Christmas Cats: A Literary Companion

Miriam Fields-Babineau

As I sat down to Christmas Eve dinner, prepared by my gourmet chef husband, the phone rang.

Not the normal ting-a-ling I would receive when being called by a client, but the Dragnet intro that signaled a call from my mother.

How nice, I thought. Mother is calling to wish us a Happy Holiday. No way. Mother didn't celebrate Christmas, nor did she like my husband. She was most probably calling for another reason. She was seventy-three and well into senile dementia, making her difficult to take at times, along with being very accident prone. I knew I had to answer the phone. I pulled out the chair, giving my husband a resigned look, which he returned. I walked to the kitchen phone, followed by my two Bengal cats. Chewy and Sorceress had also been waiting for their holiday meal. (My husband always sneaked a few tidbits to them from the table.) The feast would have to wait.

"Hello," I said, picking up the phone, acting as though I had no idea who the caller was.

"Margo!" exclaimed Mother. "Margo. Help!"

I stiffened. Something had happened after all. Then again, she often did this just to get me to visit her. Her life, and thereby mine whenever I communicated with her, was total chaos.

"Yes, Mother," I answered. "What's up?"

Mother sighed, then whimpered.

Sometimes she could put on a real act. She knew how to get to me.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "Are you sick?"

"Oh no, Margo. He's gone. I don't know where he went." I tilted my head thinking, he, who?

"Mother?"

"Beamer, Margo," she scoffed, now upset with me for being unable to read her mind. "Beamer's gone. He must've run through the door as I was putting the trash out and I didn't see it. I've looked all over the house and I can't find him. Oh, Margo. I can't see out there and he's gone. Just gone!"

Beamer was Mother's Himalayan cat. I had arranged for her to take in a rescued cat from the breeder who had given me my Bengals. After her dog died last year she really needed company and, since she wasn't getting around very well, cats would be easier to care for while offering companionship. Hence came Beamer. Beamer was two years old and very shy. There was no way someone could walk right up to him. The only person he ever wanted to spend time with was Mother, sitting on her lap while she wrote on her computer.

"I'm so sorry, Mother. You think he might turn up in a bit? He's never been out before and is probably frightened. He might be at the door this very minute."

"Margo," her voice lowered. I could picture the look on her face—jaw set, eyes narrowed, mouth tight. "I'm looking out the door this very minute and he's not there. You need to come here and help me find him. He's going to disappear just like the other cats around here."

"What other cats?"

"Nancy Hanover's Persian, Fooey. And, Missy Hendridge's cat, Cocoa. Her daughter is still in tears over it. Then, there's Sibyl's cat, Moonie. Why, she's been gone over a month. I've never seen Sibyl so depressed. I've heard rumors from other neighbors about how it's like an epidemic. Even cats that are always indoors are disappearing. They haven't been found dead in the road, or picked up by animal control. Just vanished."

Mother was panicking and would surely collapse if she kept it up. Though her health hadn't been the best lately, she still continued to work and remain involved in many activities. Mother was never someone who would slow herself down. Worse yet, her eyesight was really bad. She could hardly recognize a person directly in front of her, much less a cat. At night she was totally blind. There was no way she could go outside and search for Beamer.

"Mother, he's not going to come to me."

"He might."

I looked across the room at my husband carving the golden brown turkey, the table laden with candied yams, venison stuffing, garlic mashed potatoes, creamy gravy, and freshly baked biscuits. The smell wafted through the house. My stomach rumbled, saliva collecting in my mouth. I had starved myself the entire day so that I could eat this meal. My Bengals, being part Asian wild-cat with high prey drives and never-ending appetites, rubbed against my legs, Chewy meowing loud enough to make the ear not attached to the phone ache. He'd been looking forward to the meal as well. Spoiled rotten cat.

"Mother. It's Christmas Eve. Dinner's ready right now. I was just about to eat."

"Sure. You eat while my cat gets killed."

There was the guilt trip that always got to me. My entire body sagged. I did care if the cat were to be killed. I adored cats; I trained them for a living.

My husband would be really upset. He'd been cooking as long as I'd been starving myself. He and Mother had never gotten along, unless he was doing something Mother needed done. Though we had been together for over twenty years, Mother still hated him to the molecular level. Not that he didn't try; Mother was just very stubborn. The looks she gave him were enough to freeze up a hot tub filled with roiling water.

"Okay, Mother. Give me a few minutes. Who knows what kind of traffic I'm going to run into on Christmas Eve; everyone doing their last-minute shopping and such."

"Great. See you soon, Margo." Her voice brightened. She'd won… again.

My husband knew as I walked into the dining room. His shoulders slumped. "You have to go, huh. After all this work I put into dinner." He rubbed his face, ruminating, staring at the turkey he'd just carved into juicy slices. "What's the problem this time?"

As I explained the situation to him, his lips thinned with anger. "It's just another celebration she's going to destroy. I swear she does this intentionally." He sighed. "But, you've gotta go. I know."

Chewy sat at his feet and meowed up at him. Sorceress joined in, walking around Chewy, her tail in the air, flicking from side to side. She often copied whatever he did, especially when it came to her belly.

"Sorry, guys. Not now," he said to the hungry cats. "We've all gotta wait until Marcella Finney gets her cat back."

He looked up at me. "You need me to come with you?"

I knew he really didn't want to. I also knew my mother wouldn't want him to.

"No, Hon. You don't have to."

He visibly relaxed.

"Well, why don't you take the cats. You'll never be able to catch Beamer without Chewy and Sorceress to help track him down."

Once, when my mother had stayed with us for a week while ill, her cat Beamer had met with Chewy. Chewy attacked Beamer causing him to leave a puddle on the carpet. Beamer had to be locked in my mother's room so that cat fur wouldn't be flying around the house for a week. The entire time they had stayed, Chewy was at the door, screaming at Beamer. That, paired with my mother's demands (all she needed was a bell and the situation would've been complete), made the week a living hell.

Yes, taking my cats might be a good idea. I put on their harnesses, slipped on my heavy winter coat, and loaded us all into the SUV.

Despite some traffic, I arrived less than an hour later.

My mother lived in northwest Washington, D.C., near Rock Creek Park, a place inhabited by the kind of people she felt were at her "level"—doctors, lawyers, and diplomats. Despite the fact that she survived on her sole income as a clinical psychologist, she had bought a home in this area and now had to work hard to afford to keep it. It would've been below her station to sell her house in northern Virginia and buy a condo, giving her less work to do in many ways. No. She had to have a brick house, among the professional elite.

I shook my head every time I thought of it. For such an intelligent woman she had no common sense. But she sure knew how to lay a guilt trip. After all, here I was on Christmas Eve, an empty belly, husband at home waiting, helping her find her cat.

I went into Mother's house and called out to her. As anxious as she was for my assistance, I had expected her to meet me at the door. No sign of her. No note, not that I could've found it anyway. Clutter is a congenial means of describing the inside of her home.

Oh no, I thought. She went out looking for Beamer. Now I have to look for her.

This presented a real problem, as I had brought a dominant cat to track another cat, not a search-and-rescue dog. I went to the back door and called out. No answer.

Remembering that the police would not do anything unless a person was missing for a prolonged period of time, I gave up the idea of calling them. It was up to me. I knew Mother was likely out searching for Beamer, so I decided to do the same, hoping to run into her.

Returning to my SUV, I gathered my cats. Chewy bristled with happiness at the chance to strut outdoors.

He pulled at his leash, raring to go. Quickly, I put on Sorceress's leash as well and allowed them to jump out of the vehicle. I was pulled down the block immediately as Chewy single-mindedly headed into the cold, damp darkness; Sorceress trotting alongside him. Whenever they're on a mission, whether searching for food or general mischief, they are joined at the hip, tails up, waving in the air, big eyes peeled on the ground before them, noses quivering with delight. The hunt was on.

The Bengals weren't bothered by the wet sidewalk, the occasional car splashing through puddles, or the bright decorations covering the neighborhood houses. They were on the prowl and nothing deterred them from their goal. I raced down the sidewalk behind them, pulled by double Bengal power, calling out Mother's name.

Chewy suddenly stopped, jaw dropping, nose quivering in the air, tail stiff. He turned his head toward a Tudor-style home, the eaves covered in twinkling lights.

"Is this it, Chewy?" I asked. "Is Beamer in here?"

Chewy looked up at me and grinned as only a cat can. Instead of seeing his big blue eyes, I saw the red reflection from his corneas giving him a devilish appearance. Sorceress rubbed against him, softly mewing, tail caressing his side. This had to be the house. Chewy's nose was always accurate, especially when it concerned food, or a cat he hated. One never knew which until the time came.

Mother had once told me who lived there. Bernard Talbot. He was the doctor in the neighborhood. Part of why the house prices were so high, according to Mother. I didn't counter that the housing prices probably had more to do with the location than anything else. When Mother gets an idea in her head, no matter how ridiculous, it's real to her. This includes past events, the reasons for current world crisis, and her unreasonable hatred of her children's spouses. Arguing never accomplished anything.

I followed the Bengals to Doctor Talbot's front door. The cats slowed, suddenly apprehensive. The front door was painted the color of dried blood. I stood in the shadowy portico and pushed the doorbell—feeling like a trick-or-treater on Halloween instead of someone searching for a cat on Christmas Eve. All Talbot would have to do is answer the door wearing a sheet, say "Boo!" and I'd probably have run, screaming, to my SUV, dragging my cats behind me.

The cats circled in front of the door, Sorceress stopping to sharpen her nails on the thick rubber doormat. Chewy pushed his nose against the door, rubbing, pushing, anxious to go inside.

I rang the bell again.

I was beginning to think no one was home when the front door opened a crack. A middle-aged man, with dark brown tousled hair and a three-day beard, peeked out.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice low.

Mother had often told me about how great her neighborhood was and how everyone watched out for each other. It wasn't quite the greeting I'd expected.

"Hi, I'm Margo, Marcella Finney's daughter. She lives down your street?" Pointing for emphasis.

He showed no sign of recognition.

"Mother has lost her cat. A Himalayan named Beamer. I was wondering if you've seen him?"

"No, I…"

Chewy and Sorceress pushed into his house through the slot in the doorway, straining at the leash for me to follow.

"Hey, get those cats outta here," he bellowed. "I'm allergic. They can't be in here!"

Talbot's cheeks turned bright red with anger. He grabbed for Sorceress's leash, only to have Chewy bite his hand. No one messed with Chewy's girl.

"Ouch! Your freakin' cat bit me!"

As Talbot let go of the door to examine the damage to his left hand, it swung open revealing a plush interior, fully decorated for the holiday with candles, lighted tree, cards lining the fireplace mantel, and a full dinner upon the table, similar to the one I had almost been able to enjoy, only his turkey wasn't carved yet, and there was only one place setting. He lived alone. A chair was haphazardly pushed away from an otherwise neat table as though the occupant had arisen quickly.

Did he get a call from his mother, too?

I pulled back on the Bengals' leashes hoping to draw them out of Talbot's house. Chewy struggled and twisted, his long, sinewy body slipping free of the harness. He ran into the house toward the dining room.

"Oh my God," I said. "I'm so sorry. I'd better get him. Please excuse me for a moment."

I squirmed through the open doorway, unmindful of Talbot's reaction. My only thoughts were to retrieve my cat and continue the quest for Mother and Beamer.

Sorceress screeched for Chewy, her voice ranging from a throaty growl to a high-pitched shriek. Her nails dug into the Persian area rugs along our path and left rents in the polished wood floor between. Chewy continued, trotting briskly toward the dining room. I could only hope that his goal wasn't the dining table.

I'd have a lot to apologize for.

"What the hell're you doing?" Talbot yelled. "Get your stinking felines out of my house!"

The cats took me to a closed door beside the dining room. Chewy pushed his paws under the door and hissed, his tail puffed to the extreme. Sorceress crouched low, nose quivering as she sniffed, a low growl echoing from her throat.

I looked at the dark stained wood panel door, then back at Talbot, whom I had expected to follow me. He hadn't. In fact, he had reseated himself at the table, head in his hands.

Odd, I thought. He looks morose. Why would that be ?

Yowling cats returned my attention to the door. Only, when I looked down, it wasn't my cats that were yowling. In fact, both remained crouched at the base of the door, growling and panting. The yowling was coming from the other side of the door.

Why would someone allergic to cats have them?

Again, I looked back at Talbot. He remained seated, not even looking at me.

I opened the door. Chewy and Sorceress rushed in.

As I crossed the threshold and moved into the room I could hardly believe my eyes. My heart thumped so hard I felt it would come up my throat and out my mouth.

Mother was seated on a high-back chair, arms tied at her sides with a long strip of cotton, a ball of material in her mouth, held in place with another strip of material. She squirmed from side to side, eyes bulging from their sockets. On two sides of the room were metal cages, stacked three high. There had to be at least fifteen cats in them. The room reeked from urine; I should've been able to smell this cattery from outside the door, yet I hadn't. (That might've been due to a good ventilation system.) Near Mother's chair was a small operating table of the sort used in veterinary practice surgical suites. The operating table was clean, but for a few stray black hairs, and rope restraints that lay in wait for the next feline victim.

I let go of the Bengals' leashes, and ran to Mother, immediately untying the gag on her mouth.

"Mother!" I wailed. "What the hell's going on?" I untied her arms.

"Margo," she answered, taking deep breaths. "Talbot, he…" She stopped in mid-sentence. Her eyes went wide as she stared at something over my shoulder and pointed, screaming, "Here he comes! Margo, WATCH OUT!"

I pivoted around, partially ducking as a reflex, only to miss impact with Talbot's Christmas turkey, the juices splattering my face and neck.

"Mom! Call the police!" I yelled, hoping Talbot would concentrate on braining me with the cooked bird and not go after Mother as well.

From the corner of my eye I saw Chewy with his paws on Beamer's cage. He licked his lips. Some of the roast turkey juices had hit him in his face. Sorceress sniffed the floor. They both turned away from the screaming cats in the cages, searching for the source of the delectable drippings, noses quivering, paws kneading the tile floor. Food first, screaming cats later.

Talbot raised the glazed, dripping hunk of bird for another strike.

Chewy and Sorceress looked up at the turkey, blue and green eyes locking on their goal. What's more, Talbot gave them "The Signal." (My cats had learned to climb fifty-foot ropes to reach a platform from which they would jump. Their signal: My hands held high in the air. They didn't need any more of an invitation.)

Chewy jumped onto Talbot's right thigh and dug in for the climb. Sorceress, not to be denied her just reward, jumped onto his other thigh. Together they worked their way up the doctor's body, claws leaving bloody runes in his flesh, his slacks shredded.

Bernard Talbot screamed with pain. He stood still, body quivering, turkey still held high, its purpose forgotten to all but the cats. Chewy and Sorceress didn't make any noise as they moved upward. I knew the Bengals would soon reach the turkey and by then Talbot would sink to the floor. Glancing behind me to make sure Mother was gone, I searched for a weapon. Nothing but a tray of surgical instruments. Not good. I'd be bludgeoned with a turkey far faster than I could cut the man's throat with a scalpel. As Chewy and Sorceress reached Talbot's shoulders, forepaws stretching up his arms, I ran from the operating room to the living room, where a fireplace, complete with merry flames of brilliant red, orange, and yellow, greeted me. A fireplace poker, its sharp end coated in gray ash, lay against the side.

Weapons. Far more useful than a turkey.

I had just gotten my hand around the fireplace poker when I heard heavy footsteps. Talbot had emerged from the back room, sans turkey, blood seeping through his torn clothing. I held the poker high, ready to swing.

"You stop right there, Mister. Or, I swear, I'll brain you!" I said in my bravest voice, the fireplace poker shaking as hard as my knees.

Mother peeked out from behind the kitchen door, eyes wide with fright, the lines in her face flat, cheeks red, and lips swollen where the gag had bruised her skin.

"I called 911, " she said, bolstering my courage. "They'll be here soon, Bernard. You may as well give it up." She remained half hidden behind the kitchen door, ready to bolt if Talbot decided to go after her again.

"You'd best just give up," I echoed Mother. I was so frightened I couldn't think up my own reprisal.

The sound of sirens emerged as through a distant fog. I knew the cops would be at least another five minutes. Long enough to make a difference in my life, or death, or somewhere between.

A long wail came out of Chewy's mouth, joined by Sorceress's mewl as they both sauntered into the room, tails waving in the air, faces covered in turkey juice. The Bengals stepped high with pleasure, their bellies distended from their Christmas meal. As much as they wanted to they couldn't eat more than their stomach capacity.

Talbot's grimace of anger fell to desperation.

"Keep those ferocious beasts away from me!" he screamed, arms stretched out before him as though warding off evil spirits.

I had the upper hand.

"You'd better give up and sit down or I'll set em on you again," I warned.

As though I had anything to do with it the first time.

He sagged into a chair, chin dropped to his chest. He held his hand out to me, like a frightened dog showing active submission. If he licked his lips, the picture would be complete.

"Alright. Alright. I can't go on like this," he sobbed. "I'm trying to do something for other people and I get stomped on by my very subjects."

"What subjects?" I asked. "Cats?"

He glanced up at me and waved in dismissal. I lowered the fireplace poker a bit as it was getting heavy. Chewy and Sorceress rubbed against my legs and then began grooming each other, happily licking off the remnants of their feast.

"No. No," he sighed. "The cats were used to test the drug. It wasn't for them. It's for women."

"Women?" Mother and I asked simultaneously. Mother had entered the room behind the Bengals, using them for cover. Talbot would have to go through them before he could get to her.

"I've discovered a new drug that helps with the female libido. I couldn't keep taking cats from the shelters or it would look suspicious, so I picked up the neighborhood cats."

"They're mostly fixed, wise guy," Mother said. "Besides, Beamer's a male. I thought you were a physician. You'd know these things."

Talbot lifted his head and looked at Mother. "Of course I knew, Mrs. Finney. But what if I could design a drug that worked on post-menopausal women? Fixed cats were the perfect subjects." He looked at the floor. "I didn't know if they were male or female until I brought them home and looked. Yours was an accident. I was going to let him go tomorrow."

"Why not do your experiments in a lab at the university?" I asked.

"It wasn't sanctioned by the department," Talbot answered. "I had this idea and it just couldn't wait for all the bureaucracy. There's already a drug entering the market, but it's got loads of side effects. Mine didn't have any. I could've made millions." He looked over his shoulder into the dining room where the remains of his Christmas dinner now lay cold. "I had found it," he said in a quiet voice. "I was just getting ready to celebrate, when"—Talbot looked at Mother—"when you came to the door." He slit his eyes and lips. "You pushed your way in so quickly when you heard the cats. I had to stop you, I was so close."

"And just what did you think you'd do with me, Bernard?" Mother challenged, venturing closer.

"I don't know. Reason with you?"

"You grabbed me and tied me up!" Mother retorted. "How would I reason with that?"

A tear welled in Talbot's eye. "I was so close."

I had been so engrossed in Talbot's tale that I hadn't heard the sirens approach. The police had arrived.

While I remained watchful of Talbot, fireplace poker at the ready, Mother opened the front door to let the police in. She explained the situation and they arrested him. As they set up their crime scene paraphernalia and questioned us, Chewy and Sorceress rested at my feet, the turkey feast putting them to sleep.

"I had come over to see if Talbot had seen Beamer when I heard him crying in the back," Mother told the sergeant in charge. (Apparently her hearing was far better than mine, for I hadn't heard any cats until I had entered the cattery.) "I pushed past him to get Beamer. Talbot grabbed me and tied me up. When Margo knocked on the door"—she glanced at me—"he shoved me into the back room. You know it from there, Margo."

As Mother went to fetch her cat, I filled in the rest of the story. Talbot was handcuffed, a heavy jacket draped over his shoulders, and taken to the patrol car.

I took Mother and Beamer home, placing my exhausted cats in the SUV where they could sleep peacefully. I called my husband to fill him in on what had happened. He suggested that I invite her to our house for dinner and to spend the night. She turned us down. "I have other things to do," she retorted.

"Ah, so you do celebrate Christmas, Mother!"

Her face flushed red with embarrassment. "In the true sense of the purpose, Margo. Christmas isn't about big meals, presents, or decorations. That's just a government plot to help boost the economy during a slow season. It's about giving. Fulfilling the needs of others."

I smiled and shook my head.

"Come, Margo." She took my arm, dragging me behind her out the door. "We've got work to do. Now."

We returned to Doctor Talbot's house, now swarming with police and reporters. Mother convinced the officer in charge, whom she happened to know, that all they needed was to take some photos and DNA samples from the cages, releasing the cats to her. We loaded the frightened felines into the back of my SUV. The noise didn't wake the Bengals. They were in a turkey divine dreamland. Chewy snored, his head tucked against Sorceress's neck.

We drove through the night, from house to house, bringing joy to all the people who had thought they'd lost their furry loved ones forever; much like the fabled Santa Claus brought toys to the children of the world. Only, our sleigh was pulled by horsepower instead of reindeer power and filled with the chorus of felines instead of angels.

We finished delivering the "presents" at sunrise on Christmas Day. I returned Mother to her house and lay beside her on her bed, exhausted, Beamer a purring ball on her legs.

"You know, Mom," I breathed, my eyes closing, "I'm still learning from you. Merry Christmas."

She took my hand in her own and we slept.