The Hanging Hill

66

Zipper was dreaming about squirrels again.

He liked the pillows on the bed at this new place. Nice and lumpy, squishy and mushy. He felt like he was in heaven, sleeping on top of a giant fleecy squeeze toy stuffed with Snausages.

And the sun hit these particular pillows perfectly! In fact, he was currently nestled in the most exquisite patch of sunshine and warmth. He figured that it was probably what lying on a beach blanket was all about for humans. He’d seen stuff on TV. Commercials for a place called Florida.

Zipper was in a happy, happy sunshine state.

Until something blocked the sunbeam streaming through the room’s dormer window.

Probably one of those puffy white things up in the sky. Yesterday, Zipper had seen one that reminded him of a poodle. Another one sort of looked like Spencer, a golden retriever he knew.

Slightly chilled, Zipper stood up. Stretched. Yawned and dipped into a back-bending arch. Then he turned around in a circle, trying to find that perfect sun spot he had just been snoozing in. Couldn’t find it, couldn’t find it. So he changed directions. Circled back the other way. Still couldn’t find it, still couldn’t …

He heard a hiss outside the window.

He cocked an ear. Looked. Sniffed.

Yep.

There was a cat out there. On the windowsill. Gray and sleek with yellow eyes.

Zipper wagged his tail.

He didn’t mind cats. They were fine—just, you know, different. Slept a lot. Tossed their own toys. Played with tin foil. Didn’t know how to sit or stay. Pooped in a box.

But basically, cats were okay.

So he wagged his tail to let the gray cat out on the window ledge know he was happy to say howdy.

The cat shot out its claws. Yowled. Swiped at the window—scratching the glass.

Okay. Maybe this was a different kind of cat. A breed Zipper had never encountered.

For one thing, it was huge. Nearly the size of that raccoon he chased up a tree one time. For another, it looked sort of psychotic. Eyes all buggy and bulgy. Like Chico, this crazy Chihuahua who used to yap-yap-yap at him all the time when he was a puppy living in a kennel at Dr. Freed’s animal hospital.

The cat hissed again. Furious and vicious.

Its eyes were glowing like the yellow warning lights Zipper had seen on the highway. Foam drooled out of its wide-open mouth. Saliva dripped off its fangs.

As the hackles rose on his back, Zipper figured that this feline visitor was a few rabies shots short of a complete checkup.

He was just about to bark when the cat vanished. Disappeared!

Just like those ghosts back at the crossroads.

Which was fine by Zipper.

The fat cat had been the one blotting out the sun.

The pillow was perfect again. Like warm mud in July.

He needed a nap.

He yawned.

Snuggled into position.

Dreamed about squirrels. The slow ones—loaded down with acorns—the ones that were easy to catch.