Among the Cats of Manhattan there is one called Rocky, barely out of kittenhood, who is rapidly becoming a whiskered Nancy Drew.

Although it wasn’t clear at all to Rocky why she should go to the 42^nd St. library to find a lost cat from New Orleans, she set off on the first leg of the journey.  She trotted through the narrow space between the Singhs’ dry-cleaner’s and a bakery.  She had no worries about reaching her goal, because her mother had trained all her kittens in the safest and shortest ways to get around midtown.  All she had to decide was where she was going to have her nap.

  Half a dozen blocks later, which Rocky negotiated by zigzagging through back alleys and courtyards, she was at one of her favourite napping places.  It was a tiny yard behind the smallest shop on 47^th St., the street of the diamond merchants.  The shop had a back door and a rear window with a row of thick bars across it, but a person inside could still see out.

  Rocky had no sooner gotten there than she placed herself on the ground right in front of the window, beneath a row of geraniums.  She gave a piercing meow.  In a few moments, there was the sound of the door being unbolted and unlocked.  Out came a fourteen-year-old boy named Aaron.  He had curly black hair and a warm smile, and he was still in his school clothes of white shirt and black pants.  He was carrying a dish of tuna in his hands. 

  “Hello, Rocky,” he said in a kind voice.  He squatted down and watched her while she polished off the tuna.  As soon as the bowl was empty, he scratched her between her ears and very gently all around her face.  Rocky purred loudly.  She brushed him with her whiskers and danced her figure-of-eight dance beneath his hand.  She was telling him, “The tuna was heavenly.” 

  He was stroking her back, from her neck to her tail, when a woman’s voice called from the shop, “Aaron!  AARON!” 

  “I’ve got to go,” said the boy apologetically.  “Make yourself at home.”  He pointed to the small recycle bin that stood in a corner of the tiny yard.  A beam of  sunshine was touching the edge of the bin, but Aaron shoved it over until it was completely in the sun.  Then he picked up the dish and disappeared through the door.

  Rocky put her paws on top of the bin and sniffed the insides.  To her sensitive nose, it smelled of paper and ink and cardboard, although the contents had been removed this morning by the garbage men.  All in all, however, it was a clean, comfy little cat basket.  Rocky poured herself inside and settled down for a good long snooze.  But to her surprise, she had barely curled up, when a familiar face appeared over the rim.  The face had yellow fur and warm amber eyes.  It was Catnip. 

  Catnip lived in a café on the Upper East Side, but on beautiful days like today, he roamed widely.  He and Rocky had often played together in Central Park. 

  At the sight of her best friend, Rocky squeezed aside to make room for him.  Catnip jumped into the bin, nestled his face against her soft warm back, and the next thing either of them knew, they were fast asleep.

  An hour later, they both woke up.  They gave each other the Rating Look, by which cats rate their naps, and agreed that the recycle box was a perfect ten.  After that, Catnip went back to Bemelmans Bar, and Rocky felt refreshed enough to tackle the trip to the library.

  Always have a plan!  That was the motto of Sgt. Pinky, and Rocky was not about to forget it this time.  To get to the library, she would have to cross five streets between 47^th and 42^nd.  They were five of the busiest streets in Manhattan. 

  Five times she would have to dodge cars, trucks, taxis, and bicycles, and on one street, buses.  And that meant, five times she would have to slip beneath a parked car and sit down behind a tire on the street side.  From there she could watch the lights change and map out the traffic patterns of that particular corner.  Then she would have to sit down behind a tire on the curb side so she could identify a pack of humans that she could merge with, preferably in the middle of the pack.  Once she had done all that, she would still have to steer clear of squashed cans and ketchup-stained napkins in the gutters near the pushcart vendors.

  It shouldn’t be a problem.

  Ten minutes later, with her paws and whiskers unharmed, Rocky arrived at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 42^nd.  To maintain the cat’s always desirable Low Profile, she insinuated herself between two women heavily laden with packages, who were walking close together.  Trotting between their shoes, she looked, she hoped, like a four-legged shopping bag.  When the library terrace came into view, she zigzagged out of the main pedestrian pattern and headed toward Fortitude, the uptown lion. 

  Three pigeons, who were investigating the crumbs of a cookie that a toddler had dropped on the terrace, lifted their heads.  At the sharp clang of their internal Cat Alarm, they flew off quickly, but with no reluctance.  Six little red eyes had spotted a golden opportunity.  An open-roofed, double-decker tour bus happened to be going by.  Inside the bus, people were pointing out the sights to one another, while munching potato chips and trail mix.  The pigeons settled themselves for a moment on the top railing of the bus and then dived down into the feast on the floor. 

  Paying no attention to the pigeons’ antics, Rocky leaped onto the seat beside Fortitude’s pedestal.  She crawled into a corner and waited for her mind to tell her the next thing to do.  But before her mind had time to say anything, she saw Pup slipping around the base of the pedestal. 

  A broad-shouldered, raggedy-looking orange cat, Pup got his name from the fact that he lived more like a dog than a cat.  Out at all hours, even in the rain, Pup hardly ever napped.  He seemed to have no nerves at all and always kept one paw on the pulse of the city.  For that reason, he had made the library his home base.  Now that she remembered it, Rocky had seen him there before, sitting up on top of Fortitude’s mane. 

  There wasn’t much that went on in midtown that Pup didn’t see or didn’t know. 

That made him an excellent ally in the search for Gris-Gris.  Besides, Pup had a soft spot for Rocky, and she knew it.  Sticking one leg up in the air and licking her bottom, she waited for Pup to leap up beside her and settle down. 

  As soon as he was sprawled out a few inches away, Rocky decided to try something her mother had told about.  Positioning her head in such a way that Pup could look straight into her ear, she posted her mission on the Feline Bulletin Board.  This was an older version of the Feline Internet.  Most cats were now using the Internet, but there were some technophobes in the cat community who disliked its speed and its availability even to humans. 

  Since it relied on the software of a cat’s velvet ear, the Bulletin Board could be read only by a cat physically present to the one who was using it.  In that respect, it was more personal than the Internet.  Sentimental cats even saw it as a bonding device.  Cheerfully and hopefully, Rocky posted on the board in her mind all the information about her search for Gris-Gris and the details that Mrs. Castle had given her. 

  She just finished listing the last entry (“has crumpled back foot”), when she felt Pup’s thoughts passing through her ear and crossing the board.  When he finished, she knew it as clearly as if she had heard a click signalling, “The End.”  This was the moment she had planned for a nice little chat about strategy and what angle of approach to take to the problem.  To her surprise, however, Pup wasted no time getting into gear. 

  Uncurling himself, he shot back to the corner of Fifth and 42^nd St., where he paused long enough to make sure she was following him.  Obediently, Rocky dashed to his side.  Her mother always said, there was no point in asking someone for his help and not taking it. 

  As they trotted along toward Sixth Avenue, Rocky learned something new about Pup.  He showed none of the usual signs of Cat Caution – hugging the walls of buildings, pausing under parked cars, or putting on the Cloak of Invisibility. Usually, cats who disregarded the rules of caution were regarded by the entire feline community as dimwits.  But Pup was no dimwit, even though he proceeded down the middle of the street in a straight line, cutting right through the ranks of business people, shoppers and students, not caring who saw him. 

  Nervously, Rocky noticed a man approaching them who was wearing dark glasses and a three-cornered hat folded out of the New York Post.  He was arguing vehemently with somebody who wasn’t there.  Dressed in a black t-shirt, he had skull tattoos down both arms and about twenty small rings in his nose, ears, lips and eyebrows.  If she had been alone, Rocky would have darted behind a trash can or a fire hydrant and hidden there until he passed.  In Sgt. Pinky’s experience, humans who looked like that were either a Cat’s Worst Nightmare or a Fanatical Friend of All Animals.  Unfortunately, she taught her kittens, it was impossible to tell who was which. 

  But Pup went forward with so much ease that his tail brushed against the Skull-man’s jeans.  Rocky, who was nose-to-tail behind him, felt a sudden uprush of the same confidence.  She realized that Pup was a cat in a thousand. He could steer himself and his convoy safely and fearlessly through any situation. 

  With one stop to pee – by taking turns jumping into a round cement pot filled with pink impatiens that was outside the glass doors of an office building - they got to Times Square in double-quick time.  Rocky had no idea why there were there, but before she could ask, they were threading their way between the chairs of mostly middle-aged people, who were easing their swollen feet out of shoes and fanning themselves with brochures. 

  A class of second-graders were squatting on the curb, all in a row like birds on a wire, and licking their ice cream cones.  Rocky let the little girl on the end pet her for a moment with loving, sticky fingers, but she couldn’t lose afford to lose sight of her leader.  Giving an apologetic meow, Rocky dodged out of the child’s grasp.  Leaping over a pile of backpacks, she marched up Broadway behind Pup, crossing street after street until she found herself standing outside a restaurant.  The restaurant was next to a jazz club, and a neon sign outside the club said “Iridium.”  Why had Pup brought her here?

© Lynn Schiffhorst

As the woman bent down to pick up her scarf, Sergeant Pinky and Rocky leaped into the car as well.  The closing doors almost nipped Rocky’s tail. 

Instantly, the train pulled out of the station and glided into the tunnel.  The lights inside the car stayed on, but everything outside the windows was dark.  Looking up, Sergeant Pinky saw that Gusty’s eyes were filled with tears.  Right away, she sent up a meow that meant, “I’m-here-you’re-safe-trust-me.”

This was followed by a little mew.  The mew seemed to come from a leather bag on the floor, but it was from Rocky.  She was wedged in between a businessman’s feet and his briefcase.  Her mew was telling Gusty, “I’m Rocky and this is my mother Pinky.” 

“Hello, Mrs. Pinky,” said Gusty weakly.  “Hello, Rocky.”  He peered down between people’s shoulders, trying to find Rocky. 

Pinky didn’t answer his greeting.  She was thinking of a way to keep Gusty from blowing out the door at the next station, which was much too big and too crowded for a little wind to find his way back up into the fresh air.  Finally, she meowed the simple message, “Stay-where-you-are!” 

Gusty squirmed.  It was obvious to Pinky that he didn’t like the idea of staying put.  As the conductor’s voice announced over the loudspeaker, “Fifty-ninth Street,” Gusty coiled himself up and was ready to spring out at the first opportunity.  But he was completely unprepared for the stampede of passengers out of the car and for the larger stampede of passengers into it.  Even Pinky and Rocky had to hop around smartly to avoid being kicked.  Rocky began to look as sick and scared as Gusty.

Through the forest of people’s ankles, Pinky shot her daughter a Strengthening Look, and Rocky, who had begun to tremble, felt herself calming down.  Nevertheless, all she wanted was to get off this dratted train.  She didn’t care if Gusty never found his way out of the subway system. 

Pinky sent another meow up toward the ceiling.  This one said, “Next-time-get-off-be-quick.”  The switching around of directions – first, Stay, and then, Go! -- was too much for Gusty.  He started to cry, as the people under him grumbled, “Where’s that water dripping from?” 

Sergeant Pinky recognized a Lost Cause.  The three of them would have to stay on, until Gusty could choke back his tears and get strong enough to obey.  But when the train pulled in to Sixty-eighth Street, most of the passengers who were standing rushed out.  They were going to find a car where the ceiling didn’t leak.  Some Hunter College students got on, but there was a lot more breathing space than there had been before.  Gusty felt better right away.  And even Rocky cheered up when a young man in jeans, balancing a load of textbooks, bent down and petted her.

When the train pulled in to Seventy-seventh Street, Gusty didn’t have to be told what to do.  He got himself through the doors and whirled in a groggy but relieved way above the platform.  As soon as Pinky and Rocky darted off the train, they headed toward the steps without looking up.  They knew Gusty would follow them.  In what seemed like no time, the three of them were back out in the fresh air. 

Gusty was so happy, he wanted to play.  When he spotted a building that had both a dome and steeples, he shouted out, “Look at that!” 

“That is St. Jean the Baptist, a French church,” Sergeant Pinky told him.  She was a stickler for using proper names.  “Otherwise,” she told her kittens, “you’ll end up calling everything ‘this thing here’ or ‘that thing over there.’”

Gusty had made one rotation around the dome of St. Jean’s when he saw a hotel nearby that had a very tall tower.  “Wow!” he whistled.  “Can I go there?”

“Yes, you may go to the H-O-T-E-L C-A-R-L-Y-L-E,” Sergeant Pinky informed him, enunciating the name clearly.  Being fond of history, she added, “Presidents and Princesses have stayed there.”  This information was lost on Gusty, although Rocky’s eyes got big.  She pictured guests stepping out of long white limousines, and some of them were wearing gold crowns. 

Gusty blew around the Carlyle a few times, and then headed back to the church.  He was right on top of the steeples when he decided to blow around the Carlyle instead.  Rocky could see he didn’t know whether he was coming or going.  Sergeant Pinky leaned against a trash can and sighed deeply.  She could feel the first hammer strokes of a headache, and she was flat out of ideas. 

But Rocky had an idea.  “Mew,” she said.  Her mew meant, “Mom, I want to play.”  Pinky hesitated.  Could she get Gusty back to Rockefeller Center on her own?  Rocky mewed again.  The second mew meant, “Gusty and I could play in Central Park.” 

Before Pinky could answer, Gusty was blowing over their heads.  “I’m thirsty,” he cried.  “I’m thirsty.”  Where could Gusty get a drink?  Pinky didn’t want him drinking from the dirty puddles in the gutter.  She couldn’t figure out what to do, but Rocky knew.  She began to dance around, and suddenly her mother got it!  “The Angel Fountain,” Pinky thought.  That was the perfect solution.

On Seventy-second Street, right inside Central Park, was a big fountain with the statue of an angel on top of it.  Pinky had often used the basin for a Discipline Parade.  When her kittens were six months old, she would take them to the fountain and march them around the rim, training them in obedience.  “Obedience” meant, “You put your paws exactly where Mom does and in exactly the same way.”  Only once had a kitten slipped and fallen in, but Pinky was so quick in grabbing him that he was out before he knew he was wet. 

There was no better place for Gusty to get a drink.  The basin was so wide that the little wind could gulp water to his heart’s content.  And the water was clean.  “Meow,” said Pinky.  That meant, “OK,” but it wasn’t a whole-hearted OK.  She didn’t want these children to go off on their own.  On the other hand, she had to be back at work.  She comforted herself with the thought that at least there were two of them, and one of them had her head screwed on straight.  Rocky would stay with Gusty until his brother showed up again.

Suddenly, like a gift from God, Pinky saw a sight that relieved all her concerns.  An orange tabby was standing between two parked cars, waiting to cross the street.  The tabby was Winslow, a grown-up cat from the Whitney Museum.  He patrolled the galleries at night, after the visitors had gone.  He didn’t have to clock in until evening, so his afternoons were free.  Winslow was the answer! 

Pinky caught his eye and gave him the secret sign that meant, Kittens to protect!  Winslow nodded.  He crossed the street and caught up with Rocky, who was scampering toward Central Park with Gusty blowing himself into pretzel shapes above the gingko trees. 

In another minute a third cat joined them.  It was Pom-Pom, a young and elegant Siamese from one of the dress shops on Madison, and right behind her, Catnip dashed out of a doorway.  Catnip was a yellow kitten with white paws who lived in Bemelmans, the piano bar of the Carlyle Hotel.  Bemelmans Bar was famous among the cats of New York because of the paintings on its walls, showing animals dressed in their party clothes, stuffing themselves at picnic tables in Central Park.  Thanks to the bar’s generous staff, Catnip was already plump and living the life of Riley, even though he was no older than Rocky. 

Just as Pinky thought, “Those little guys are going to have a ball,” she noticed that Rocky was way out in front of the other cats.  There was no doubt about it.  Rocky was a leader, just like her mother!

With her responsibility discharged, Sergeant Pinky turned around.  She darted back toward the subway station and trotted down the stairs on the opposite side.  Taking the train wasn’t the healthiest way home but it was the fastest.  And the easiest.  Pinky opened her mouth in an enormous yawn.  She had never been so tired in her life. 

But slipping under the turnstile, she had a thought that lifted her whiskers.  Maybe she could find Matilda tomorrow.  Maybe she could make Matilda understand how great Rocky was.  As Sergeant Pinky told her children, “There’s a right way and a wrong way to do everything,” and Rocky did even wrong things the right way.  Such as her little “holidays-from-obedience” last winter when she disappeared for a while, only to come home reeking of subway smells.  She was preparing herself for her future vocation, and what mother could complain about that? 

As Pinky leaped aboard a southbound local, she wondered if she could get Matilda to write something every day about Rocky’s development.  Then Pinky could post it on the Feline Internet.  Combining the gritty investigative drama of the New York sidewalks with Rocky’s wholesome, old-fashioned charm, it would beat the living daylights out of all the other blogs! 

© Lynn Butler Schiffhorst 2009 

Among the Cats of Manhattan there is one called Rocky, barely out of kittenhood, who is rapidly becoming a whiskered Nancy Drew.

Her search for the lost Gris-Gris had landed Rocky in a corner of the theatre district that she generally avoided.  On the whole, she liked the Tabbies of Times Square, but there was one she couldn’t stand -- a misbehaving tabby who wouldn’t admit his age but who was old enough to know better.  Wearing a diamond earring in one ear and a tiny fedora on top of his head, he paced the sidewalks between 50^th and 42^nd, day and night.  Calling all the young female cats “Doll,” he pestered them with his attentions.  In return, they had nicknamed him “Mr. Glib.” 

  There was no sign of Mr. Glib at first, but, “Speak of the devil,” Rocky groaned.  There he came – his plump self prancing around the corner, in the middle of a crowd of tourists.  Some of the women pointed their cameras at him, while the men called out, “There’s a real Broadway cat!  What play do you think he’s in?  Hey, turn your head this way.”  Eager to oblige, Mr. Glib twisted his head around so that his diamond earring winked in the sun.  Once he had made sure that there would be plenty of pictures of him in Florida or Iowa or wherever the tourists were from, he had attention to spare for Rocky.  But he had reckoned without Pup. 

  While Rocky fell back on her only defence, putting on the expression that says, “you-aren’t-there-and-I-don’t-see-you,” Pup strolled back out of the entrance to the Iridium.  It was a slow deliberate stroll, full of energy that was biding its time.  Unmoving, like Patience and Fortitude combined, he positioned himself between Rocky and Mr. Glib.  He didn’t look at either one.

  As quickly as someone flipping a switch, Mr. Glib switched his gaze off Rocky.  He swivelled around toward the restaurant, and as a customer hurried out, he charged through the open door and disappeared inside. 

  Rocky heaved a huge sigh of relief.  But her peace was short-lived.  As soon as she got inside the doorway of the Iridium, she saw that the club was in the basement.  It could be reached only by going down a long flight of narrow steps that was so steep it made Rocky’s head swim. 

  Her heart pounded like a jackhammer.  Staircases were her big terror.  Not sensible apartment staircases or subway staircases, where the steps were fairly broad and the distance between the steps generally shallow.  This staircase was almost a straight drop to the bottom, and the bottom was a long way down. 

  “Rrrooo?” she begged Pup anxiously.  That meant, “Why should I do this?”  But as soon as she asked that, an electric charge surged through her whiskers.  Pup had brought her to the jazz club, because that’s where Gris-Gris was!  Her first case was solved!  That was the good news.  The bad news followed right behind.  Professionally responsible to see this case through to the end, she had to get herself down to the basement.  Failure to do that would be Dereliction of Duty, which her mother put on a par with mange, and Rocky shared her mother’s opinion. 

  Buying time, Rocky turned around in circles.  When Pup saw the sweaty little prints her paws were leaving on the ground, he stepped masterfully in front of her. Young and vigorous, he made himself move at the stiff pace of a twenty-year-old cat with arthritis in every leg.  Putting his front paws on the step below him, he paused.  Slowly, he started up again and, slowly, he reached the next step.

  Rocky’s fear melted away.  By moving at such a slow tempo, and with the bulk of Pup in front of her, like a soft landing place in case she fell, she could manage the staircase.  And she did!  In less time than she had thought possible, she was standing at the bottom.

  Once inside the club, she and Pup threaded their way through a pleasant, dimly-lit room, crowded with empty tables.  There was an elevated stage in the front of the room with space for a small orchestra, but this afternoon, there were only four elderly men having a jam session.  Across their shirts ran the words “Gray-haired Bluesmen.”  Just as she reached the front, she heard one of the Bluesmen call out, “Let’s start with ‘Walking Through New Orleans.’” 

  As the mellow sound of a clarinet floated through the air, Rocky stretched out beside the stage, partly to let her heart beat return to normal, and partly to look around for Gris-Gris.

  But Pup kept on the move.  Rocky lost sight of him among the long white tablecloths, but she spotted him again when he got to the top of a small staircase at the back.  Apparently, the stairs led to the kitchen, because in a short while, a waitress came out carrying a plate.  Behind the waitress was Pup, and behind Pup trotted a chocolate brown cat with a crumpled back foot.  Gris-Gris!

  Rocky dashed over in their direction.  But before she got to Gris-Gris, her mind called out, “Watch it!”  She had been all ready to gush over Gris-Gris, sing a song about her reunion with Mrs. Castle, and do a dance at her own success.  Her mind was telling her, “This approach will backfire.” 

  As Gris-Gris’ face came into clear view, it was obvious to Rocky that she had forgotten all about her earlier life.  She looked dazed, like somebody under a spell.  What could have happened?  As this question reverberated in Rocky’s mind, one answer came quickly. The answer was “Mr. Glib.”

  Sgt. Pinky had taught her daughter that there were numerous ways of being a dimwit.  It wasn’t only crossing a street without looking.  It was letting yourself be Taken In by Appearances, Falling for Flattery, wanting the Easy Life.  As the waitress put down a plate by Gris-Gris, with a cat-sized portion of scrambled eggs and bacon, Rocky realized that Gris-Gris was under the three-fold spell of Mr. Glib, New Orleans-style jazz, and restaurant food.

  Gris-Gris was too busy making short work of her snack to notice Rocky.  And Rocky realized that to Gris-Gris, who saw herself as Mr. Glib’s Doll and the waitress’s pet, Rocky was dust on the floor.  She could forget about Gris-Gris coming home with her.  If she wanted to make Mrs. Castle happy, she would have to have a plan. 

  By a miracle, a splendid plan rose up in her imagination.  Like a neon sign, it winked and blinked in vibrant colors.  But it needed Pup’s cooperation.  Fortunately, Gris-Gris was chasing the last bit of bacon around the plate, so Rocky had a chance to signal to Pup what she intended to do. 

  Instead of rushing up to Gris-Gris with mews of joy, Rocky charged her eyes with a look of intense dislike.  She stalked around the tables, approaching Gris-Gris just as she licked the last bit of egg off her whiskers.  Rocky uttered a low, jealous hiss.  She hissed again.

  Confused, Gris-Gris started back.  It was obvious that she didn’t understand what Rocky’s antagonism was all about.  Why does this stranger hate me?  But when she looked over her shoulder and saw Pup, she sat up with a pleased air.  Here was a male who obviously preferred her to that stupid gray cat with the death-ray eyes. She gave a little wiggle of satisfied vanity and shot Pup a come-hither look. 

  Pup shot back the appraising kind of stare that gives nothing away.  Ignoring Rocky as planned, he headed for the outside stairs.  To Rocky’s relief, Gris-Gris followed Pup outside and up the steps.  Trailing behind them, Rocky acted the part of Rejected Girlfriend, letting her tail hang down and her whiskers droop in a sad kind of way.  While the strains of the Bluesmen playing, “Won’t you come home, Bill Bailey,” followed them out of the club, Rocky prayed that Mr. Glib would be nowhere in sight.

  As soon as they were up on the street, it was obvious that Rocky’s prayers had been answered.  The coast was Glib-free.  Without interruption, Pup headed toward Mrs. Castle’s apartment, leading the way down Broadway to 49^th.

  It was five o’clock, and the matinees had just let out, so there was heavy foot traffic to the right and left of the three cats.  A stream of human voices flowed back and forth above their heads -- theatre-goers rhapsodizing about the shows and co-workers exchanging the daily kvetch.  Rocky had to step smartly to avoid a man made up to look like Patti Lupone, who was capering along the pavement, belting out all of Rose’s songs from Gypsy. 

  Despite these distractions, Rocky saw Aaron, walking along dreamily and hugging a bag of Chinese take-out.  He saw her too and blew a kiss to her.  She also noticed one of the Catlicks whisking into an alley, and just as they reached St. Malachy’s, she saw the pastor running down the steps.  He gave her a quick smile, as if he recognized her as Peggy’s sister, but before he could speak, someone across the street called to him and he turned away. 

  They were almost at the corner of Eighth Avenue, but they got no further than the Singhs, when Mrs. Castle came out.  Seeing Gris-Gris, she let out a shriek and dropped the jacket that the Singhs had cleaned for her. 

  That was all it took to break the spell!  Gris-Gris leaped into her arms.  As she happily licked Mrs. Castle’s neck, it was obvious to Rocky that old loyalties had reasserted themselves.  Gris-Gris was home and glad to be home.  And if she ever wandered away again, Rocky would know where to find her! 

  “How can I ever thank you, Rocky,” called Mrs. Castle.  “I’m going to leave a little something special at the Singhs for you.  If you come here tomorrow afternoon, you’ll get a nice surprise.”

  Before Rocky could let her know that Pup had also played an important role in Gris-Gris’s recovery, Mrs. Castle had turned away.  She and Gris-Gris were nose to nose, whispering sweet nothings in Cajun and Feline.

  Rocky sighed happily.  She loved to start something and finish it in a way her mother would approve of.  Besides, now that FEDA was a successful business, she could think about a boyfriend.  She looked around for Pup, but he too had gone.  He was heading down Eighth Avenue with his characteristically confident stride and, despite his raggedy appearance, the same aplomb as the library lions. 

  But now it was time for a nap.  She darted past the Singhs’ water bowl to investigate the cushion they kept in their back room.  It was a velvet cushion with a cat-shaped hollow in the centre, held inside a soft wickerwork basket.  She would have a good snooze and tomorrow she would report back for her reward.  She hoped it would be salmon. 

   THE END

Once they were out of St. Patrick’s, Rocky’s attention was distracted by a mouse.  It was a very tiny one with round ears and a long tail, and it was darting from a narrow strip of garden on one side of the door to a narrow strip of garden on the other. 

In a flash, Rocky pounced and missed, but her mother dashed after her and brought her back before she could pounce a second time.  They had no time for snacks and no responsibility for mice outside Rockefeller Centre. They had to keep their minds on their job.

Thanks to that minute of inattention, the little wind had gotten away again.  Scanning the sky, the cats couldn’t see him, because the great bulk of the church blocked their view.  It was easy to figure out which way he had gone, however.  Midway down Fifty-first street, a hot-dog vendor’s umbrella had been knocked completely sideways, and his customers were standing in a blizzard of napkins that had settled on their heads, the sidewalk and the tops of cars. 

As Pinky and Rocky darted along Fifty-first to Madison, they saw on the next corner an elderly man trying to restrain two Pekinese puppies who had forgotten the dignity of their breed.  They were straining at the end of their leashes and bouncing up and down as if they had springs on their paws.  “They’re trying to fly,” thought Pinky in amazement.  It was clear who had inspired them to try that stunt! 

When Pinky and Rocky got all the way to Park Avenue, they found the little wind blowing above St. Bartholomew’s.  He was chasing himself faster and faster around the dome, until he began to sink a little.  Rocky could see he was wearing down.  “Mew!” she called.  And this time there was a command in her mew.  It said, “You’re dizzy, you’re tired and I want you to stop.” 

“I’m not tired,” shouted the little wind.  “I’m not.”  To prove it, he began to blow in and out of the columns in front of the church, making very raggedy circles. 

Sergeant Pinky jumped onto the church steps.  She opened her mouth to meow an order, when Rocky got in first with a question.  “What’s your name?”  she mewed. 

“Gusty,” answered the little wind.  “I’m Gusty, Gusty, Gusty.”  And he puffed at one of the flags, making it flap around its pole. 

Sergeant Pinky decided they had wasted enough time getting Gusty to obey.  How could she corral him back to Rockefeller Center?  She thought furiously.  There was no point in trying the Burning Glance again.  That could only be deployed in closed spaces.  Out in the open, it lost all its force. 

This situation called for Reverse Psychology.  Since Gusty was so contrary, she would order him to do the wrong thing.  She was sure that would trick him into doing the right thing, which was to blow back where he started.  Staring east toward Lexington, she gave Gusty a short, misleading meow.  It meant, “Follow-me-this-way,” and with a twitch of an ear, she and Rocky marched off together. 

But Gusty didn’t disobey.  He didn’t blow away from them.  He wanted to stay with Rocky.  He liked her!  He followed along above her, and when they got halfway to Lexington, Gusty gave a loud “Whoopee” and turned a backflip.  He was trying to get her attention.  It was the triumph of friendship over Reverse Psychology.

Sergeant Pinky’s plan had failed!  She sat down in disbelief.  For a moment, her customary coolness deserted her, and she allowed herself to get annoyed.  Acting out of annoyance is usually a mistake for animals as well as humans, and this time was no exception.  Taking her eyes off Gusty, Pinky turned around, nudged Rocky to do the same, and began to head home, toward Fifth Avenue.  Her back was stiff as a board.  It sent its own message up to the sky, “I’m-fed-up, do-as-I-say-or-else.”

Her message might have worked, if Gusty hadn’t seen something that made him as curious as a cat.  Looking down at Lexington and 52^nd, he watched a line of people hurrying along, practically stepping on one another’s heels.  When they got to a big hole in the sidewalk, they hurried down into it.  They didn’t turn their heads to the left or the right.  They rushed into the hole at top speed.  “I want to see what’s going on down there!” shouted Gusty.  And he plunged after the people.

Sneaking a quick look over her shoulder, Sergeant Pinky was horrified to see Gusty disappear down the steps of a subway station.  Particularly that subway station!  Remembering how Marilyn Monroe had ruined her marriage to Joe DiMaggio by allowing herself to be photographed right there in a pose that Pinky could not approve of, Pinky thought of the station as bad mojo.  Forgetting that Rocky was listening, she muttered a swear word in Feline.  The word, which she couldn’t approve of either, had a certain medicinal value that relieved her feelings.  She signalled to Rocky to do an abrupt about-face, and they sprinted after Gusty like Olympic runners. 

When they reached the station, however, Sergeant Pinky paused and shot a quick look at her daughter.  She had never taken any of her kittens on an official trip into the subway.  Should she leave Rocky on the sidewalk?  Yes and no, said her mind.  Sergeant Pinky shook her head to clear it.  She hated yes and no answers. 

In favour of ‘Yes, leave her,’ was the fact Rocky hadn’t had her first birthday yet.  On the other hand, she would have it next month.  After that, she wouldn’t be a kitten anymore.  Also in favour of “No, take her,” was the fact that two cats are better than one for tackling a difficult situation.  And Gusty had already shown some willingness to follow Rocky.  That could make all the difference. 

As Sergeant Pinky gave her head another vigorous shake, she shook loose an old saying that had been filed away in the back of her mind.  The old saying was, “Needs must when the devil drives.”  This means, do what you have to in a pinch, and don’t worry about what you would do if circumstances weren’t pinching you.  So the answer was clear -- take Rocky. 

Sergeant Pinky and Rocky sped down the stairs neck and neck.  At the bottom, they flattened themselves against the tiled wall until enough passengers were going by to screen them from the ticket-seller in the booth.  Dodging around the shoes that were quick-stepping past, they slipped under the turnstile and darted along the platform.  

They had no trouble finding Gusty.  He was at the other end of the station, crumpled up beneath the ceiling and the wall, as far as he could get from the edge of the platform.  He had screwed up his face like someone trying not to cry.  “He’s scared of the tunnel,” thought Rocky.  She could understand that. 

Although she knew it was strictly forbidden, Rocky had ventured into a subway station one cold day last winter  She had let herself down the stairs cautiously, slow step by slow step, her nose twitching at the stuffy air.  Huddled in a corner by the ticket booth, she listened to the turnstiles go clickety-click as passengers went through them.  And she stared into the darkness beyond the platform. 

When a train came roaring in and screeched to a stop, Rocky turned tail.  She fled back up the stairs at four times the speed she had come down.  Pausing at the top to scratch an ear, she gave serious thought to going back down again but decided that discretion was the better part of valour.  That means it’s OK to run away when you’re too small and scared to face something. 

On the other hand, she felt a little proud of herself for venturing into danger, and the next time her mother wasn’t looking, she tried it again.  She told herself she might have to do it on the job some day, if a mouse she was chasing decided to take a train.  That time she crept all the way out to the edge of the platform, only a few inches from the tunnel, before she turned around at top speed and dashed back into daylight. 

But Rocky could see Gusty wasn’t proud of himself.  She turned to her mother to say, “He can blow upstairs again, if we lead the way.”  But her mother flicked her whiskers in the sign that means, “Cat Up a Tree.”  She was telling Rocky that Gusty was like a cat that scampers up a tall tree for fun and then freezes.  He can’t get back down again, because he’s too scared to move.  In the cat’s case, a fireman comes with a ladder, picks up the poor cat and carries him back down.  But no fireman could pick up Gusty.  How could Pinky and Rocky get him out?

As the two cats stared at Gusty, who was turning greener by the moment, there was a loud rumble, and a train pulled into the station.  The people standing on the platform lined up in front of the train, waiting for the doors to open.  In a second, the doors slid open, some people came out, and others poured inside. 

Before Sergeant Pinky could warn Gusty, “Wait-for-the-train-to-leave-and-follow-us,” he panicked.  In a single burst of energy, he shot himself into the car closest to him, at the same time ruffling people’s hair and blowing a woman’s scarf onto the floor.  He had just made a great mistake! 

 © Lynn Butler Schiffhorst 2009