Page 55 of Hold the Pickle
About two-thirds of the way through the park, at a cluster of scraggly bushes, I hear a strange sound. Something about it makes me stop instantly.
Is that a kid crying? I look around. The swings and slide are unoccupied. There’s nobody in my immediate vicinity.
I stay still, listening.
Then I hear it again. Was it a cat?
The trees rustle overhead, and I look up. There’s nothing I can see. No stranded kitty. I walk among the trunks, staring into the branches.
Then I hear it again, low, not high. It’s on the ground.
There must be a cat in this thatch of brush.
I walk around it. There are ten or so bushes growing wild in a dip in the ground. Along the edge are piles of trapped leaves and other debris that blew through the park and got stuck in the low limbs.
I peer into the thicket, but I can’t see anything.
The sound comes again, more plaintive this time, as if this cat knows I’m close.
Is it lost? Hurt? Maybe it will have tags or a chip. I can take it to a veterinarian and they can scan it.
If it will let me catch it.
Or it could be a stray.
When I worked at the rescue, we got cats in all sorts of situations. Lost, abandoned, or just plain born into street life. I’m not sure about the networks here in LA, but I bet there are a lot. Animal lovers are everywhere.
I fostered several kitten litters in the summers I was in grad school, when my course load was light and I could manage them. They take an incredible amount of care.
But one stray cat is easy.
Catching it, not so much.
I think I spot a movement deep in the bushes. I get down on my knees and begin parting the leaves.
I know I’m close when I hear a faint hiss.
“It’s okay, sweet baby,” I say. “You’re all right.”
Sticks catch in my hair as I crawl deeper into the bramble. My arms get scratched, but I persist. If the cat isn’t running, it might be hurt.
There’s space low to the ground beneath the biggest bushes. The earth gets damp, which is probably why they grow so well.
Then I spot two gleaming eyes. The cat is young, not even a year old. Her back is to me, showing off pretty gray stripes along her coal black fur. Her head twists to watch me warily.
“Hey,” I say. “Will you come with me?” I wish I had treats or any kind of food, but naturally I left with only my phone. I wasn’t expecting a kitty rescue. I reach out and stroke the matted fur.
My heart catches at how thin this sweet cat is. Her eyes close for a minute. She’s breathing shallowly, like it’s hard.
Then I hear a soft mew.
Wait. That wasn’t her. I was watching.
Then another.
Oh, no. Are there kittens?
I keep petting her softly. I can’t get any closer with my head due to how thick the branches are. But I reach with my hand over her belly to the other side.
