They Say I Have Nine Lives

I am named Rotten Orange for my vibrant fur and, perhaps, difficult personality. The Old Man dubbed me so because I torment Yappy Dog when he is let out to do his business. It’s just so easy to get Yappy Dog going. I can’t resist. I simply stroll through the yard overgrown with clouds of white and yellow dandelions, wait until the small hound is midway through his shameful act he doesn’t even bury (barbaric), and then yowl until he chases me through the weeds.

The yard is a forest of weeds for small creatures such as us, and shortly after the chase begins, I leap and claw up the yard’s solitary tree so that I can watch Yappy Dog chase only himself around and around the dandelions that explode in his wake. When his slick black fur is dappled white and yellow, I call from the tree, “Up here, Yappy Dog.” I casually lick my paw as he scrabbles at the flaking bark, his sharp yaps I can only intuit as praise for my cleverness and quickness.

The Old Man wrenches open the sliding door and pinches his bottom lip, delivering a screaming whistle that startles a wave of birds from the upper branches of my tree. Even I, as sure-footed as I am, need to crouch low and cling to my perch with all 23 claws.

Yappy Dog gives one last growl and trots back to Old Man. I wonder what Yappy Dog would do if I ever let him catch me, and then leap from the tree branch to the wooden fence sun-bleached gray.

That other dog is loose again. I’ve named him the Dark One despite his white fur. His neck is raw and weeping from the chain he slips. His eyes are hateful. His owner shattered his spirit long ago and filled the cracks with molten malice. I pity the beast— from a distance. I’ve seen what he’s done to small creatures.

I’ll stay up here, I think, crouching low on the fence. The mailman’s truck lumbers down the quiet street. She stays in her truck, quickly shoving envelopes into each mailbox because she’s spotted the Dark One who growls, slaver dripping from yellow teeth.

I hear the Old Man’s screen door squeal open. He doesn’t see the Dark One, but the large white dog sees him. He has yet to attack a human, but he crouches now and, with fleet feet, he trots towards the Old Man.

Yappy Dog has seen the Dark One though, and he launches his body against the unlatched screen door. He doesn’t even yap, just runs. Stupid dog! His jaws are as big as you!

The Old Man doesn’t realize he’s in trouble. Not until Yappy Dog shoots past him and into the waiting jaws of the Dark One.

The Dark One shakes Yappy Dog like a chew toy, and the Old Man is scared but he stumbles forward with cane raised. He almost falls.

What am I doing? I run too. I’m larger than Yappy Dog but still snack-size compared to the Dark One. I run, but again, what am I doing? I’m running towards the beast like a Rotten Orange out of hell.

I slam my whole body into the Dark One’s ribs, all four paws making contact. I’ve managed to shock him enough that he drops Yappy Dog. I can’t see if Yappy Dog still moves because now the Dark One has me in his jaws.

That is, he only has fur and flesh in his sharp teeth. I’m no little dog he can rattle like an old rope. I’m a cat, and I turn in my own flesh as if my shape were a mere suggestion. He has me by the skin of my back, and yet I twist and rake my claws across eyes and nose. I bite and scream and scratch. The scents of all our blood mingle.

I twist again to carve into his throat. That is when the Old Man, with fists as solid as cinder blocks, hammers into the Dark One’s head. He’s dropped his cane but he keeps a wide stance. The Dark One unhinges his jaws, and I land next to Yappy Dog. He still breathes. He tries to get up.

“Stay down,” I hiss, watching the Dark One take an unsteady step back. The white dog’s eyes bounce between us and the Old Man though.

“I’ll kill him. I swear I’ll kill him if he hurts my person,” Yappy Dog growls, a rather impressive rip for one so small. It’s now I realize that while I was toying with him, he was only playing as well.

The Old Man shouts and hobbles forward. His legs are weak, but there’s a barely perceptible whistle of wind when he swings his fists. The Dark One gives one last growl to save face, but he retreats.

A moment of peace. I close my eyes. The blood that I didn’t realize roaring in my ears slows.

***

Oh, I’m not dead yet. My memory does become a bit spotty though. I remember Old Man scooping up our limp bodies. I remember curling around Yappy Dog and licking his head to comfort myself as well as him as the world zips by us out a small window. I remember a woman in a white coat whom I spit at so she knows I am Rotten Orange and I am not weak. She says I surely have nine lives before she sticks me with a needle.

I have a strange dream. I don’t remember it, but it always feels like I can if only I could break through the… something in my mind.

I remember being inside Old Man and Yappy Dog’s house and thinking how nice it felt to sleep on a pillow even with my head ensconced in a plastic cone of shame.

This first life goes on. I spend my days chasing Yappy Dog whose name is Hulk, oddly enough. The Old Man’s grandson named the black chihuahua. I’ve never heard that vicious growl Yappy Dog -Hulk- used on the Dark One except once more when he warned me to never, ever, hurt his people. And Hulk had quite a few people. The Old Man and the sons, the daughters, the grandkids that visit. Eventually, they all became my people too.

My name stays Rotten Orange despite a brief attempt by the grandson who named Hulk to rename me Spider-man.

All things considered, this is not a bad first life.

Then a day comes, when Hulk is more gray than black, and I’m just so tired. The Old Man lets us into the backyard. Hulk gives my tail a quick nip and I give him a clawless swat before he does his shameful business outside rather than using the perfectly good box in the house. Dumb dog.

I shamble into the clouds of white and yellow dandelions. I haven’t gone beyond the sun-bleached fence since that last day with the Dark One but this forest of weeds has been enough for a small creature such as me.

I lie down, graceless and tired. I see the house -my house- peeking through the dandelions.

This was a good first life.

***

“Hey, Orange. You’re going to want to wake up. The yarn herd is going to roll on by soon.”

I blink and through white and yellow dandelions I see another cat. I’m about to hiss and call for Hulk to help me get the intruder, but then I notice that all is not the same.

The striped tabby is standing on her hind legs. She’s wearing a sunshine yellow apron and balanced on her hip is a basket overflowing with bushels of cat grass. I feel silly for standing on all four paws, back arched, and fur standing on end.

It doesn’t feel natural at first, but I rise to stand on hind legs and finally see the strange new world where I begin my second life.