what did it all mean?

Cats are not detectives, for the simple fact that they don’t know what mysteries are, but curiousness, ahhh...the bane of every cat and sometimes to their detriment. Miles had curiousness to spare. Being an indoor cat, he was curious of the outside world, but when the man and the woman brought him to their home they made a vow to never allow him out. They did not want outside problems coming inside was the reason when asked. Sure, there were times when the front door was left open and Miles had every opportunity to escape, but he held. He would go to the very edge, sniff the air, catch of whiff of something alien then tear to behind the sofa, his legs shaking ready to leave his mark on the area rug covering the floor. Scaredy cats had nothing on him.

So, although the brown cloth-like boxes and the paper with the odd scents were mysteries to solve, Miles just wanted to know what it was going to mean to him. Would it bring more play toys? He would not mind another one of those funny smelling sock, maybe shaped like a mouse. Would he be fed like a king? The fresh food was heaven. Would he get a rubdown? He especially liked around his chin and behind his ears. And, most importantly, would he get a moments peace when that boy came to visit? He had run out of places to hide.

He left the bedroom and headed across the hall to the bathroom but then thought otherwise; the bathroom, at times, overwhelmed his acute sense of smell. He sat in the center of the hall, sounded a meow to see if the man or the woman was around, then, for the first time in his short existence jumped straight up into the air by the loud ringing of a phone.

Little did he know how much his life was about to change.