Sunday, January 19, 2025

Not Even Not Zen 385: Biomythography - Note 122, The Heist

The Heist

Her name was Scrapple. She was a weird-haired cat.

Seen at a distance, Scrapple made houseguests blink. Her hair was neither long nor short. Her parents had been one of each. Her fur offered cropped patches, longish patches, and samples of stuff halfway between. Overall, she was grey-brown colored with flecks of orange. The effect was similar to spices in pork scraps and cornmeal, which is why we named her after the breakfast food. She was a real-life camera lens blur. 

It was Scrapple who instigated the PBS Nature documentary of a Three Stooges routine. She marched up to the sliding glass door on the back deck. She mewled for me to let her in. Our dog, Sam, trotted up behind.

Sam was young and puppy-handsome, a Brittney Spaniel, brown and white. He often walked with his mouth open, panting a smile. He was, apparently, the sort of dog who gets abandoned in the park - although maybe he ran off, he had so much energy as a pup. When left to his own devices in the woods, he started to starve. Well, he didn't try to eat the cats or raccoons in the neighborhood. Or he didn't have any success. Instead, he ate the neighbors laundry off the line. Natural fibers were the closest thing he could find to food.

Our neighbors, the Ganleys, ask my mother for help. They tried to contain the stray, to no success. She offered to take him in. In a few hours, my father had named him Sam because “he looks like a Sam” and, the next morning, I trained him. Someone had to teach Sam not to eat our laundry, after all, and then he was our dog. He followed me everywhere.

“Fine,” I said mostly to myself although a bit to the dog and cat outside. “I suppose …”

Scrapple mewled louder, impatient. I nodded and grabbed the sliding door latch. When I took a look at her, though, I hesitated. I leaned in for a closer look. She had a mouse in her mouth, motionless, freshly killed. It was dark and brown-grey, not easy to see against the background of Scrapple's mottled coat.

I couldn't stop myself from opening the door just a little. My arm had the momentum of my original thought. But I remembered what my mom said about letting bleeding or dead animals into the house. I'd have to clean them up.

"Nope." I slammed the door closed.

“Rrroowww!” Scrapple yelled in protest. I suppose she had a customer service complaint to deliver. But she found herself interrupted.

The mouse dropped from her jaws and came alive at the same instant. Its paws started churning in the air and it hit the deck running. It bounced, once. Scrapple tried to put a paw on top of it but it hopped forward and sideways.

The creature dodged to scoot behind the cat. It ran across the deck between the legs of the dog, the only path of escape. So far, everything had happened in half a second. Sam's reflexes took another quarter-second. He was faster than the cat or rodent. He scooped up the mouse in his jaws as Scrapple spun around to find her prey.

Our cat started patting down the area, searching the deck like someone frantically looking for a dropped treat. Sam froze while his feline housemate let out frustrated peeping sounds, peered between the floorboards, frantically patted the outdoor rug, smacked a cluster of leaves apart, checked a flowerpot, and finally gazed down between the boards of the deck again.

Only the dog's eyes tracked her. He held his limbs still. Even his tail waited, slightly raised, unmoving. 

Scrapple let out a final peep of disappointment. With a glance at at the closed door, she turned away. Her padded paws took her off on a hunt for another mouse.

Sam wagged his tail. He approached the glass pane. After a moment of staring into my eyes, he let out a polite bark.

"Okay." I slid open the door. 

As Sam crept in, I stopped him. He wagged his tail. With my right hand, I patted his head. With my left, I cupped his jaw. I put my fingers into his open mouth. He gave me a knowing look as he panted, dancing and happy. My fingers found nothing. His mouth was empty.

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