Darby's Pond

Weathered shards of broken glass framed the dark, still waters of Darby’s Pond in the hazy twilight. As Socrates gazed wistfully out the window, he recalled happier times, when he had frolicked in the yard warmed by summer sunshine, chasing chipmunks and the red-breasted robins who competed with old man Darby for the early morning worms. The old man was an avid fisherman who spent many hours sitting in an old lawn chair with tattered blue plastic webbing on the bank beside the pond with his cane pole, trying to entice the great grandpappy of all rainbow trout to take his lure.

Since the death of his beloved wife Amelia, Jarvis Darby had become a bona fide recluse, venturing into the village only to procure the most necessary provisions. In addition to fishing, he cultivated plump red tomatoes, green snap beans, sweet corn, and collard greens in his fertile vegetable garden.

When Jarvis returned to the house from his day of gardening and fishing, Socrates always greeted him with a cheerful, “meow, meow, meow.”

Jarvis responded, “What’s up, Buddy? You got everything under control in here?”

“Meow.”

“That’s good.”

Socrates went to the cupboard under the kitchen counter, looked back at the old man, and let out a firm, “Mrreow!”

“Oh, right. It’s time for dinner, isn’t it?”

“Meow.”

“Okay, let’s get you something to eat.”

As the old man retrieved the bag of cat food from the cupboard, Socrates kept nudging him with his forehead as if to say, “Get the lead out, old man. I’m hungry.”

After dinner, Jarvis relaxed with a good book in his recliner, and Socrates settled on his lap so the old man could stroke his coat of sleek black fur.

*********

In the village, Jarvis Darby had gained a reputation as a niggardly tightwad. Rumors ran rampant about great sums of money he had attained through a successful writing career and now had stashed somewhere on his property.

One day, a group of transient bikers, who had stopped at a tavern on their way through town, happened to overhear some of the scuttlebutt about the old man’s hidden treasure. This quickly sparked their interest. Keeping their ears discreetly tuned to the local chatter, they managed to learn the whereabouts of old man Darby’s abode and decided to pay him a visit.

Jarvis was sitting in his chair by the pond, quietly contemplating the prospects of catching his perennial adversary, when the herd of Harleys roared up the road that led to his home. Going to see what all the commotion was about, he encountered a surly group of burly men wearing scruffy black leather jackets, tattered denim trousers, and dingy dingo boots coming around the corner of the house.

The leader confronted him. “Where you hiding all that loot, old man?”

“What loot? There’s no loot here.”

“That’s not what the folks in town are saying. Give it up.”

Jarvis reached for some rocks lying in the yard as he shouted, “I told you. There’s no money here. Get off my property. Now!” He flung the rocks, which the bikers easily dodged, letting the stones sail futilely over their heads and into the side of the house, breaking several windows in the process.

The bikers promptly accosted the old man with tire irons, chains, and knives, beat him to death, and threw his lifeless body into the pond. Then they ransacked the house in search of the hidden treasure. What they found was hardly enough to buy another round of drinks. They took whatever they could carry and rumbled away on their Harleys, leaving Socrates alone in the plundered house.

He wandered through the darkness within the house, meowing for the old man. Then he went out through a door left open by the bikers. He couldn’t see his master anywhere around the grounds, but he could hear the old man’s voice whispering comfort to him in the soft summer breeze and feel his master’s touch caressing his silky fur coat. Eventually, hunger triggered his survival instincts and turned the playful pursuit of critters in the yard into a serious hunt for prey.

One day in October, Halloween to be exact, a stranger approached the front door. Socrates arched his back and confronted the intruder with a loud “MRREOOW!” Dissuaded for the time being, the man explored the grounds, calling out for the proprietor. As he approached the pond behind the house, he saw a shocking spectacle and quickly retreated.

Soon, a procession of various vehicles with flashing lights came rolling up the road. A group of people in diverse uniforms proceeded around to the pond. Using their rescue equipment, they fished the bloated, blackened carcass of Jarvis Darby from the pond, zipped it into a black body bag, and toted it to one of the vans.

One of the rescue workers went into the house to survey the situation and found Socrates amid the rubble. He said, “C’mon, boy. We’ll get you to a shelter,” as he reached down to retrieve the abandoned animal. Socrates turned into a hissing ball of black fur, clamped his fangs into the man’s hand, and started ripping flesh with ferocious claws. The bloodied man escaped the cat’s clutches and ran out to get more help. After getting his wounds bandaged, he returned with four more workers carrying a net and some blankets. They subdued Socrates and took him to the animal shelter, where he was put in a cage.

Next morning, a shelter attendant bringing a bowl of cat food for the new resident found nothing but a stiff black carcass in the cage, as Socrates had gone to rejoin the old man in the house overlooking Darby’s Pond.