Life Among the Hu-man

By John Giblin

Rayon de Lumiere is a free-born feline who lands in Hosannah, Missouri with the hope of coaxing from the hu-man a free meal. Hosannah is not the deep South but far enough south that the good residents know how to handle a cat, especially an uppity one that doesn't know its place. Rayon should have known better but hunger makes a body stupid. Getting in town was easy, getting out won't be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Giblin
• Release date: Apr 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476091099

John Giblin

Mr. Giblin lives in California with his wife and son and enjoys spending time with all the characters in his life.

Book preview

Life Among the Hu-man

By

John Giblin

Copyright 2012 John Giblin

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

Strip away all the hoopla from life, the fancy food, a soft bed, a warm fire, and what it comes down to is making certain you take your next breath. That your hide stays where it was meant to be and doesn’t wind up nailed to the side of a barn.

I believe I am luckier than most of those I have had the occasion to know. I grew up in a loving home with a mother who managed to keep her family gathered close. There are many who have no recollection of mother or family. That I admit saddens me. No one should face his days without the recollection of a beginning.

Life squashes a head down enough as it is.

For my medium size I am in possession of a large appetite. I swear, on most days, the noisiest part of me is my stomach. When young, I had the idea that it ran the full length of my body, from throat to rear end.

My nose, in cahoots with my stomach, was the reason my body veered out from the safety of the tall grass, slithered under the boards of an unkempt fence, and placed its pads on ground that reeked of the hu-man.

Until that moment, my years were counted by the time I spent apart from the hu-man. I knew little about them. I had lived, at times, where they were but couldn’t say I understood them. Like most of those my age, I was not without opinion. The hu-man I find crass, possessive, and, at times, cruel. In general, a nuisance. And they were noisome. The older they were, the worse it got.

In the matter of my nose, it was that very tip of my face that led me to the edge of the alley, a narrow eight body-length wide brick and cement canyon, bordered on two sides by walls, open to the sidewalk on the front end, closed by a high fence opposite.

Not a safe place with only one clear exit.

Pushed up against the far end of the west-facing building stood three gray cans, one of which my nose told me held a prize.

I had not eaten in two days.

Funny thing about hunger, when your stomach’s empty all you think about is filling it.

But hunger clouds good judgment.

I crossed the alley and slipped between the cans with a silence that would have made my mother proud. A stack of wooden crates provided a handy stepladder. Three jumps and I stood above the cans. A whiff caught on the breeze turned my head to the third can, whose top lay ajar. The prize was somewhere under that lid. I crept across the rippled lid of the first can and sat on the lip of the second. With a push, the lid of the third slid back far enough for a head and a paw, all I needed to snatch up an easy meal.

My paw was separating food from paper when from behind me came a squeak. Any unknown sound is enough to send me flying toward the nearest escape route but on this morning, with my stomach whining, I got careless. I thought I had a moment longer.

The straw of a broom passed so close to my arched back the hair in my ears fluttered.

A second swipe of the broom started back toward me as I sprang from the can. The force of my leap pushed it back toward the stoop where a hu-man female stood, blocking any chance of the hu-man chasing me. I leaped over the fence with height to spare. My jump landed me in a second alley, which opened out onto a street, the center of the town’s business district I guessed. Being in the center of things is never the safest place for a Wanderer. My instincts told me to get under cover fast.

I made a hard left turn between two buildings and zigzagged down a passageway of body-high weeds until I reached the far end.

Always before a change of direction, I have made it a rule to stop and scout the route to make sure I wouldn’t turn into any lurking danger. This time I didn’t do that. Blame it on my close brush with the broom.

I made the turn. In front of me was a wood-slatted porch. A quick dash and a jump between the slats and the shadows beneath the porch would cover any trace of my presence. I was a body-length away from the face of the first slat when what sounded like the snorts of a bulldog yanked me to a stop.

You sure are in a hurry.

I froze, my head bounced up as if it were mounted on springs. My eyes locked onto the largest hu-man I had ever seen.

You must have the Sheriff and his dogs after you. That would be the only reason I’d run that hard.

The male hu-man was perched on the porch, his boot-covered feet stretching down the length of three stairs. A hu-man is more apt to kick when their feet are covered.

I would keep my eyes on this one.

You’re not from around here, I can tell that by looking at you. Piece of advice my furry friend: Hosannah isn’t a safe place for strays. My fellow citizens don’t much like your kind. If I were you, I’d get myself owned and indoors faster than a mouse can eat cheese, maybe faster.

A deep laugh rolled out of the hu-man. I, for one, had not twitched a whisker. My eyes watched for the slightest stiffening of a muscle or the folding of fingers, anything signaling an attack.

The hu-man sat there, seemingly quite content with my presence, his hand cupping the bowl of a pipe whose stem disappeared between two puffy lips. His arms and legs were the thickness of tree trunks; his head held nothing more than a thinning patch of black fur, around the mouth was an oval-shaped pool of fur.

The hu-man started talking again, as if in the company of an old friend. This is the one time each day I allow myself the pleasure of a smoke, not a habit I would recommend to anyone, but it seems to work for me.

I sensed no immediate threat, not with him seated. No matter how quick the hu-man, I would have six of his leg lengths between us before he could get his feet under him.

You’re welcome to join me inside for a drink of milk, if you don’t have someplace you need to be.

He sucked twice on what now was an unlit pipe then reached down to tap it on the side of the porch. His movement sent me back on my haunches, my body curved, ready for flight.

Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you. He pushed off with his arms and stood up. I was out at mid-yard before I turned to watch his next move.

Not use to people, huh? I’ll make my milk offer real easy. You wait right there; I’ll be back before you can wipe a nose.

He turned and disappeared through a doorway whose door looked like it had not seen fresh paint in its lifetime.

I leaned back on my haunches with two choices: cross the yard and shimmy under the back fence and be finished with this hu-man or stay with the hope of feeding an empty stomach.

My position had me directly in front of the stairs and the open doorway, with an unobstructed view of a small inside pantry. From here, I would be able to see his approach and, if he carried anything resembling a weapon (brooms are a favorite with the females), I would be long gone before the threatening hu-man could set a foot on the porch.

He stepped out carrying a bowl.

As promised, here you are, one bowl of triple Grade A milk, fresh from the cow.

I did not have to see the milk to know it was there, I could smell it.

I’ll put it down right here so you can help yourself whenever. He scooted the bowl next to the first stair down and then walked back through the open door.

My stomach yowled from the first smell of that milk.

I kept my belly not more than a whisker thickness from wood as I climbed the four stairs with the silence of a spider running the length of a wall. I nudged the bowl, tucked my chin over the rim, and lapped away the silky-white liquid.

I drank my fill and then set about to clean myself. No matter the circumstance, there is no excuse for poor grooming habits, a point my mother repeatedly stressed to all her young.

My work finished and my fur pristine, curiosity got the best of me. The open doorway was a temptation I found too great to pass up.

My steps came with the caution: a careless Wanderer is a dead Wanderer. Advice I would cut in my fur if I knew a Wanderer who owned a pair of shears.

I crept left until my fur grazed the flat of a wall. From there, I could easily reverse my course and be under the porch in the swish of a tail.

With whiskers pressed against the doorjamb, I peered around the corner into the dark of a strange new