Cat In A Leopard Spot

Chapter 27

Cousins Under the Skin

A long, long time later, the vehicle jolts its last jolt and comes to a stop.

This hurls us hitchhikers against assorted meat patties, but by then we are not feeling much.

I force myself to my feet (apparently my toes have chilled to the point of numbness) and stumble over to rouse the Yorkies.

“Up and at ’em, bowheads! We need to be lurking near the doors so we can scram when we have to.”

“Scram?” cries Golda’s faint, squeaky voice from behind a leg of lamb. “I can barely stagger.”

“There will not be time enough for me to do another emergency airlift on you two. If we don’t get out fast enough, we will either be smashed in the doors or tossed to the carnivores. Which route of doom you prefer depends on if you like your bones ground up fast or slow.”

They shudder in tandem, making their silky hair shimmy like a go-go dancer’s fringe. But they crawl gamely over the meat mountains and we all huddle behind a side of beef.

“When I say go, just go. Do not look down, do not look back. Just jump and run. Pretend Midnight Louise is on your tail.”

“She is not so bad,” Groucho objects in his best falsetto growl.

“Okay. Pretend…the Medellin cartel is on your tail.” These are drug sniffers in training, after all.

“We are on their tail,” Golda sniffs grandly.

For pipsqueaks, this pair must have nothing but nerve under that hair.

The latch squeaks and then turns.

Daylight tears a widening rent in the darkness that hides our presence.

The stack of steaks by the opposite door vanishes. We hear thumps and bangs, and men grousing.

“Now,” I say, sticking the tip of a shiv into each little form.

Squealing like mice, the pair squirt out of the door. I am right behind them, but somehow I end up hitting terra firma first—oof!—and they land on me. Double oof.

We do not waste time discussing our exit order, but roll and scramble under the truck’s welcome shadow, much as it stinks of gas and oil.

“Did you hear mice?” one man is asking the other, his work boots still for a moment.

While the other guy tells him he’s crazy and hearing things, we belly-crawl to the truck’s front. It is hard to see much but stretches of sand. I prod Golda out for a few seconds of recon. She reports a shaded area with a roof at three o’clock low.

Gee, that makes me miss my old man, Three O’Clock Louie, who is basking in the sun of Lake Mead while I am directing a raid on the ranch.

“Make for the shade,” I tell the troops, then head off myself like a black bolt of cold lightning.

There is nothing but open ground in the desert, and a frontal assault is the best—heck, the only—approach.

Two gray bolts of lightning speed after me. Those canine shrimps can really move their pins when they have to.

We are reunited again in a dimness that gives us a cloak of invisibility.

“Looks like we made it unnoticed,” Groucho notes, pausing to scratch at a sand flea that has managed to leap aboard despite our velocity. Some species are impervious to every trick and they are usually parasites.

I must agree. The two men are still unloading hunks of meat and any tracks our daring dash across the tundra may have left are being scrubbed away by a constant riffle of desert wind.

I pause to tidy my whiskers and straighten my cravat.

It is a good thing, because a long, low growl behind us that sets the floor beneath us vibrating announces that we do not have company, but that we are company. And maybe even dinner.