glimpse of human feet and legs, and more dogs—a little dachshund, a sloppy old basset, and, oh, no, there was a German shepherd, sitting with his tongue hanging out. Nasty things, German shepherds. Horrible. Unpredictable. Mean. He knew this from personal experience. He’d had a horrible encounter with one in the life he’d lived as an alley cat, right around the holidays, naturally. Talk about your blue Christmas. At the sight of Ambrose, this one stood and barked, almost giving Ambrose a heart attack.
Never let them see you sweat . (A man in Adelaide’s TV had said that once.) Ambrose arched his back, puffed out his fur, and hissed.
Zach’s voice drifted down to him. “It’s okay, Tom. He can’t get you.”
So you say .
As if to prove it, Zach picked up Ambrose’s carrier and moved him out of range.
“Hi,” said a disembodied female voice.
“Uh, hi,” said Zach.
“We’re almost done with the dogs,” said the voice. “If you’d like to browse and come back in five minutes that will give your cat a chance to calm down.”
The only thing that would help Ambrose calm down was getting out of here. When would the torture end?
Never. Zach and the cougar wandered around the store, giving Ambrose glimpses of birds he couldn’t hunt and fish swimming out of reach. The ways people could find to torture a cat in this place were endless.
The carrier finally came to rest once more and this time Ambrose saw no dogs, only a few sets of human legs and feet. Still, he couldn’t relax. He may have escaped the dogs, but the Santa monster was still waiting.
The cage door opened and even though Ambrose tried to resist, Zach managed to haul him out.
“It’s okay,” cooed Blair Baby, the animal hater.
No fur today. Instead she was wearing a sweater with snowflakes. It was too late for camouflage. Ambrose already knew she was the enemy. She came at him with that ridiculous hat and he pushed up against Zach with his ears flat to warn her she’d better back off.
Here was another reason not to like her. (As if he needed another!) She was stupid. She kept right on coming. Ambrose averted his head, but her bloodred claws continued reaching for him. So he did what any self-respecting cat would do. He defended himself. With a hiss, he unsheathed his claws and shot out a paw. Ha! Got her .
His attacker backed away with a bleeding scratch and let out a screech followed by a word that Ambrose learned way back in his third life. It was not a nice word. She held out her hand. “Look what that animal did to me!”
So it was bleeding. So what? She started the fight.
“Damn it, Tom,” snapped Zach, and shut Ambrose back in the cage.
Imprisoned unjustly, and in trouble with Zach—this was not good.
Meanwhile, outside the carrier, Blair Baby was still carrying on. “That animal should be put down. He’s dangerous.”
“No, he’s not,” scolded the same female voice Ambrose had heard earlier. “He’s just scared.”
“Excuse me?” snapped Blair Baby.
“I said he’s scared,” the voice snapped back.
“And what are you, a cat shrink?”
“Come on now, Blair,” said Zach. “That’s uncalled for.”
You could say that again.
“I know a few things about cats,” said the other female.
“Naturally. You have to be highly qualified to work here,” said Blair Baby.
Probably, so why was she using that sneering tone of voice?
“The biggest qualification is a heart,” the other female retorted. “So you shouldn’t bother applying.”
“Do I look like I need to work here?” snapped Blair Baby.
“I have no idea what you need,” said the voice sweetly, “but you might consider therapy.”
“Ho, boy,” said Zach under his breath.
Blair emitted the human equivalent of a growl, then announced she was going to go wash the cut before it became infected, and stomped away on her skinny legs, her haunches jiggling.
Zach said to the other female, “Sorry, Merilee. She’s, uh…”
“Yes, she
Never let them see you sweat . (A man in Adelaide’s TV had said that once.) Ambrose arched his back, puffed out his fur, and hissed.
Zach’s voice drifted down to him. “It’s okay, Tom. He can’t get you.”
So you say .
As if to prove it, Zach picked up Ambrose’s carrier and moved him out of range.
“Hi,” said a disembodied female voice.
“Uh, hi,” said Zach.
“We’re almost done with the dogs,” said the voice. “If you’d like to browse and come back in five minutes that will give your cat a chance to calm down.”
The only thing that would help Ambrose calm down was getting out of here. When would the torture end?
Never. Zach and the cougar wandered around the store, giving Ambrose glimpses of birds he couldn’t hunt and fish swimming out of reach. The ways people could find to torture a cat in this place were endless.
The carrier finally came to rest once more and this time Ambrose saw no dogs, only a few sets of human legs and feet. Still, he couldn’t relax. He may have escaped the dogs, but the Santa monster was still waiting.
The cage door opened and even though Ambrose tried to resist, Zach managed to haul him out.
“It’s okay,” cooed Blair Baby, the animal hater.
No fur today. Instead she was wearing a sweater with snowflakes. It was too late for camouflage. Ambrose already knew she was the enemy. She came at him with that ridiculous hat and he pushed up against Zach with his ears flat to warn her she’d better back off.
Here was another reason not to like her. (As if he needed another!) She was stupid. She kept right on coming. Ambrose averted his head, but her bloodred claws continued reaching for him. So he did what any self-respecting cat would do. He defended himself. With a hiss, he unsheathed his claws and shot out a paw. Ha! Got her .
His attacker backed away with a bleeding scratch and let out a screech followed by a word that Ambrose learned way back in his third life. It was not a nice word. She held out her hand. “Look what that animal did to me!”
So it was bleeding. So what? She started the fight.
“Damn it, Tom,” snapped Zach, and shut Ambrose back in the cage.
Imprisoned unjustly, and in trouble with Zach—this was not good.
Meanwhile, outside the carrier, Blair Baby was still carrying on. “That animal should be put down. He’s dangerous.”
“No, he’s not,” scolded the same female voice Ambrose had heard earlier. “He’s just scared.”
“Excuse me?” snapped Blair Baby.
“I said he’s scared,” the voice snapped back.
“And what are you, a cat shrink?”
“Come on now, Blair,” said Zach. “That’s uncalled for.”
You could say that again.
“I know a few things about cats,” said the other female.
“Naturally. You have to be highly qualified to work here,” said Blair Baby.
Probably, so why was she using that sneering tone of voice?
“The biggest qualification is a heart,” the other female retorted. “So you shouldn’t bother applying.”
“Do I look like I need to work here?” snapped Blair Baby.
“I have no idea what you need,” said the voice sweetly, “but you might consider therapy.”
“Ho, boy,” said Zach under his breath.
Blair emitted the human equivalent of a growl, then announced she was going to go wash the cut before it became infected, and stomped away on her skinny legs, her haunches jiggling.
Zach said to the other female, “Sorry, Merilee. She’s, uh…”
“Yes, she
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