Cat on the Scent

22

The shadows etched an outline of the budding trees onto the impeccably manicured back lawn of the Lutheran church. The Reverend Herbert C. Jones, in clerical garb, fiddled with his fly rod as he stood on the moss-covered brick walkway to the beige clapboard office, window shutters painted Charleston green.

He'd finished his sermon for Sunday and since this was Tuesday he felt on top of the world. True, his desk contained four mountains of neatly ordered paperwork but a man couldn't work around the clock. Even the Good Lord rested on the seventh day. And the afternoon, balmy and warm, enticed him from the grind of paperwork. He got his fishing rod and went outside.

Usually Herb parked the church's 1987 white Chevy truck on the corner to let people know he was at church. Since he received many calls to pick up this and drop off that for a parishioner in need, it was also useful for the truck to sit ready, keys in the ignition. However, at the moment the Chevy had a flat left-front tire, which irritated him no end because he'd endured a flat just last year on the right front and had replaced both front tires. He had parked the Chevy in the brick garage behind the office until he could fix it. Lovely winding brick paths meandered from the church to the garage, formerly the stable, and to his graceful residence, a subdued classic in flemish bond.

The tail of the Chevy poked out from the garage. His Buick Roadmaster was parked next to the old truck.

“I'll stand here and cast at the taillight,” he told himself.

Lucy Fur watched her human with detached amusement. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter were visiting from the post office. The animal door that Harry had installed there was a godsend because the animals didn't have to lurk by the front door waiting for a person to open it. All too often the human would close the door fast or step on them, because humans lacked a sharp sense of how much space they took up or how much other creatures needed. They were always bumping into things, stepping on tails, or tripping over their own feet. With the animal door at the rear of the old frame building the creatures could come and go at will. The cats especially enjoyed prowling the neighborhood to visit other cats.

Lucy Fur, a gorgeous young Maine coon cat, had walked into Herb's life one stormy night. He kept her because Elocution was getting on in years and he thought a younger companion would do her good. At first Elocution had hissed and spit. That lasted two weeks. Then she tried the deep freeze. Every time the kitten would walk by she'd turn her back. After a month she accepted Lucy Fur, teaching her the duties of a preacher's cat. The first, for any cat, is to catch mice. However, there were communion wafers to count, vestments to inspect, sermons to read, parishioners to comfort, and a variety of functions to attend.

Both cats excelled as fund-raisers, mingling with the crowd and encouraging generosity with both checkbooks and food.

The three cats sat abreast in the deep window ledge of the house. Sunlight like golden butter drenched their shiny fur. They watched Herb wryly.

Herb put his right foot back as he lifted his right arm. He wiggled a minute, then cast toward a taillight. He'd done better.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, reeling his line, a tiny lead weight dangling on the end, his hand-tied fly, white and speckled black, slightly above it.

“Is this some Christian ritual?” Pewter asked.

“Not the way he does it.” Lucy Fur giggled.

Again, the gentle reverend cocked his wrist, placed his feet in the correct position, and softly flicked his line out. This cast was worse than the first one.

“Hell's bells.” His voice rose.

“Might prayer help?” Mrs. Murphy dryly noted.

“As far as I know there is no prayer specific to fishing.” Lucy Fur's opinion was an informed one. She studied her texts.

“What about Jesus talking to the men casting their nets?” Mrs. Murphy suggested.

“Luke 5, Verses I through 11. It's the story where the men fished all night, came up empty, and Jesus told them to go out and throw their nets. They caught so many fish their ships began to sink. And that's when Simon Peter joined Jesus. He was one of the fishermen.”

Impressed, Murphy gasped, “You should talk to Mrs. Hogendobber. She'd have a fit and fall in it!”

“Oh,” Lucy Fur airily replied, “she wouldn't listen. You know she believes in this charismatic stuff. She ought to submit to the rigor of the Lutheran catechism. I don't believe you sit around waiting until the spirit moves you.”

“She hardly sits,” Pewter noted, herself a sharp critic of human mystical leanings. But in the case of Miranda, the good woman practiced what she preached.

“Uh-oh. I don't think biblical references are going to help now.” Murphy stared upward.

Herb cast into a tree.

“Christ on a crutch!” he bellowed, then glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was within earshot.

“Cats to the rescue.” Murphy leapt off the window ledge, quickly followed by Pewter and Lucy Fur.

Elocution, watching from inside the house, laughed so hard she had to lie down.

The tiger was halfway up the tree before Lucy Fur even reached the trunk. Pewter, not a girl to rush about, sashayed with dignity toward the puce-faced clergyman.

“Now how am I going to get my hook out of the tree? That's one of my best flies.” He threw his lad's cap on the grass.

“Thank you.” Pewter immediately sat on the herringbone cap.

Herb stepped to the right, giving the line a tug. No release. He walked to the left. Pewter watched.

“What pretty feathers.” Murphy inspected the tied fly.

“He sits up for hours tying these things. He won't let Elocution or me help. He sputters if we even touch one of these precious feathers. I personally can't understand why fish would grab a feather if a bird isn't attached.”

“Life's too short to try and understand cold-blooded creatures.” Mrs. Murphy unleashed one white claw, wedging it underneath the hook. “Stop pulling,” she ordered Herb.

He stopped. “That's my best fly. Don't you eat it!”

“Get a grip.” Murphy laughed.

“Let me help.” Lucy Fur put her weight on the line so that if Herb did jerk it there'd be a little slack so Murphy could pry up the hook.

“Here it comes.” Murphy popped it straight up.

Herb stared up at the cats. He glanced around again. “His wonders never cease.” Then he laughed. The cats joined in.

Slowly he reeled in his line, picking up his favorite fly to inspect the damage. None.

He spoke to Pewter, who was all rapt attention. “Best fly in the world for rockfish bass.”

“Good eating,” Pewter replied; she liked freshwater fish, especially if fried, but more than any other seafood she liked crabmeat.

“You're on my cap.”

“You threw it on the ground, you big baby.” Nonetheless, Pewter removed herself from the cap, which he promptly slapped back on his head.

“Why is he wearing that now? Herringbone is for fall.” Mrs. Murphy paid attention to fashions.

“He has to get in the mood. You should see him rehearse his sermons. Once when he used cowboy as a metaphor he put on cowboy boots and a big hat.”

“He's funny.” Murphy shimmied back down.

“They all are.” Lucy Fur backed down.

“Watch out!” Pewter warned. “He's going to cast again.”

“Jesus, preserve us,” Lucy Fur blurted out.

He popped out the line. It sailed over the cats' upturned heads and nicked the bed of the truck, just above the taillight.

Ding.

“Pretty good, if I do say so myself.” He grinned ear to ear. “Amen.” He smiled outright, following his line in to the truck.

The cats scampered along. The shiny sinker tumbled into the truck bed.

Mrs. Murphy leapt into the bed with Pewter and Lucy Fur on her heels.

“Practice makes perfect,” he sang out to himself, reaching into the bed and lifting out his sinker and fly as if they were gold-plated.

“Well done,” Lucy Fur congratulated him.

He patted her on her magnificent head.

Pewter noticed that the door was slightly ajar to the passenger side of the truck. “That broke, too?”

“Hey.” Mrs. Murphy peered into the cab.

Lucy Fur got on her hind legs and looked inside. Pewter stood next to her.

“What?” Pewter said.

“That bomber jacket.” Lucy Fur's tail flipped left, then right.

“Herb doesn't own a bomber jacket.” Murphy jumped out of the bed. She tried to pry open the heavy truck door, but, although ajar, it was too much for her.

“Whoever used the truck last forgot their jacket.” Pewter shrugged.

“Open the door!” Murphy hollered at the top of her not-inconsiderable lungs.

“You could wake the dead.” Herb leaned his rod against the truck, walking over to the howling cat. “Oh.” He noticed the door and opened it wider to shut it firmly. As he did, the cat hopped into the seat. “Now Mrs. Murphy—” He opened the door. “What's this?”