The Village of Second Gate

If one asks every cat to imagine a world perfect for themselves, then put every answer in a cocktail shaker in the hands of a competitive bartender with a score to settle, and then pour that concoction into a cat’s second life, the result is the village of Second Gate.

Harley leads me through winding cobblestone streets lined with colorful cat houses. This neighborhood is comparable to my territory in my first life. That is, each cat house has a small front garden with mailboxes shaped like open mouth fish where the mailman -mailcat- will place their deliveries.

Harley, still sneaking bits of cat grass from the basket propped on her hip, explains that there are a few different neighborhoods to cater to bush dwelling or tree dwelling preferences.

“I think I’d prefer something higher up,” I admit.

Harley tosses her head towards what I can only describe as cat tree tenements. “My sister lives in the neighborhood over.”

“Your sister?”

“Yeah, Smokey. She got here a few years before myself.”

I wonder if anyone I know is here. I don’t remember my siblings or if I had any, and I was fixed (as they say), so no little-me’s will pop out and surprise me.

My previously clipped ear twitches.

“Anyway,” she continues. “Let the mayor know your preference, and he’ll get you set up.”

“And a job?”

She shrugs. “If you want. You’ll figure it out.”

For awhile, we walk in silence, passing other cats going about their day. The neighborhood abruptly changes into a business district with a mishmash of structures, a lot of them made from cardboard. I spy a restaurant serving up heaping bowls of noodles to customers seated in a long row at an outdoor bar. The scent of seafood tries to draw me away, but Harley stops me with a paw to shoulder.

Too close to my back so I twitch away. I see that she wants to ask. I suppose it isn’t a big secret, so I sheepishly say, “Dog bite.” It’s an understatement, but she nods in understanding.

“Horrible beasts.”

“Not all of them,” I defend, but I try smiling because I’m about to ask her a stupid question, and I don’t want to offend her before I do. “So do dogs—? Or is it just us cats?” Looking around, it’s obvious. There are cats of every size, coat, and age. Only cats.

“Yup,” she says plainly. If she hates all dogs, her bluntness isn’t surprising. I can’t help the way my tail droops to drag behind me.

I see her glancing at me sideways. “But you know what they say: cats have nine lives and all dogs— ?” She pauses for me to finish the second adage. I hadn’t heard it before, so I wait with downcast eyes.

“All dogs go to heaven.”

Oh, I think I like that a lot.

***

The town hall is a half-timbered building with a hanging wooden sign over the door. The sign is carved with the word rathaus and the image of a toy mouse with a dangling tail underlining the word.

“Go on in,” Harley says, bouncing the basket on her hip. “Tuxedo Joe will tell you where you can settle in.”

“Thanks, Harley. See you around?”

“Yeah, see you around, Rotten Orange.”

I push open the door and the rathaus is a single room overwhelmed with a huge, human-sized wooden desk. It nearly takes up the entire floorspace. In front of the desk is a cat-size stool I can perch on. Taking a seat, my head doesn’t come near the lip of the desk.

“Hello? Excuse me?” I call out. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt so timid, but new places will do that to any cat.

I hear a yawn and see two white paws at the end of black legs stretch over the desk. I hear paper rustling and a hearty thump as the cat rolls off the desk.

Tuxedo Joe, of course, lands on his feet, but a cat so massive can’t help but to have heavy landings. The tuxedo cat stands to his full height before me, his golden eyes narrow. I can’t help feeling on edge due to our size difference. Even if I stand, he’ll still tower over me.

“Welcome to the village of Second Gate!” Tuxedo Joe bellows, raising his front paws as if presenting the village and not just his desk. His white paws look pointed and delicate when compared against the bulk of his body. The only other white on his body is a splotch on his chest that is broken up with a bit of black that makes it look as if he’s wearing a white dickey and black bow tie.

“I am your humble mayor! Please, call me Tuxedo Joe!”

He’s one of those cats, I think. The type of cat who doesn’t meow, but yowls and only yowls.

“I was told that I should come here first for accommodations and that I can tell you my preference—”

“What would you prefer, m’boy? We’ve got cat trees, cat condos, cat tee pees, cat beds that look like you’re sleeping in the mouth of a bigger cat!” Tuxedo Joe pulls out a stack of fliers, each sheet of paper flying with the force of his yowls, and I snatch them out of the air. When he finishes listing all the options, I have lost track of everything, but I have a stack of papers tall enough I have to rest my chin on the top.

“I prefer something high up,” I carefully mumble so my chin doesn’t disturb my stack.

Tuxedo Joe regards me, then pulls a paper from the middle of my haphazard bundle, sending papers sprawling.

“There’s a house in the Grove on the top of an orange tree. Triple-wall corrugated cardboard. That’s as high as I can get you today,” the mayor says, his voice a fraction quieter. “You’ll see signs on each crossroad to help with directions. When you leave here, take a left and you’ll see the crossroad at the library to get you to a signpost.”

I feel like I’ve just walked through a hurricane, but I take the paper Tuxedo Joe extends. “Ah, thank you,” I say, watching the mayor kick the fallen papers into a pile. “Goodbye?” I turn, and Tuxedo Joe’s voice freezes me for a moment.

“A warrior’s mark, eh?”

My back twitches as if his gaze is a physical touch.

“Just a dog bite,” I say and leave before the mayor’s thundering voice can shock me again.

Leaving the rathaus, I am turned towards the Second Gate. It looks just as big and imposing from the middle of the village as it did from the outskirts. If I thought the mayor made me feel small and cornered, the Second Gate compounds that feeling until I have to stamp down the urge to flee into a bush.

No, I am Rotten Orange, I think with a petulant sneer towards the gate. I’m not afraid.

But when the ruby eyes of the Second Gate ignite like spotlights, the world is bathed in a bloody hue, and I cry out with all the other cats.