Whisker Of Evil

41

Black clouds, their undersides limned with darkest silver, began peeking over the tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The temperature dropped. The wind rustled the tops of the trees, sending a few leaves flying.

Mrs. Murphy, awakened by a persistent whippoorwill, jumped off the bed. Tucker snorted as she was stretched on the rug, but she didn’t waken. Pewter, as usual, was dead to the world and draped over Harry’s head.

As the tiger padded through the kitchen, the old railroad clock’s black hands announced three forty-five. The short pendulum with the gold disc at the end swung monotonously to and fro. Seconds and minutes ticked away, but Mrs. Murphy rarely worried about time. She thought of it as a human invention. They drove themselves crazy with clocks, phones, machines. She thought time was an illusion and age a conceit. A cat lives every moment intensely. Pewter slept intensely. Mrs. Murphy brushed through the animal door intensely. Alive, alert, in the present, whiskers forward, that’s the way to live.

She scampered to the barn just as the owl flew through the opened hayloft door.

“Hoo, hoo-hoo.”

Mrs. Murphy climbed the ladder to the hayloft. Simon, sound asleep in his nest, clutched the broken Pelham curb chain, his prized possession. Simon wanted shiny things. A broken curb chain was as good as a Tiffany diamond to him.

Flatface the owl bent over from her large nest in the cupola, climbed to the side, opened her wings, and effortlessly floated down, landing exactly in front of the cat.

“Good evening,” Mrs. Murphy greeted her.

“And a good evening it’s been, Mrs. Murphy. Hunting’s good before a storm, and how is it that I so often have the pleasure of your company as the old barometer is dropping?”

“You know, I never thought of that. I think it wakes me up, although tonight that whippoorwill did the job. I was going to go to the edge of the woods to give him a piece of my mind. Have you ever noticed when the moonlight strikes their eyes just right, they are ruby red?”

“So they are. I personally don’t understand ground nesters. Why on earth, forgive the pun,” she hooted, “would any self-respecting bird want to sit in the dirt or leaves or a bunch of twigs? Even a silly house dog can eat them.”

“Better not let Tucker hear you say that.”

“Tucker is the exception that proves the rule. And Tazio’s Lab is all right,” Flatface conceded.

“The ground nesters rely on camouflage,” Mrs. Murphy, her own stripes a good cover, replied.

“That’s like humans relying on prayer. Work then pray, I say. It’s blasphemy that they believe the Almighty is a human. I try to overlook this offense and their stupidity. We all know the Great Omnipotent Owl watches over us all.”

“Doesn’t seem to be watching over this part of Virginia right now,” Mrs. Murphy wryly commented. She wasn’t going to get drawn into a religious discussion, since she devoutly believed spiritual life was guided by a heavenly cat of epic proportion.

“Why, things are wonderful. I haven’t had such good hunting in years. Years.” She fluffed out her large chest, then turned her head almost upside down.

“It makes me dizzy when you do that.”

“Hoo hoo-hoo, ha.” The big bird righted her head.

“You’re right, hunting is superb, but I was thinking about the human deaths, murders.”

“Oh, that? I did ask my friends if they’d heard of rabies over the mountains. Word came back: ‘No.’ I just haven’t seen you to tell you.”

“Thank you for asking around.”

Simon rolled over in his sleep.

Flatface observed him sternly. “He’s supposed to be a nocturnal animal. Lazy sod.”

The whippoorwill sang out again just as the first raindrops splattered on the roof.

“Simon tries, but he doesn’t get any further than the feed room. He picks up under the horse buckets, I’ll give him credit for that. He keeps things tidy. Then he gets full and goes to sleep.” Mrs. Murphy laughed at the funny-looking possum, a very sweet soul.

“Oh, he doesn’t content himself with the feed room and the leavings under the horse buckets. He opens that desk drawer every night for candy. It’s a wonder he has a tooth in his head. Really, that’s one of the marvelous aspects of having a beak: no tooth decay.”

“Lucky. I had my teeth cleaned in December. I hate it, but Harry drags me down to Dr. Shulman and they both tell me how good it is for my health. And Pewter screams the entire way. She always knows when it’s a vet trip. What a baby.”

“That cat has such a high opinion of herself.”

“The best—you’ll love this: We were at St. James and Pewter convinced the barn swallows to throw down tail feathers. She picked them up and ran to the humans. Disgraceful.”

The owl’s golden eyes glittered as she laughed. “And they believed her?”

“That’s the terrible part, they did!”

“Even Harry?” Flatface asked.

“Even Harry.”

“I thought she had more sense than that. I heard she left the post office. How’s she doing?”

“Mmm, her attention is focused on the murders. I don’t know what she’ll be like once she can think about her future.”