Cat Politics

“-and stay out of the cat politics!”, the lady with brown and grey hair pulled back into a tight twisted bun was saying as I walked in the store. The younger teenage girl with sparkling brown eyes and dimples that belied mischief nodded twice in a manner that suggested she’d do anything but stay out.
Both looked up at me with watchful gazes that showed they wondered how much I’d heard. One with blush-stained cheeks and the elder with a narrowed gaze over her steel grey eyes.
“Cat politics?”, I asked baffled.
“You know teenage girls and all their high school drama; I was warning her to stay out of all of it and get good grades.” A half shrug of her black sweater clad shoulder and then she continued, “What can I do for ya today, honey?”
“I was looking for Spanish Moss and hopefully fresh cinnamon sticks to make a wreath.”
“Well, now lovey, you’d be in luck, we only got some moss this morning. Let me go in the back to get a bag for you.” She ducked behind the grey and white striped curtain in the doorway.
I looked around the store. It was not a chain store; it was most definitely a unique to New Orleans sort of establishment. A few glances at the candles promising money, love, sex, and fame assured me I’d stepped into one of the many stores that catered to the Pagan and tourist communities. I normally avoided the French Quarter like the plague, but I really needed the Spanish Moss for the wreath. It was my sister’s only request of me to make her every year for her birthday which was in three days. I’d left it rather late. I’d be up half the night to get it finished in time to mail off in the morning via FedEx to her in San Diego.
A well-made black cat statue about six inches high caught my attention. It had the most life-like eyes. The patch of white on the right forepaw was executed with precision. The fur looked soft, I reached over and snapped my hand back when a slight jolt of static hit me. The statue was only ceramic, which piqued my curiosity as to where the static shock came from.
I picked it up to see if it had one of those party jokes on it. Nothing out of the ordinary. It had some weight to it. Much more weight than you’d expect from a small statue. The statue was signed, “Bast’s Daughter”. I noticed it had no price. I carried it to the counter while waiting for my moss.
The elder lady appeared on silent feet and took the cat, frowned at me, and then casually said, “It’s not for sale.”
“Oh. I really liked it."
"It's not even supposed to be out here. I guess Layla forgot to put it back."
"Its ok, how much do I owe you for the Moss?"
"Eight nineteen."
I patted the kitty statue once more for luck. I swear it moved toward me.
I dug in my pocket for my debit card and passed it over to the lady. She swiped it and handed it back with my receipt and bag of moss. I tucked the moss into my backpack and made sure all was zipped tight.
I walked the four blocks back to my car and chucked my backpack into the backseat. I heard a thunk as it hit the seatbelt clasp. What? I had nothing in the pack that should have clinked or thunked.
I snagged the backpack out and noticed it felt weighted. I unzipped and looked in the bag to see the jeweled eyes of a familiar small cat statue gazing back.