THE CAT WAS BACK, which was fine with Sanders because he sure as hell wasn’t getting any writing done. Hadn’t the whole time he’d been here. Blame the cold, the rain, and now the cat. Even when it was dry, the magnificent desolation of North Wales distracted him, too.
This soaked, mewling, clay-colored cat gargoyled at the window over the kitchen sink.
One more distraction: fuming over the success of his ex-girlfriend’s debut novel – a “thinly-veiled” chronicle of their failed relationship – which had gotten her an agent and six-figure deal only a few months after she’d graduated from the MFA program in Vermont.
Sanders was working on his fourth novel. The first two never hooked an agent, after hundreds of queries. The third did, but failed to get picked up by fifty-three different publishers before his agent, David Shale, one of NYC’s hottest rising reps, told him it was over. Both the submission and their business relationship.
That word again. Relationship.
A week after, David became Marilyn’s agent, wouldn’t you know it, and Sanders imagined it was much more than a business relationship.
So… the cat.
She’d lurked outside these few weeks he’d been in this cottage, rented for two months, badly squeezing his savings and the patience of his family. His contract wasn’t renewed at the University of Minnesota at Mankato, so he jumped ship a semester early. He borrowed some money from Dad for the flight and cottage.
His few friends asked, “Why Wales?”
Sanders couldn’t say. He hadn’t known much about the place except for dragons and wilderness and mining and a weird language of mostly consonants which sounded like wizards and orcs, perfect inspiration for a fantasy epic.
His finger had hovered over the button for a ticket to Ireland before he had second thoughts. Nearly every white male American writer looked to Ireland for inspiration. Romantic pubs, rich mythology, a grand sense of humor and lots of green. Redheaded lassies, too.
He expanded the view on Google Maps to the entire British Isles. If it was down to luck, he wouldn’t have any expectations. Thus, he made a spitball from a corner of a page in Marilyn’s book – he’d annotated the goddamned thing – and launched it at the screen.
Wales it was.
In winter.
Sanders had made a terrible mistake.
The cat wouldn’t let Sanders come closer for most of the first week. Not that he wanted to pick her up or pet her. Allergies. His only pets as a child were salamanders, which saddened his dog-loving dad to no end. Could the previous tenant have fed her? Given her a dry place to sleep? The idiot must not have thought about the consequences. What if the next long-term renter doesn’t want to be within ten feet of a cat? Or if the cottage goes empty for weeks? Almost a cruelty to feed the cat when you consider it.
Maybe he should write about a cat.
Why would he want to write about a cat?
He constantly asked himself why he would want to write about pretty much everything. Today a cat, yesterday a pub landlord, three days ago a witch. Last week, a hitman with a broken heart, a cowboy seeking to prove himself in the gold-rush-era Old West, a cycling star trying to stage a comeback at thirty-eight after a life-changing crash.
On and on.
The second week, she’d come closer still when Sanders was out front, vaping and staring at a mostly blank page. At the top he’d written: Literary fantasy? Or regular fantasy?
Might as well branch out after the failures of 1) experimental second-person-point-of-view novel called The Friends of Bob Dylan, 2) literary thriller about a professor who realizes his wife and stepchildren are actually sleeper agents from another country, and 3) his own take on two years with Marilyn, the one Shale couldn’t sell. When he reread it after all the rejections, whatever he’d found dramatic about it was now boring as dirt.
The cat had finally decided to brush against his leg during a cold late-afternoon sitting in the front terrace. His hand automatically dropped to pet her, and she didn’t dart away.
He sighed. “Wait here.”
Inside the cottage, he grabbed a chunk of cheese and brought it out to her.
He crumbled it on the paving stones. “Happy now?”
She kept showing up, and Sanders had fallen for her a bit. Bought her some proper cat food in tins. After all, he was going to stay another full month, not a week or two.
By then, Sanders had struggled through twelve pages of his fantasy novel, beginning with a wizard in a pub, exhausted, hungry, and penniless. He conjures his way into having one of the rowdy patrons buy him a drink, which he sees through. The man and his friends threaten to pummel the wizard to within an inch of his life. Next, Sanders needed to write about the dark, silent assassin who emerges from the shadows to save the wizard.
An assassin? Really? Why did every fantasy story sound exactly the same?
How many fantasy novels did you read before trying to write one?
He closed his eyes. One hundred pages of A Song of Ice and Fire, and The Dark Tower when he was a teenager.
Now, he’d binged every fantasy TV series he could find on Netflix. Didn’t that count?
The cat on the windowsill amped up the mewling, like she was in pain. She scratched at the window.
“Okay. Okay.”
He closed his laptop, got his raincoat, and snugged into his black Adidas trainers – trainers, tennis shoes, whatever. The cat kept crying, watching his every move. He unlocked the door into the small, fenced-in backyard – “garden,” they called it here, but there was no grass, just tiles and rocks – abutted against a rocky slope. The rain gusted in, shocking him with cold.
The cat hopped from the window to the ground, pattered towards the granite wall, turned halfway and said in cat. Come on.
“You want me to follow you?”
Me-OW.
“You’re not hurt?”
Must be she had a litter of kittens somewhere. Oh, man, not one of the kittens. His heart couldn’t take it.
MEORRWWWWWWWAL-UH!
“Alright! Yes ma’am.”
Sanders hadn’t been out here much. It was claustrophobic, with wooden fences on either side, bins for glass, plastic, paper and trash, plus a couple of wicker chairs and matching table he hadn’t sat in yet. The cat effortlessly hop up and across the rock shelves sloped above, losing his breath peering up.
Me-OWOWOW.
“I’ll break my neck if I –”
The cat hopped higher then looked down at him.
“You’re going to fall.”
Right. Saying this to the cat who climbed up and down this same wall countless times a day.
His shoes were soaked. Shaking the raindrops from his glasses made his view worse. He set his frames on the recycling bin.
“The things I do for… I don’t even.”
Up and away.
The mother cat waited as Sanders made his way after her, grabbing onto exposed roots leading to solid ground one street above, a narrow ledge alongside a terrace house. He stood, and was staring into someone’s kitchen window, the elderly woman inside doing a doubletake. Sanders smiled and scurried away.
“You owe me one, cat.”
She needed a name. Mummy? Lovie?
Prudence?
Hadn’t someone in one of the pubs joked with him? A man without prudence is like… something. Like a something. Forget it.
“Dear Prudence. The Beatles. Good enough.”
They’d come to the end of the pavement. The cat kept on towards a wooded area above the last row of homes. Sparse trees, the smell of nature – mildew and rot. The trees were ancient, twisted, skeletal. Prudence stood, her head titled to the side.
Tiny cries. A squirming pile of kittens nested in amongst a tangle of old roots, covered in mud.
Sanders put his hand to his mouth. “Oh no.”
This time, Prudence stayed as Sanders approached. He knelt beside the litter, two black cats, one calico, one patchy gray, and the smallest one a dusky orange – “ginger.”
The ginger kitten didn’t look too hot.
At first Sanders thought the pitiful ball of matted fur might have already passed away. He knelt beside the litter and gently petted the ginger’s head. It stirred and let out a cry, ragged and weak, piercing Sanders’ heart.
He scooped the kitten from the mud as Prudence watched, patient.
The kitten’s right front leg was mangled, as if it had been stepped on, or crushed by a rock. It hung limply as the rest of the kitten curled up in Sanders’ palm.
“This is what you wanted? You want me to help?”
Prudence stepped over to the rest of her litter and began licking the mud off. He held the kitten down for her, a boy, and she licked his face.
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
Prudence rubbed her face against Sanders’ thigh, purring, brushing along his leg.
“It’s Darwinism, isn’t it? Survival of the fittest? I thought you cats were made of sterner stuff.”
Prudence lifted her front paws to his knee and stretched to sniff her smallest child once more before looking directly at Sanders, no joke, and “Mewl! Mewl!”
The muddy ginger ball in his palm shivered.
He stood. “Fine, girl. You got me. Let’s go get him stitched up.”
The closest vet for housepets – as opposed to farm animals – was a twenty minute drive to Porthmadog, on the harbor. It was the most modern town Sanders had come across in North Wales, if by modern you meant sea-blasted and time-forsaken. Sure, they had a Tesco and Aldi, plenty of places to eat – including Subway – also the requisite four or five Indian joints you find in nearly every British town. In the States, Sanders hadn’t eaten his first curry until college.
Porthmadog was modern enough to have a vet, but Welsh enough for it to only be open four random days a week, from what Sanders could tell online. He called three numbers before getting the vet on an emergency line and explained his situation.
The connection was awful.
She sounded pissed off. “You say you have a cat?”
“Found. I found a cat. A newborn. His leg’s messed up bad.”
“Can you put a bandage on until tomorrow?”
“It’s way past needing a bandage. He’s going to die. Please. I’ll pay double.”
After chiding Sanders about Americans throwing their money and their weight at every problem, the vet told him to come in.
He carried his cat burrito into the rain and set him in the passenger seat of his rented Dacia Duster, then blasted the heater on the way to Porthmadog. It was a larger car than he’d wanted, but he needed an automatic. Over here, the rental companies had Americans by the balls.
Somehow, Sanders beat the vet to the clinic, the sign outside announcing it as Helping Friends Animal Hospital. The doctor’s car arrived about twenty minutes later. He imagined telling her the kitten could’ve died waiting. Play on her guilt. The vet, like a Minnesota farmer in muddy boots and a parka that enveloped her, raced from her Honda, the rain bucketing down, to the clinic door and unlocked it, waved hurriedly, angrily, for Sanders to follow her in.
He sighed, picked up the kitten, and tucked him close as he made his way into the clinic.
Freezing inside, enough to put the shivering kitten into cryo, soon Sanders heard the rush of central heating, a rarity here from what he’d seen, and relaxed.
It was an older building with stained wood floors and walls patched and painted many times over. A waiting area of three plastic chairs was off to the side, some newspapers scattered among them on the floor, some yellowed with dried pee. The small front desk held towers of files. No computer in sight. On the floor right inside the front door was the saturated parka and the boots – wellies, he saw now.
As the vet ran around in the rear getting the exam room ready, she shouted, “You’re paying twice the price, you know. If you’d waited until the morning, you could’ve saved yourself a lot of money.”
A commanding voice, with the unique accent he would never get used to. Actually, not commanding. Downright frightening.
“He might not live until morning.”
“What you saying? I can’t hear you!”
“I said he may not live until morning!” Louder than he anticipated. So far this had not been the caring and compassionate visit he’d expected.
“That’s what I mean! We’re not miracle workers.”
Was she for real?
The vet walked up front. Short, stout, determined. Her hair was a riot of midnight curls bloomed out from the weather. She shook her head, doglike, spraying water everywhere. The smells coming off her were barnyard and tobacco. A wool jumper and stained jeans. Then she set her eyes on Sanders, a sour expression. In the States, “resting bitch face.”
“May I see?”
Sanders handed over the bundle.
The vet unwrapped the towel. Her nose twitched at the smell. “Aw, Jesus. Should have left him where you found him. Tiny thing, eh? Looks like a rat. Fychan.”
“What?”
“What what?”
You said ‘effie’ or ‘fitchy’.”
“Fychan. A tiny thing is all.”
Sanders couldn’t imagine how to fit whatever she’d said into his mouth, let alone how to get it out again.
“Can you save him?”
“Of course I can save him.” For the first time, a hint of a grin. “Let’s rock.”
While she carried the kitten to the operating table, Sanders strolled around the shop. Leashes and toys and collars and treats for sale, covered in dust. How long since she’d made a sale?
A framed vet’s degree hung on the wall beside the messy desk.
Dr. Heledd Lewis.
Heledd?
Like Helen? Or Hee-led? Or Heh-leed?
“Hey!”
Sanders turned. The doc stood in the doorway, hair now barely contained by a rubber band.
“Are you coming?”
“In back?”
“You brought him in, you get to help.”
“I don’t think I’m –”
“I wasn’t asking. Get in here.”
He noticed her neck was a bit on the thick side, and a white scar under her right eye curved towards her lip. She wore no make-up, a few zits spotting her chin and forehead. Still, some quality about her was, he supposed, appealing.
If she’d only quit yelling at him.
“Snap out of it and help already.”
If he’d ever thought he had a strong stomach, watching the doc at work cured that. No gloves, no masks. The kitten a ragdoll in her hands once the anesthesia set in. The way the woman twisted the teeny guy’s leg every which way, lucky Sanders didn’t puke during the procedure.
Especially when Dr. Lewis said, “His leg’s shite. It’s coming off.”
“Wait, you’re cutting his leg off?”
“Was I not speaking English?” She put on a Texas drawl. “Off, pardner.”
“Can’t you save it? Put it in a cast?”
“You, in all your medical expertise, want to cast this poor baby’s smashed, probably gangrenous leg. If by some miracle it was possible to keep it, the nerve is damaged beyond repair. He’d drag along a withered, useless limb which would eventually, almost certainly, get infected and end up coming off anyway. So, in your expert opinion –”
“I get it, alright. Please, I’m an idiot. Point taken.”
She lifted the kitten’s tail. “Ych a fi.”
“What?”
“Worms. He’s pooping worms. Dear god, what happened to get you in such shape?”
Sanders didn’t want to see wormy poop, but moved around Dr. Lewis for a better view anyway. Man up, Sanders.
Thin mud with white squiggly noodles –
He almost lost it.
Dr. Lewis stuck her arm out to keep him from coming closer. “Back, man. You watch and wait for me to tell you what to do, Yankee Doodle.”
“Sanders.”
“Sorry?”
“My name. My last name, really. It’s what I go by.”
“Colonel? Like the Chicken?”
He thought about his lost position at the college. “Actually, you can call me Professor Sanders.”
The doctor smiled wide. “Well, professor, how about you help by cleaning up the cat shit?”
He ground his teeth together. “Where are the gloves?”
“No need for gloves. Grab some wet wipes. Go, go, go.”
For the next hour, Sanders forgot about the insults as Dr. Lewis focused and amputated the kitten’s leg, and most of his shoulder, asking for his help holding him steady, making sure he was still breathing. When the leg came free, Dr. Lewis laid it aside on the operating table. It was so small, so mangled. Sanders wondered what had caused it. A falling rock? An animal attack? His own mother?
After a while, it seemed the vet forgot Sanders was at her side as she stitched the wound closed. When she was done, Dr. Lewis let out a deep breath and braced her bloody hands flat on the table, shoulders hunched.
Sanders stepped closer. “Now what?”
Head shake. “Now we wait. If he survives the night, he might have a chance. Needs a dewormer, some antibiotics. With any luck, one day he’ll be ready for adoption.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Why? Did you want to keep him?”
Sanders held up his palms. “No, please, I’m not a cat person. I thought I could return him to his mom and the rest of the litter.”
Heledd gasped. Actually gasped. She gave him a nasty snarl.
“What?”
“A whole litter? And you only brought in this wee one?”
“Hey, wait.”
“Did you ever think they might all have worms?”
“I saved his life. His mother led me to him. The whole litter. He was the only sick one.”
She mimed choking him, actually got some blood on him. “Idiot!”
“I brought in a dying cat and you saved him, and I’m paying you for it.”
“It’s not about money! I’m not taking your money! Think about it. An unspayed mother cat. We have no idea how many litters she’s had in her life, and now we have a whole bunch of young unneutered kittens who will grow up to make more kittens filled with worms and diseases. Cat AIDS? Feline leukemia?”
“You made that up.”
“I did?”
“Cat AIDS?”
“Unbelievable. What you did, sir, was guarantee another handful of generations of feral and diseased cats roaming the Welsh countryside. Thank you, Mister, no, wait, Professor Good Samaritan. Job well done. I hope you feel better.”
Sanders’ heart plunged into his stomach as she railed on him.
The fire in her voice, in her thick accent, was giving him goosebumps.
“If not for Prudence, I never would’ve found the litter. I didn’t have pets growing up.”
“You should’ve asked her for help, then.”
“Ask who?”
“Prudence. You said if not for Prudence. Your wife? Girlfriend?”
“No, no, see…” Closed his eyes, silently counted to five. Deep breath. “I named the cat Prudence. Some sort of Welsh saying.”
“You mean, ‘a man without prudence is a ship without an anchor.’”
“That’s it. Yeah. I couldn’t remember the second part.”
He told her about the cottage. About his two month writing retreat. About losing his job. About feeling the obligation of saving this fucking cat because Prudence asked him to, same as if a real person would have.
The doctor kept eye contact, nodding, unblinking while he spoke. It creeped him out. He had to glance away to keep his train of thought. Very much brown, he noticed. She had brown eyes, brown hair, thick brown eyebrows, knitted. Lips, chapped, held tight.
“And here I am.”
“Congratulations. Your savior complex has unleashed a thousand more diseased cats on the world.”
“Oh, come on. You’re exaggerating.”
“I’ve done the math. Let me doublecheck… sorry, I meant two thousand feral cats –”
Standing only a foot apart. Sanders felt the heat between them.
Pretty sure it was one-sided, though.
Instead of the ancient landscape inspiring his writing or helping mend his bitter heart, he couldn’t help being the arrogant, ignorant American, ridiculed by everyone he came across in this country. The laughing stock. He played along at first, buying a round of drinks at the pub, smiling along to their gripes about America on the world stage, ignoring how the United Kingdom wasn’t in the best of health itself.
“Listen. How about I go get them?”
“Again, please?”
“I’ll gather up Prudence and the litter, and bring them all in?”
Heledd cocked her head. “All those cats? By yourself?”
“I could… I mean, unless you want to come help me.”
Under her breath, “Anghredadwy. What a fucker.”
“Jesus, alright, never mind. I’ll bring the litter in tomorrow, how about? I’ll leave them in a basket on your doorstep.”
The doctor’s laugh was nearly a bark. “You think you can herd those cats into your flat, alone…” She shook her head. “Let me set up your survivor in a cage. Bychan thing, isn’t he?”
“Bychan?”
“Tiny fellow. I’ll make sure he’s ready for the night. Say a prayer he’ll live until morning. Then I’ll follow you over.”
“Really, if you don’t want to, it’s about twenty minutes. I can go get them and be right –”
“You have no idea what you’re doing, Professor. Professor of what, anyway?”
“Writing. Creative Writing.”
“You poor thing.”
He laughed. “Thanks for the sympathy. What do you read?”
“Magazines, mostly. Silly. All the celebrity gossip.” She busied herself the exam room, putting a blanket in a cage at eye level. Five rows of “cells,” two per row. There were others in a couple of the cages – a black cat, a tiny Chihuahua – and then a larger dog, could be a sheepdog, in a much bigger cage off in the corner, staring at them, making a high pitched whine. She spent a moment with each, changing her voice – higher for the big dog, lower for the small ones.
“No books, though? Fiction?”
“Sometimes, on holiday. Murder. Do you write those? Murder books?”
“Not much. I write, um, literary fiction.”
“La-di-dah, you say? Anything I might understand, or does it require a degree?”
As he was about to return fire, she smiled. “Taking the piss.”
“You got me.”
“Ten more minutes, okay?”
He made his way from the exam room to the front, put on his coat, and stepped out into the rain. It had slacked off, and the sun had set, a pall of hazy grayness over everything. After a couple hours of bleach, cat shit, iodine, and wet fur, the cold night air was a relief. Somewhere close, a chippie must’ve been frying up a batch of cod. He’d had enough fish and chips to last him a lifetime already, the odor of grease making him queasy.
He pulled out his vape pen, loaded with a Hawaiian fruit blend. He’d sworn when he started he’d stick to tobacco, then fell for the sweet ones. He felt ridiculous; at least he didn’t do it around others. A guilty pleasure.
Heledd stepped out of the clinic only a moment later, surprising him. He coughed on his pineapple fix and shoved the pen into his coat pocket. She locked the door, then walked over to him. Their cars were side by side, his the mammoth Dacia, hers a small, white Honda hatchback, a heavy coat of dirt and mud all over, probably a solid year’s worth of it.
“What’re you smoking?”
“Nothing.” Oh, yeah, great answer. Like she didn’t already see it. He brought out his pen. “Just, ah, vaping. A bad habit.”
“Vaping, yeah?” She sniffed the air. “Some sort of cotton candy? Fruit?”
“Pineapple.”
“You serious?”
He shrugged. “Can’t explain. Tasty.”
She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bulky jacket. Real cigarettes. Tapped the bottom. “Want to have a real one with me before we go?”
She held out her Sterlings.
“No, thanks, I’m vaping so I can quit –”
“Professor?”
He stopped.
“Take the fucking cigarette already.”
Sanders spent the drive to Tanygrisiau mentally kicking himself.
Caught with pineapple vape?
He’d never live it down.
Especially now driving like his own grandmother, the narrow roads dark, closed in by ancient stone walls and gnarled trees, the only light from his own headlamps, and occasionally from the windows of a nearby home, passing so close to their front doors it was scary. Everything in Wales was scary, he’d decided. Everything here was trying to kill him.
Heledd’s lights weren’t helping. Blinding him in the mirrors. She was right on his ass the whole time. Might have tapped his bumper once.
The sign for his turn appeared out of the nothingness. Up the hill into… what was it, exactly? A village? A subdivision? He wondered how old these roads were, the homes, hanging by a thread on the hillside. It had once obviously been working-class homes, before many of the residents had retired or passed on, their children turning the cottages into Air B&B’s for guests wanting a taste for the country’s harsher terrain, backpacking and hiking, then looking to cozy up in front of a wood-burning stove every night.
Very lush.
Exactly what he’d wanted, too. The hotels in nearby Blaenau Ffestiniog were much cheaper but bare bones. How much “slumming” was he up for? None at all, it turned out.
Couldn’t even pronounce the place. Two f’s? The word starts with two f’s? To remember it at all, he had to say “Bleu cheese festive nog,” which sounded disgusting.
After a few more twists, turns, blind corners and passages his car was nearly too wide for, they arrived at the cottage. Heledd parked behind him on the edge of steep drop.
“D’you call that driving? I thought I might have to get out and push you along.”
“I’m sorry if my driving bothers you. I’ll remember next time I’m trying not to die.”
“I thought Americans were risk-takers. Thrill seekers.”
“I didn’t think Brits were suicidal behind the wheel.”
She stopped walking. Stabbed a finger in his face. “Better apologize.”
“Okay, you’re not suicidal.”
“No, idiot. I’m Welsh. Don’t call me a fuckin’ Brit.”
She started to stomp away, but didn’t know where she was going. Turned to Sanders, her arms wide open. “Where are these cats, Mr. Professor?”
He pointed up. “The top.”
“Are you kidding?”
“I shit you not.”
“Then why did you park here? How are we going to get up top?”
“Um… it’s my spot. This is the cottage I’m renting. Letting.”
“We’re going in your cottage?” She crossed her arms and jutted her hip, the universal pose for Fuck no. More of his dignity being peeled away.
“We need to go through to the garden and climb the rocks. It’s how I found them, Prudence led me to them.”
“We don’t have to climb now that you know where they are, right? You can drive most of the way.”
She was right. Of course she was right. Sanders had tunnel vision. “I guess.”
She groaned the tiniest of groans. “Get in. I’ll take us up.”
The inside of her car was only slightly less dirty than the outside – dash and wheel center-console buttons smeared with dried mud, floorboards caked, the backseat full of papers, animal toys, lots of tennis balls torn in two, and fur everywhere. And it smelled like an ashtray.
Sanders was more worried about surviving than her filthy car, gripping his hands on either side of his seat as Heledd drove nearly vertical up the town roads, hard shifting, onward to the top of the cliffs where the roads turned to ruts and craters. She bounced over them like they weren’t there.
“The trees, you said?”
He was going to be sick. “Yeah. Trees.”
She skidded to a stop at the edge of the copse, headlights not penetrating the shadows cast by the trees. She left the car running, put it into park and got out. Sanders followed on rubber legs.
“I need to figure out where I climbed from.”
“See those trees?” Heledd pointed, as if right into the woods, dead center. “You’d have come in the backside. Where the cliff is.” Dry as sand.
“Not as many trees as I remember.”
“Then this shouldn’t take long. Come on. I’ll get some torches.”
She dug around on her floorboards, tossing papers and toys aside, coming out with two flashlights. Neither had much power. They’d do, though. She handed one over. They started into the trees down a faint path.
“Ever been up here for any other reason?”
Sanders shook his head. “Never thought to.”
“Not even a little curious? It’s kind of mysterious. Dangerous, don’t you think, Professor Writer?”
Sanders remembered some of his friends in Mankato had talked about bears in northern Minnesota when they’d gone camping or deer hunting. “Are there… bears in Wales?”
Her giggles bounced off the cliffs all around, growing louder. “Idiot.”
“I didn’t know, okay?”
“Bears. How about dragons? You think we really have dragons, too?”
“Hey, we have are bears in Minnesota.”
“Ever saw one? In person, I mean.”
Shrug. “Friends, pictures.”
“Never say you saw something if you didn’t see it with your own two eyes.”
“Sure, thanks.”
The trees began to thin out nearer the edge of the cliff, and Sanders got his bearings. Closer and closer, his memory prickling. The roots, the holes, the squirming pile of furry babies… except they were gone. Not a one.
“Right here. I swear, they were right here.”
Heledd crouched down, sniffed, reached her hand into the depression where’d they’d been. She rubbed two fingers together. “Smells like cat piss. Some feces here. More worms.”
“I don’t… they were right here!”
“I believe you.” She stood, turned to him. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about what I said earlier. You did okay.”
“I swear there were four more, all those kitties –”
“S’okay, Sanders.” She laid her fingers on his lips for a moment. He tried to remember if it was the hand with poop and worms on it. “It’s what cats do. She probably wanted you to help, but you took her child away. It’s instinct. She moved them. Happens all the time, I should’ve told you.”
Sanders knitted his eyebrows. “You knew she’d do it?”
“I thought she might.”
“Why come up here, then?”
“Always a chance she hadn’t.” Then a shrug. “Also, you’re an interesting guy. I might be attracted to assholes, or your accent. Buy you a drink, Professor?”
Sanders’ cheeks grew warm. Hadn’t had a clue. Broken radar. “How about I buy you one?”
“See? Asshole. I’ll buy the drinks, then we’ll see who gets the next round.”
She turned on her heel and stomped across the forest floor to her car. Sanders froze in place a moment, then realized what she’d said. He raced to follow her and nearly tripped on the exposed roots.
He woke the next morning, fuzzy memories of a Blaeneu pub, a small, rowdy crowd, peppering him with insults and jokes, buying him pint after pint, until nothing felt steady anymore. Heledd’s laugh, then somehow they reurned to his cottage.
Her lips, chapped, and her tongue, strong. Short, compact, muscled, with small tits. She’d climbed on top and ridden him like a pack mule, and shouted long and loud when she came.
If only he hadn’t been so drunk. Be a shame if it turned out to be a one-night stand. If fact, in a bit of a panic, he turned and reached to the other side of the bed.
Empty.
Fuck.
He sat up, the world tilting. He kept his eyes closed until the spinning stopped, then checked his cell phone. Only six-thirty in the morning. Way too early for a writer. What had jarred him awake?
From outside, “Professor!”
He hopped up, fell over, climbed the side of his bed until he was ready to stand, Heledd calling “Professor” three or four more times. He slipped into sweatpants and a Northstars t-shirt and raced downstairs.
He found the vet in the garden, crouched down by the rubbish bins on bare feet, bare-legged, wearing only her wool jumper pulled tight under her bum. The wind was cycloning through, icy.
“Alrigh’? Come see, Sanders.”
He peeked over her shoulder, and there they were. All the kittens, snug behind the glass recycler. Prudence had stretched on her side, letting Heledd rub her tummy.
“I’ll be damned.”
“You’re a lucky man. After you took the poor little one, she decided you were trustworthy and brought them all down.”
Sanders reached over her and brushed his fingertips against Prudence’s fur. She snapped at him and he flinched. Heledd laughed about as loud as she’d shouted the night before.
“Well, at least she trusts you with the wee ones.”
The doctor rose to her feet, hands on her hips. “To be honest, I woke up thinking I’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.”
“Oh yeah?” His hopes sank. A ship with an anchor, pulling him straight down.
“I mean, it was fun, yeah. Great shag, Tidy.” Bumped him with her hip. “I was going to sneak out. Didn’t have to sneak, you were out of it. Say it was a night out and leave it.”
“Okay… sure. I get it.”
“But, I came down to the loo first, and I hear the kitties. Ms. Pru and the gang here waiting for you. If she likes you enough to bring her babies to you, you can’t be all bad.”
She tiptoed for a quick peck on the lips.
Sanders blinked. “Does that mean I can call you, then?”
“Depends. We’ll see how you handle helping deworm this batch today. Guess you’re my new assistant.”
In the cold gray morning, they named the four remaining kittens: Brychan, Ffranc, Lew, Spare Rib, and Vernon.
“Vernon’s my first name,” Sanders told her.
She made a face. “Sanders is fine, then.”
— ANTHONY NEIL SMITH
Anthony Neil Smith is a novelist, short story writer and professor at Southwest Minnesota State University. One of his pieces was chosen for Best American Mystery and Suspense 2023. He was previously an associate editor with Mississippi Review Web, and is now editor of Revolution John. His short story collection The Ticks Will Eat You Whole is forthcoming in 2025 from Cowboy Jamboree Press.