Cat Shout for Joy by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

spirit. A kitten who is heir to past lives more amazing than you can imagine.
    â€œYour own child, your bright calico baby. Her past lives are set into humankind’s history, her portraits grace man’s ancient art from centuries gone. You will find the antique paintings, the tapestries, the illuminated manuscripts, you will find her image if only you will look.”
    He glanced at Joe. “There is no other cat marked like her. She has moved through time with an elegance unique even to our own speaking race, this kitten who will be your child.”
    Dulcie’s heart beat fast; she burned to search among the library’s old volumes, to find their own calico child. Yet she was shaken with fear for the treasure she carried, fear at bringing such a one into the world, fearful of the challenge, the responsibility for that precious creature.
    â€œCourtney,” Misto said. “Courtney is her true name. She has carried it through much of time, she would welcome owning that name again.” The old cat laughed. “A name bigger, right now, than the little mite herself. But she will grow big and strong, this kitten who is destined to a life of honor.”
    â€œ What honor?” Dulcie whispered, even more stricken. “Oh, my. What destiny?”
    But the old tom had dozed off again. As if, when he thought he had said enough, he escaped slyly into an invalid’s sleep. Softly Dulcie moved to the foot of the bed beside Joe, where the gray tomcat sat rigid and uneasy; and strange imaginings filled them both.
    It was now, with the two cats so nervous and unsettled, that Dulcie’s housemate found them. Wilma slipped into the room beside John Firetti as the good doctor brought medications for Misto.
    Wilma Getz was as tall as the younger doctor. She wore a tie-­dyed sweatshirt today, a garment so old it was back in style, its soft reds setting off her gray hair, which was tied at the nape of her neck. John was in his white lab coat, having just come from the clinic. His light brown hair was short and neat, his sunburned forehead peeling, his light brown eyes kind as he greeted Joe and Dulcie. Moving to the dresser, he set down the tray with the syringe and medicine, to be administered when the yellow tom woke. He stood beside Wilma, looking down at the two cats sitting rigid and edgy. They looked deeply at Joe, then at Dulcie.
    Dulcie flicked a whisker. “I told him.”
    Wilma smiled and stroked Joe Grey. “It will be all right,” she said. “They’ll be fine, strong kittens.” She frowned at Joe. “What? They’ll be healthy kittens, Joe. You’ll be a fine father. What?” she repeated. “You don’t want these sweet babies?”
    Joe stared up at her, his conflicted look filled half with joy, half with distress. “Of course I want them! Our kittens! Our little speaking kittens. It’s a miracle. But Misto . . .” he hissed softly. “Does Misto have to make predictions? I don’t need predictions !” Joe said. “I don’t want to hear predictions. ”
    Wilma and Dulcie exchanged a look and tried to keep from smiling. Dulcie rubbed her face against Wilma’s hand. “Misto’s prophecies were . . . they frightened us both,” she said softly.
    It was then that John interrupted—­as if perhaps he didn’t want to hear predictions, either? Or perhaps he wanted only to soothe Dulcie and Joe. “Let’s have a look at you, Dulcie. Let’s see how the kittens are getting on.”
    Moving his medical tray to a chair, he cleared the dresser and lifted Dulcie up. She stretched out, looking up at him trustingly, only the tip of her tail moving with a nervous twitch. She loved John Firetti, but even his gentle hands pressing her stomach filled her with unease, an automatic reaction to protect her babies.
    But John’s hands were warm and tender on her belly. “Feel here,