Rabies

Rabies

By

James Strauss

The brothers crouched under their queen-sized bed. They slept together because
they were kids and they’d been in the house only a couple of months. Grandma had ‘passed on,’ as everyone told them, although nobody ever told them where she’d gone.
The house deep in the country was their house now. In time, their father said, they’d get beds of their own and eventually rooms too when their older sister went off to college.
They didn’t like sleeping together although hiding out under the bed was okay.
Their room had the thickest best rug in the house and grandma’s old bed left plenty of space for them to create a real clubhouse underneath.
“Close the window. It’s getting too cold in here and a bat will fly in, or something,” Clark told his six-year-old brother Peter.
“You do it. I’ve got my blanket,” Peter answered, clutching the tattered blue rag to his chest, as if that would keep anything warm.
“This place doesn’t even have screens. Dad’ll have to cut a lot of wood in the mill to buy screens and everything else we need,” Clark complained, making no move to get out from under the bed and close the window himself.
“I like the cold,” Peter stated, as if explaining why he wouldn’t leave to accomplish the simple chore.
Clark sighed. His brother was impossible. At nine, Clark wasn’t more than an inch taller than his brother and certainly not nearly as thick or well muscled. The six year old was a baby version of Andre The Giant and it was disconcerting for an older brother to have to deal with. He smiled, thinking about the difference between the two of them.
Clark was fast and nimble, and smart. His brother was thick and slow of thought. Clark would have laughed but he was afraid his brother might figure out what he was thinking.
Peter wasn’t really slow, Clark knew, but he preferred to think of him that way.
There was a scratching from the wall of the room into which their single window was built. Both boys looked at one another in question.
“What’s that, Clark?” Peter whispered, clutching his blanket closer with both hands, having put the stolen cookie back into its cellophane package with his free hand.
Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry.
Another, deeper series of scratches penetrated the silence following Peter’s question, which Clark had not responded to.
A great thud on the floor was the next sound both boys heard. Something was in the room. Clark and Peter automatically drew together, clutching one another and staring at the side of the bed near where the sound had come from. Neither boy dared to breathe.
Something was in the room with them. The early morning darkness prevented them from seeing far enough to guess what it might be, but it didn’t belong there. That much they knew.
“Santa?” Peter whispered into Clark’s ear. Clark was too afraid to speak or even tell Peter not to speak. The six year old was a child. Clark had been brought into the adult world the season before when his father had taken his aside to tell him that there was no Santa Claus. It was part of Clark’s job to assure that his brother remained the child he was so he couldn’t tell any of what he’d learned to him.
It was Christmas morning. Or it would be if it ever got light. Clark thought intently about Santa and the myth. The scratches had been real, however, and there was definitely something in the room with them. He prayed fervently that his dad had gotten it all wrong, and there really was a living Santa Claus.
They should have closed the window. They should have had screens. They should have stayed in the city where they belonged, not moved to the middle of a forest in wintertime. But if it was Santa, Clark wanted to see him. Slowly prying himself loose from Peter while holding one finger up to his lips, he eased to the overhanging blanket on the window side of the bed. He got no chance to peer out.
A large animal slid under the bed from behind the opposite side. Clark winced in fear as he turned, and then threw both of his arms around his brother and kicked back toward the head of the bed at what he saw.
Both boys stared into huge unblinking eyes of gold. Clark pressed their bodies against the back wall, finding no resistance from Peter. Neither boy made a sound, although tears had begun to run down over the younger boy’s cheeks.
“Don’t move,” Clark said, not knowing what else to say. The animal was a cat.
Not a regular cat, but a huge cat of the forest, at least twice the size of either boy. It was light brown in color, even in the low light. It flicked its tail as it stared at them from only a few feet away. The tail was black at its tip. It flicked slowly back and forth behind the animal, as if a snake’s head waiting to strike. The words ‘mountain lion’ came to Clark’s mind as he stared in terror.
The three of them remained frozen in place for several moments, only the boy’s breathing making any sound at all. The tail moved silently. Finally, the cat blinked, and then yawned.
“Are you tired?” Clark asked the wild beast, tentatively, but only got the ominous golden stare in return.
“You’re scaring us,” Peter said to it, making his older brother shake his head in disgust.
“Of course it’s scaring us. It eats meat. We’re meat.”
“I’m not meat. I’m a boy. He can’t eat me if I’m a boy, can he Clark?” Peter whimpered out, trying to wipe away his tears with his blanket but having no luck.
“I don’t know,” Clark replied, tentatively. “He hasn’t eaten us yet. He would have eaten us already, I think, if he was going to.” He let his brother go and reached for the cookie package. The cat’s great head turned minutely to track his movements.
Clark took out an Oreo, put the package down, and then extended his hand out toward the creature’s muzzle. The cat looked at the cookie, then back at the boy, and then the cookie again. Clark dropped it in front of him.
The cat sniffed the cookie. With one whip of a long pink tongue, the cat swept the cookie into his mouth, moved his jaw around and then returned his head to its staring position.
“Cat’s like this shouldn’t eat cookies,” Clark murmured in wonder. “They don’t have any sense of taste for sugar. It was on Sponge Bob. I remember it.”
“Sponge Bob isn’t real,” Peter said, his voice weak but without a waver.
“Not true,” Clark instantly said, impatiently, taking another cookie from the Oreo pack. “David Hasselhof is real, only the rest of it’s animated.” He tossed the cookie through the air. The cat quickly opened its mouth and caught the black and white wafer. It was gone in a second.
“This cat’s eaten cookies before. I think he likes them. Like a game,” Clark went on, tossing one cookie after another to the same effect.
“What are we going to do when we run out of cookies?” Peter asked, bringing his blanket up to his mouth and chewing.
“We both asked for a pet from Santa,” Clark replied. “Dad said we could at least have a pet for living way out here. He didn’t say what kind of pet.”
“What pet?” Peter asked, as Clark held up the last cookie.
“Him,” Clark laughed for the first time. I think he was somebody’s pet out here.
We can have him. He has collar.” Clark followed the last cookie, moving slowly closer to the animals chewing muzzle.
“R-A-B-I-E-S,” Clark spelled out, reading from a metal tag attached to the cat’s thick leather collar, and then backing away when the creature’s head turned to focus it’s huge eyes on him again.
“What does that mean?” Peter asked, trying to repeat the letter sequence but not getting it right.
“I don’t know. But he eats cookies, not boys, and he has a collar with a name on it. Rabies must be his name. The cat blinked at the word. Clark repeated it again. The cat put his head down at the boy’s feet.
“See?” Clark said, in triumph, reaching his right hand out to touch the cat’s fur atop its head. Two great ears twitched but the cat did not move. It closed its eyes.
“C’mon Peter, we can pet him. He likes it.” Clark stroked the animal while trying to convince his brother to join him.
“I’m afraid. He’s too big, too furry, and his teeth are sharp. I’m afraid. I want mom and dad,” his brother responded, making no move to leave his place, pressed against the back wall, blanket up to his mouth.
“Great idea. It’s Christmas. We always wake them up early. Let’s go,” Clark moved as he spoke.
The cat slept, snoring mildly. Both boys crept around it, Peter dragging his blanket by it’s left paw. The blanket caught on one of the animal’s sharp claws.
Peter pulled but it wouldn’t come loose. The cat did not move, even though he pulled several times.
“He’s got my blanket Clark,” Peter complained, unwilling to let go.
Clark reached around his brother and shoved backwards on the blanket, pushing it in the direction they’d come. It broke free.
“Gosh, it like’s my blanket too,” Peter said, as they clambered out from under the bed.
Both boys ran as silently as they could to their parent’s bedroom. Opening the door, they eased into the near darkness. Clark bent over his dad, who was sleeping on his back.
“Dad, dad, dad, dad,” he repeated, leaving five seconds between each word. Peter chewed on his blanket at his side. On about the twentieth “dad,” his father opened his eyes. His facial expression was not one of happiness.
“It’s too early. Go back to bed until its light out. We always do Christmas when its light out. He tried to turn over.
“No, dad,” Clark whispered urgently. “Not this year. You said we could have a pet and Santa brought him. You said there’s no Santa but only Santa could have brought a special pet like this,” Clark went on.
Something in the boy’s tone caught his father’s attention. He came fully awake.
“A pet? A special pet? We didn’t get you any pet, much less a special one?
“No Santa Claus?” Peter asked, his blanket coming out of his mouth. “You said, there’s no Santa, Dad?” Peter inquired, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“Oh God,” his father said, sitting up and messaging his head.
“C’mon Dad,” Clark said, pulling on his father right arm.
They slowly moved to the boy’s bedroom, not turning on any lights. Clark lead his dad into the room near the bed.
“What pet?” his father said. “I don’t see any pet.”
“He’s a Christmas present,” Peter said, up to him. “You can’t wrap a pet so Santa
put him under our bed.”
“Well, what is he, this pet?” their dad asked, looking from one to the other.
“He’s a cat, Dad. We call it ‘Rabies,’ from the tag on his collar. But he’s real different and special.”
“And he’s so big,” Peter said, expanding both arms out to his sides with hands up.
“Okay,” their father said, “but when you’re small everything appears really big. I guess a cat, even a different and special cat, will be okay, and this one apparently has his shots.”
“Merry Christmas,” Clark smiled across to his brother. “This is the best Christmas ever.”
“Let’s see what your little friend looks like,” their father said, getting on his hands and knees to peer under the bed.

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Intense

Intense

By

James Strauss

Six years old is not old, or so they told her all the time. When the nurse came out it was the first thing she asked.
“How old are you, my dear?” she said, bending down over her.
“I’m eight, and my name isn’t dear. It’s Alice,” six-year-old Alice lied up into the woman’s unsmiling face. The woman wrote something on her clipboard, and then sniffed.
“Where are your parents?” she asked in a demanding manner, her large black eyebrows coming together above her nose.
“You’ve got my Dad inside there,” Alice pointed at the green double doors the nurse had come into the waiting room through. “My Mom’s coming from work.”
“Yes, I know about your Dad, but who’s taking care of you?” the nurse inquired, with one of her dark eyebrows arching up above the other.
“You are, until Mom get’s here. My babysitter just dropped me off,” Alice lied again, with a fake smile plastered across her little face. Alice knew that it was unlikely that the nurse would know she lived only half a mile away and had walked herself. The police officer who’d left the message on their home machine said that her Dad was in the emergency room at the hospital. He didn’t know that Alice was home alone. Her parents had schooled her well about how all outsider’s would feel if someone only six years old was left alone, even if was because they didn’t have enough money for daycare. They called it being a latchkey kid. Alice liked being a latchkey kid. And she loved her parents. And Winston.
“You can’t have a cat in here,” the nurse said, spotting Winston under one of the cloth-covered chairs.
“Not my cat,” Alice said, ignoring the small beast, which had stuck its furry head out to peer up at the severe looking nurse.
“Fine,” the nurse said, “then I’m calling animal control and having him removed.” The nurse walked back through the doors. Alice had not lied about that. Winston was her father’s cat, not hers. Winston adored only one human on the planet, and that was her Dad. He had raised such a ruckus at home when she was about to leave for the hospital that she had had to let him out. Then he’d followed her. Like he knew. Alice didn’t tell anyone that she talked to the cat. And she believed that he talked back. The words he missed, Alice filled in.
“She doesn’t mean it. She was just trying to get me to admit that I’m a latchkey kid and that you’re mine,” Alice said quietly, toward the bottom of the chair.
Winston meowed once, then slunk back as some people walked by.
“Oh bother. You don’t mean that. We don’t even know her,” Alice said to him, trying to stick one hand under the chair to pet him. He scratched her, lightly. She yelped softly, pulling her hand back, as if in terror. She knew from long experience that Winston loved to terrify people.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Alice asked the cat. But Winston said nothing. People walked in and out of the waiting room. Nobody stayed for long.
Alice listened to their conversations, while making believe she was watching the television. Words scrolled across the bottom of the flat screen, but Alice couldn’t read yet.
“Intense thing,” she heard, distinctly. “They took him to that intense unit. He’s in pretty bad shape, but he’ll recover. They do a pretty good job here with the intense thing.”
Alice stared at the television while she thought. She didn’t know what the intense thing was, but it must be pretty good for someone in trouble.
More people came and went. Every once and awhile Winston would stick his head back out to view them, and then quickly retreat. Several people tried to pet him but Alice warned them off.
“Winston scratches. He’s here for rabies,” she told them, her face held to its most serious pose.
The petter’s pulled back and retreated without further comment. Some stared at Alice as if she was the one who had the disease. Alice didn’t know what Rabies was but her Dad had warned her about it many times when she wanted to pet a stray dog or a wild cat herself.
Three whole television shows later the strict looking nurse came back out. She didn’t have her clipboard with her this time.
“I’m sorry dear, but you’re father has been hurt in a traffic accident. You’re Mom called us and will be here shortly. Do you want anything to drink?” She said, her sweet tone faked, her smile unpleasant.
Alice looked up at the nurse, like she was from another planet. “My name is Alice, not dear, and why would I want something to drink? Will that help my Dad? Can I see him? Is he back there somewhere?” Alice pointed to the green doors.
Winston reached one paw out and slashed the nurse’s ankle with a single claw. Alice saw the move out of the corner of her eye and tried to head it off, but was too late. The nurse screamed, leaned down and grabbed her ankle with one hand.
“That animal just attacked me,” she yelled, her face screwed up in pain.
A man appeared instantly, seemingly from nowhere. He loomed over both Alice and the nurse.
“I’d have that looked at right away if I was you,” the man said in a flat voice.
“I heard that cat is in here to get some kind of rabies shot,” he finished, then walked away.
“Rabies?” the nurse said, her eyes growing wide, “Rabies? What’s this about Rabies? That cat has Rabies?”
“Ah, I don’t know him,” Alice said, smiling sickly, as Winston stuck his tail out and wrapped it around her small right leg.
The nurse turned and limped back through the double doors, slumped over and trying to nurture her ankle with one hand while she moved as quickly as she could.
“That was just plain dumb,” Alice hissed down at the cat, who’d retreated once more to the wall at the back of the chair.
Winston meowed three times in quick succession, and then purred loud enough for Alice to hear.
“I don’t care whether or not she’s mean, and I don’t care if she doesn’t like us. You can’t go around scratching people just because they deserve it.”
Winston continued to purr loudly from his retreat.
The double doors opened again. A tall woman wearing white coat came through. She held a clipboard like the nurse’s. She stopped to look around, until she spotted Alice.
“You’re John Martin’s little girl?” she asked with a bright smile.
“No, my name is Alice,” Alice responded, instantly.
Winston’s purring silenced.
The door at the other end of the waiting room slammed open with a bang. A young woman crashed through, limping, carrying a high heel in one hand, trying to run, but not doing it well. She dragged a large purse along as she limped.
“Mom,” Alice breathed, rolling her eyes. Alice’s mother was always histrionic, even for the most mundane of things. Alice sat down in the chair above Winston, as the doctor turned to the arriving woman.
In a heartbeat Winston moved from under the chair into Alice’s lap. Alice sat frozen. In all her years the cat had only ever sat in the lap of one person, and that person was her Dad. The cat wasn’t purring. Winston looked up at the doctor. Alice followed his eyes with her own, feeling a sense of bottomless fear.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news Mrs. Martin,” the doctor began.
Alice’s heart sank. She felt tears beginning to form from somewhere deep down inside her. She felt that Winston knew something terrible and that everything good in life was somehow going to change terribly.
“You’re husband has been badly hurt,” the doctor began, “and he’s in intensive care….”
That was all Alice heard before burying her face deep into Winston’s fur. The cat did not move, but he began to purr again.
“The intense thing,” Alice whispered to Winston, her mouth right next to the cat’s ear, “Dad’s going to be alright. They do real good intense here.”

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