Veronica Whitcombe adored felines more than anything How could she not, when she believed herself to be one of them, even though she was, in fact, a genuine dog.
A mediumsized, sturdy pooch, with teeth that would make a crocodile jealous. And if the crocodile were envious, Veronica didnt mind; she had always been a kind girl who never let jealousy spoil anyones day.
Her love for cats didnt appear at birth, but about a month and a half later.
That day, Nikki was squalling in a puddle. No, the puddle wasnt her creation but the mischievous spring rain that had spilled over the hedgerow. So there sat Nikki, then a nameless pup of an odd breed, wailing with all the strength she could muster, though she barely had any, lamenting her fate to the whole world.
Only one creature heard her: a sleek tabby called Morris. He padded to the edge of the puddle, tucked his front paws under his chin, wrapped his fluffy tail around his body and stared at the tiny, trembling disaster.
Then he noticed a white pawpad on the pups front leg. He looked downhis own paw was the same shade.
Is that mine? thought Morris.
But whose daughter could have produced such a creature? Had she romped with Misty? With Lily? Had she perched on the loft with Martha? Who was her mother, and why had she left the little thing to drown?
The pup, ceasing her yelp for a heartbeat, sensed someone warm and compassionate nearby. Fearful that this kindness might vanish, she bolted toward it, but her legs tangled and she tumbled back into the puddle, whimpering. Morris snorted disdainfully, yet the cat was no longer doubtfulthis was his own daughter, through and through. After all, his paws had once slipped, too.
Morris rose, stepped carefully across the water, hovered over the shivering pup, inhaled a heavy sigh and lifted her by the scruff. A fathers burden is heavy, but he would not shirk his duty. If a mother had abandoned a child, he would never abandon his.
In that instant Nikki realized she was under a firm, protective wing. She quieted, relaxed, and even fell asleep while Morris carried her to his cottage.
When Morriss housekeeper, Mrs. Fletcher, saw the strange bundle in the garden, she waved her hands in surprise:
Tom, come look! Our cat has fetched a dog! A stout, hearty oneshell make a fine watchdog!
Tom, Morriss owner, approved of Nikki as well. Little did they know that Veronica Whitcombe would never want to guard anything or anyone. She was, after all, a true cat, Morriss daughterwhat a notion for a guardian!
Raised by a cat, Nikki kept herself immaculate, hunted mice and sparrows, tried to clamber onto trees and fences, but her rotund rear kept her grounded.
In two years she outgrew Morris several times over, tried to spar with other cats and toms, yet Morris always intervened:
Ill handle the strangers myself; it would be uncouth for a beautiful kitty like you to have her fur ruined!
Morris staunchly denied that Nikki was a dog. To admit it would mean confessing she wasnt his daughtera notion he could not bear. Anyone who claimed otherwise met with his harsh reprimand.
Then, one night, Morris failed to return home. It had never happened before. Nikki waited, waited, tried to scale the fence, slipped her nose into a crack, hoping to catch his scent. Nothing worked; her claws slid on the smooth wood, her nose caught no trace of the cat. Her heart hammered with dread.
The yard buzzed with restless dogs, then a loud howl rose.
Let her out, you fool! the landlords wife shouted. She wont let anyone sleep until Morris comes back. Find him, and well all be safe.
Like a released arrow, Nikki vaulted over the gate, paused, covered her eyes, listened to an inner whisper that guided her. With a yelp of impatience she sprinted toward the spot where Morris had first found her.
Her premonition was not false. There, on the damp earth where a familiar puddle had only moments before dried, lay Morristorn, utterly exhausted.
Father she whispered, a mournful wail escaping her throat. She approached gently, pleading with the universe to keep him alive. Her teeth, never once cruel, would not even harm a butterfly.
Nikkis keen nose detected two distinct scents on her fathers furshe would remember them forever, recognizing them among a million.
Morris! she cried.
The owners scooped the frail cat into a blanket, rushed to the car, and sped as fast as they could to the nearest veterinary clinic in the neighboring town, the best in the county.
Nikki raced after them, bounding until the car vanished from sight. She halted, waiting, bewildered. She feared Morris would never return. And indeed, the people arrived without him.
She searched the vehicle, sniffed the medicated air, and wept softly, then loudly. For three days she ate barely anything, subsisting on water, while a burning hatred simmered within. Why had foreign dogs torn her father apart? Her own kin she would have recognized instantly by scent.
The hatred flared like a furnace, leaving her restless. Slowly she began to eat again, casting dark glances over the fence more often. Veronica Whitcombe started waitingwaiting for a chance to escape.
Two weeks later the gate swung wide as the owners drove off. Nikki bolted from the yard, circled the whole village, following the foreign scent she knew lingered somewhere nearby. At the roads edge she found two stray dogs finishing a pilfered goose.
She dropped to the ground, remembering Morriss lesson: in the hunt, silence is vital. Wait for the moment, creep closer, then strike decisively.
As always, Veronica Whitcombe considered herself a true cat. She never barked without cause, never flurried. She crept silently, the growl of fury barely restrained.
Then came the sudden lunge, just as her father had taught her. Bones cracked, fur flew, skin tore under Nikkis sharp teeth and claws. She fought like a raging cat, never taught to fight like a dog.
The stray dogs squealed, but they stood no chancenone had the chance Morris once did that night. Nikki triumphed, tearing both apart, until a sudden yank on her collar threw her backward.
At that moment her owners hands closed around her, while the owner himself chased the battered dogs away.
Come on, Nikki, settle down they were the ones who bit Morris, werent they? You gave them a good lesson! We almost missed you, but Morris saw you, and we rushed to help.
Hearing her name, Nikkis ears drooped and she turned back the cars passenger seat faced her, and Morris stared up at her!
We left him in the clinic, stitching him up, giving him drips and treatment. We told you, but you, dear little dog, were so sad you heard nothing.
Veronica howled just as she had two years earlier, and on her jubilant paws she ran toward the car. Morris, stern as ever, brushed away the slobber from her joyous snout and growled at his daughter:
Youve gone mad, fighting them alone? Couldnt you wait for me?
Then, proud, he added:
No one has ever seen my mother but now all will know who the Whitcombe daughter isa cat above all!
Veronica gently nosed the stitch on Morriss back, regretting that she had been stopped so early. Yet Morris was rightshe truly was a cat, and cats know how to wait patiently.
And so, whimpering with overflowing emotion, Nikki began licking her beloved father once more.
