an excerpt from
Catsgiving
On Thanksgiving morning, the pigeons perched high on the golden equestrian statue of General William Tecumseh Sherman. At the foot of the marble base was a gathering of cats. If any humans had been paying attention, which they weren't, they'd have seen the cats trot along the sidewalk, double file, down Fifth Avenue.
At Fifty-third Street they gathered on the steps of St. Thomas church, and Sing Sing called the roll. With all cats accounted for, he conferred with the two locals.
"Each of youse takes at least one mitten paw and two bag cats for each joint. Wump should wait here. He's the best listener and the loudest yowler. If we gets turned around, we just sings, and he'll yowl until we finds our way back here."
At Fifty-third Street they gathered on the steps of St. Thomas church, and Sing Sing called the roll. With all cats accounted for, he conferred with the two locals.
"Each of youse takes at least one mitten paw and two bag cats for each joint. Wump should wait here. He's the best listener and the loudest yowler. If we gets turned around, we just sings, and he'll yowl until we finds our way back here."
Two by two the ferals spread out toward several small shops and delicatessens. Cats swarmed through their selected doors, schmoozing with customers, knocking merchandise from the shelves and swatting it toward the mitten paws, who stuffed it into bags.
Sing Sing shamelessly wrapped himself around ankles, while Stuka scrambled up shelves, knocking over boxes of crackers, climbing toward the chosen prize.
A fat salami, hanging above the counter.
Sing Sing watched with pride as the kitten leaped, grabbed, and expertly swung the salami loose. The two big cats waiting beneath caught the prize in the bag they held between them and ran for the door. Sing Sing was right behind them, yowling at the kitten.
"Stuka! Vamoose!"
Stuka was the last cat out, running as fast as his short legs would carry him to catch up to the others. He got left behind at a crosswalk, but he stuck with the human pedestrians and got safely across, never taking his eyes off the church.
Wump had barely begun his second siren yowl when Stuka bounded up the steps to join the ferals. The gang was still congratulating itself on the haul when Sing Sing called the roll. Each cat sounded off.
"All cats present and accounted for," Sing Sing purred. "And we got a great haul to take for the pot luck. Right! Off ta Ghoul Daddy-o's! Stick wit yer buddy," he reminded them. "If youse get separated from the group, remember we takes the E to Twenty-third. But do not get separated, okay? Do not be stragglers."
Two by two the cats went down the stairs into the subway station. They stayed along the wall, out of sight of the station booth. Two by two they slipped through the gates and turnstiles, down another flight of stairs to the downtown platform. What humans were around avoided them, and the smarter rats stuck to the shadows by the tracks.
When the train pulled in, the cats clustered at the entrance to one car, tails twitching. Humans jumped back as the doors opened and the cats swarmed aboard, yowling.
"Mind da gap!" was the feline cry most humans couldn't understand. No one called Animal Control. It was a holiday, after all. Why shouldn't the cats be riding the subway? They obviously had places to go and people to see, just like other New Yorkers.
As the train pulled out, each cat sounded off again, letting Sing Sing know they were all aboard.
The cats stayed in a huddle, with Wump and the bag cats in the center. The ride seemed to take forever, so Sing Sing made up a song and taught it to the rest. To the humans at the stations along the way, they were just a car full of yowling cats, best left alone. To some, the cats seemed to be singing a familiar tune. Some smiled in recognition, some laughed at the cats' parody, but most put the perception down to their own fond holiday memories. The cats sang their song over and over, even old Wump joining in, until Sing Sing yowled louder.
"Line up, youse! Twenty-third Street next stop!"
Wump had the bag cats lined up at one door. Sing Sing, with Stuka at his side, lined the rest up at another door. "Everybody turn right and go up the nearest staircase."
"Got it!" the gang answered. Then they sounded the battle cry of the day as the doors opened.
"Mind da gap!" they yowled, leaping two by two off the train to gather on the platform and trot in double file upstairs.
Sing Sing was minding Stuka, who was eager to get above ground. The bag cats were minding their cargo, putting all their concentration into getting everything upstairs intact. Wump had been ahead of the bag cats getting off the train, but he paused at the bottom of the stairs to make sure they were all accounted for. His old body also needed to catch its breath after all the singing and the jump off the train.
The last pair of bag cats were only a couple steps ahead when Wump started his climb. Intimidated by the distance, the old tom put his head down and hauled himself up one step at a time until he finally reached the top.
Sing Sing shamelessly wrapped himself around ankles, while Stuka scrambled up shelves, knocking over boxes of crackers, climbing toward the chosen prize.
A fat salami, hanging above the counter.
Sing Sing watched with pride as the kitten leaped, grabbed, and expertly swung the salami loose. The two big cats waiting beneath caught the prize in the bag they held between them and ran for the door. Sing Sing was right behind them, yowling at the kitten.
"Stuka! Vamoose!"
Stuka was the last cat out, running as fast as his short legs would carry him to catch up to the others. He got left behind at a crosswalk, but he stuck with the human pedestrians and got safely across, never taking his eyes off the church.
Wump had barely begun his second siren yowl when Stuka bounded up the steps to join the ferals. The gang was still congratulating itself on the haul when Sing Sing called the roll. Each cat sounded off.
"All cats present and accounted for," Sing Sing purred. "And we got a great haul to take for the pot luck. Right! Off ta Ghoul Daddy-o's! Stick wit yer buddy," he reminded them. "If youse get separated from the group, remember we takes the E to Twenty-third. But do not get separated, okay? Do not be stragglers."
Two by two the cats went down the stairs into the subway station. They stayed along the wall, out of sight of the station booth. Two by two they slipped through the gates and turnstiles, down another flight of stairs to the downtown platform. What humans were around avoided them, and the smarter rats stuck to the shadows by the tracks.
When the train pulled in, the cats clustered at the entrance to one car, tails twitching. Humans jumped back as the doors opened and the cats swarmed aboard, yowling.
"Mind da gap!" was the feline cry most humans couldn't understand. No one called Animal Control. It was a holiday, after all. Why shouldn't the cats be riding the subway? They obviously had places to go and people to see, just like other New Yorkers.
As the train pulled out, each cat sounded off again, letting Sing Sing know they were all aboard.
The cats stayed in a huddle, with Wump and the bag cats in the center. The ride seemed to take forever, so Sing Sing made up a song and taught it to the rest. To the humans at the stations along the way, they were just a car full of yowling cats, best left alone. To some, the cats seemed to be singing a familiar tune. Some smiled in recognition, some laughed at the cats' parody, but most put the perception down to their own fond holiday memories. The cats sang their song over and over, even old Wump joining in, until Sing Sing yowled louder.
"Line up, youse! Twenty-third Street next stop!"
Wump had the bag cats lined up at one door. Sing Sing, with Stuka at his side, lined the rest up at another door. "Everybody turn right and go up the nearest staircase."
"Got it!" the gang answered. Then they sounded the battle cry of the day as the doors opened.
"Mind da gap!" they yowled, leaping two by two off the train to gather on the platform and trot in double file upstairs.
Sing Sing was minding Stuka, who was eager to get above ground. The bag cats were minding their cargo, putting all their concentration into getting everything upstairs intact. Wump had been ahead of the bag cats getting off the train, but he paused at the bottom of the stairs to make sure they were all accounted for. His old body also needed to catch its breath after all the singing and the jump off the train.
The last pair of bag cats were only a couple steps ahead when Wump started his climb. Intimidated by the distance, the old tom put his head down and hauled himself up one step at a time until he finally reached the top.
The gang was nowhere in sight. Wump turned full circle, walking around the station entrance to look down all the sidewalks. Not that he could see very far, being vertically impaired, with no good climbs available. Even if there had been a nearby tree, Wump didn't think he could've climbed. He wanted to let out one of his siren yowls and let the others know he'd fallen behind, but found himself sitting down instead, needing to catch his breath once more. What he really wanted to do was take a nap, but the subway entrance was no place for a shuteye.
Wump hunkered down between the wall of the subway entrance and the window of a coffee shop. He thought the joint was closed, but when he looked up, it was right into the eyes of an older man. Wump immediately shrank away, but the connection was already made. This human was familiar, though Wump had never seen him before.
The British artillery sergeant. The muddy trench, full of rats which Wump happily hunted and killed. The constant sound of the big guns the humans used to kill each other, the name he gave himself.
Wumpwumpwumpwump
Until the day the world turned upside down and only his name survived.
Wump sneezed, caught his breath, then caught something else. The smell of salami, and the faint sound of the gang singing their subway song. Wump gathered his meager strength and made a run for it, dodging pedestrians as he followed the gang's trail. The curious song sounded clearly as he began to catch up.
Under da river and trew da 'hoods
to Ghoul Papa's house we's goes.
Da train knows da way ta screw up da day.
Why is dis ride so slow? Oy!
Under da river and trew da 'hoods,
oh, how dis ride does blow!
All freakin' day on MTA,
as under da 'hoods we's goes!
Wump was so focused on the trail he barely noticed when he left the sidewalk. A deafening screech of brakes, the blast of a horn, and the smell of burnt rubber froze him in his tracks. The car was above him, more cars behind it, horns sounding. Wump's heart pounded fit to send him into his next life. Then the horns fell silent. The light had changed. He needed to move.
He couldn't move. He had to move before the light changed again. When had he become such a stupid old cat? No wonder Sing Sing hatched this harebrained scheme. No wonder Wump let himself be lured into it. One last pair of human legs entered the crosswalk. Wump forced himself into motion and followed the human to the safety of the opposite curb.
It was the man from the coffee shop. Again, Wump made eye contact without meaning to.
I know you. Don't I?
"Mind you don't lose your last life there, cat. My old granddad used to tell me about tough old cats like you. Army scooped 'em up off the London streets, sent 'em to France to hunt rats in the trenches."
Wump cast a penetrating eye at this old Brit standing over him, speaking to him. Wump decided to answer in kind. "Wump."
"Hullo, Wump. You look like you could use a lift."
The man reached down. Wump scrambled away, slinking along in the shadows between the sidewalk and the buildings. Sniffing the air, he got a faint whiff of salami and followed it.
The trail ended at the doors of an old warehouse, gentrified into loft conversions. Once again, Wump had been left behind. He contemplated the intercom buttons, wondering if he could push the big glass door open if someone buzzed him in. Just thinking about it made him flop down on the cold pavement, exhausted.
"Hullo, big fella. You all right?"
Wump hunkered down between the wall of the subway entrance and the window of a coffee shop. He thought the joint was closed, but when he looked up, it was right into the eyes of an older man. Wump immediately shrank away, but the connection was already made. This human was familiar, though Wump had never seen him before.
The British artillery sergeant. The muddy trench, full of rats which Wump happily hunted and killed. The constant sound of the big guns the humans used to kill each other, the name he gave himself.
Wumpwumpwumpwump
Until the day the world turned upside down and only his name survived.
Wump sneezed, caught his breath, then caught something else. The smell of salami, and the faint sound of the gang singing their subway song. Wump gathered his meager strength and made a run for it, dodging pedestrians as he followed the gang's trail. The curious song sounded clearly as he began to catch up.
Under da river and trew da 'hoods
to Ghoul Papa's house we's goes.
Da train knows da way ta screw up da day.
Why is dis ride so slow? Oy!
Under da river and trew da 'hoods,
oh, how dis ride does blow!
All freakin' day on MTA,
as under da 'hoods we's goes!
Wump was so focused on the trail he barely noticed when he left the sidewalk. A deafening screech of brakes, the blast of a horn, and the smell of burnt rubber froze him in his tracks. The car was above him, more cars behind it, horns sounding. Wump's heart pounded fit to send him into his next life. Then the horns fell silent. The light had changed. He needed to move.
He couldn't move. He had to move before the light changed again. When had he become such a stupid old cat? No wonder Sing Sing hatched this harebrained scheme. No wonder Wump let himself be lured into it. One last pair of human legs entered the crosswalk. Wump forced himself into motion and followed the human to the safety of the opposite curb.
It was the man from the coffee shop. Again, Wump made eye contact without meaning to.
I know you. Don't I?
"Mind you don't lose your last life there, cat. My old granddad used to tell me about tough old cats like you. Army scooped 'em up off the London streets, sent 'em to France to hunt rats in the trenches."
Wump cast a penetrating eye at this old Brit standing over him, speaking to him. Wump decided to answer in kind. "Wump."
"Hullo, Wump. You look like you could use a lift."
The man reached down. Wump scrambled away, slinking along in the shadows between the sidewalk and the buildings. Sniffing the air, he got a faint whiff of salami and followed it.
The trail ended at the doors of an old warehouse, gentrified into loft conversions. Once again, Wump had been left behind. He contemplated the intercom buttons, wondering if he could push the big glass door open if someone buzzed him in. Just thinking about it made him flop down on the cold pavement, exhausted.
"Hullo, big fella. You all right?"