From: Lisa McDavid Subject: DTD: Feline Humoresque Ok, I didn't know what else to call this, and I didn't want to scare off anyone who was too downed by my serious Dawn to Dusk ending. Note: "Sydney" is spelled thus, from what I remember after seeing the script of Only the Lonely at the Gerthering. She hadn't called because she *had* gone in. The telephone wasn't going to be enough. Vengeance was going to be exacted in person. "Somebody stake me -- please?" thought Nick. He slumped into the nearest chair as his eyes took on a far-off expression. ******************************************************************** It had seemed such a little thing when the pet sitter cancelled. You can take the knight out of the Middle Ages, but not the Middle Ages out of the knight. Nick had always wanted to go on quests and slay dragons for Natalie. Of course he'd be happy to feed Sydney. He'd even change the litter box. Natalie could enjoy her convention in Hawaii in peace. Nat's quick kiss as she hurried off to the airport was reward enough. The first six days had been easy. Just open a packet of Tender Vittles, refill the water bowl, and scoop the litter box. Sidney actually condescended to play with the Cat Dancer when Nick dangled it. "Don't worry about changing the box," Nat had said. "I left him fresh litter. I'll fix it when I get home." But no, he had to surprise her. The plastic liner obviously turned inside out and closed with the included drawstring. Supplies were in the linen closet. Nick replaced the liner, poured in the rest of the bag of litter and mixed in the box of baking soda as deodorant. He carried the old liner and its cargo out to the dumpster behind Nat's building. Something flicked past the corner of Nick's eye. He turned and went rigid with horror. Sydney was watching him curiously from the top of the boundary wall. Nick had closed and locked the door behind him. His perfect vampire memory assured him of that. Besides, his vampire senses came up empty when he scanned Nat's apartment. "Nice Sydney. Good boy," said Nick placatingly. "Come here, boy." Sydney stared at him. "Come here!" Nick reiterated in his best command-voice. This time Sydney distinctly sneered, before he jumped down on the street side of the wall. Nick soared after him. The cat was sitting on the roof of the Caddy. "Ok, boy," said Nick, walking slowly and smoothly toward Sydney. He held out his hand. "That's a good cat. That's a --" The medieval Netherlandic phrase which finished the sentence was not the one Nick had intended, nor was it an accurate description. For one thing Sydney had long since been neutered. *Of course* the blood where Sydney clawed him went through the open window onto the Cadillac's ulpholstery. Blood was the devil's own job to get out of the fabric. Sydney sprang down to the pavement and headed across the road. Nick followed, keeping up a stream of blandishments which earned him only a feline moue. As Sydney reached the small park on the other side he looked pointedly over his shoulder. The gesture he made with one hind leg was normally used to cover things in his box. "Don't be ridiculous," said Nick to himself. "He's a cat. You can't be insulted by a cat. Ok, pal, no more Mr. Nice Guy!" Nick lunged for Sydney at vampire warp speed. The crash with which he impacted the ground was quite impressive. So was the dent in the turf. Sydney, who had teleported some twenty feet away, watched with considerable interest as Nick got to his feet and clutched a tree for support while waiting for his ears to stop ringing and his vision to clear. In fact, Sydney was quite sporting. He didn't charge out in front of the old lady and her Pekingese until Nick was able to intervene. Then he paused to shred only one of Nick's trouser legs. He left the other for the Peke to chomp. He didn't even get all the way out of sight while the old lady was yelling at Nick and hitting him with her handbag. He considerately waited for Nick to mesmerize her before he moved along on his agenda. Sydney laid a course for the bright lights downtown, by way of the darkest alleys and and most questionable drains. After dodging the third would-be mugger in ten minutes, Nick switched to aerial surveillance. "He's just a cat," Nick kept repeating. It became a mantra. "He's just a cat. He's got to get tired and go to sleep some time. Cats are nocturnal. He's going to hole up somewhere before sun-up." By now the Raven was only a few blocks away. Nick was trying to calculate the number of decades it would take to live down the gossip if he really did ask Janette and the regulars to help him capture one ordinary, mortal cat when Sydney spotted the fish and seafood restaurant across the street. The cat gave a cry of triumph like Blackbeard sighting a treasure fleet and hurtled across the asphalt into the parking lot. Blackbeard's competition, however, was an ice cream social when compared to the reaction of the feline regulars at the restaurant dumpster. The battle sounds reminded Nick of the London blitz. The kitchen staff misconstrued the pandemonium. Good citizens that they were, they rang 911 to report a murder in progress. Dispatch passed the alarm on to all units as a code red. By the time the first police car screeched to a halt at the kitchen door the lights and sirens had scattered the combatants. The first responders included an off-duty I.A. officer who had investigated Nick after LaCroix's frame attempt and one of the uniforms who had transported him when he broke out of the van. Nick dared not be found at the scene of a supposed murder, minus corpse but with torn and bloody trousers and an invisible cat as an excuse. He tried to phone Schanke, intending to call in a favor and get an APB put out on Sydney. Too late! Schanke had gone home early because he was coming down with Jenny's chicken pox. Kupinski picked up the phone and seemed to consider Nick's request the funniest thing since David Letterman. Schanke had left the speaker switch on again. The hilarity level in the squad room quickly reached critical mass. Nick slammed down the receiver and flew back to retrieve his car. He left a note on Nat's door, asking her to call him at home on her car phone before she went inside. ******************************************************************** The flashback dissolved as the lift door opened and someone got out. Nick didn't stand up or look around. "Good evening, Detective Knight," said Capt. Cohen. "Did you know you left your street door open? I suppose I should have buzzed you, but Sydney takes both arms. Nick shot up from the chair and corkscrewed to face her. Sydney rode with calm dignity against her shoulder. Nick could hear him purring. "What? I mean, no, I didn't -- I mean how, that is where ..." The Captain scratched the side of Sydney's neck. "I heard you on the phone. When it was time to go home, I just drove over and there he was." "But I looked when I went back for my car," said Nick. He ran both hands through his hair. "Dr. Lambert's new apartment? She moved what, about two weeks ago." Capt. Cohen set the cat down on the sofa. "You don't know much about cats, Detective." One of Amanda Cohen's rare smiles lit her face. "No," confessed Nick. "I don't." "I thought so. Two weeks isn't long enough. He wanted to go home to his territory. All I had to do was check the old address. Sydney was sitting patiently on the doorstep." Capt. Cohen hitched up her shoulder bag. The phone shrilled. Nick's answering machine message began but Nat's voice cut in over it. "Nick, pick up now! What the hell is this about not going in and where's Sydney --" Capt. Cohen mouthed "good night" and departed. "M'rrow!!" complained Sydney as Nick grabbed him under one arm and hurried to pick up. "Sydney's here and everything's fine, Nat. You're not going to believe what he did ...." **************************** The End ****************************