Buckminster & Amber - 12

Escape

This is it. The woman’s gone and houseman’s left the laundry window open. One of the missing cat trees has been left by beside it an there’s just enough room for me to squeeze through.

I’ve left a note for Amber. This is it. It’s now or never. Just a short drop to the drive way and I’m free. Thank God I’m free at last!


It’s early morning. Grass is wet with dew, an interesting sensation that will be avoided in the future. And there’s Tom—of course. I might as well get this over now. He’s always around, no way of avoiding him, but he ignores me as I’m walking toward him. Now he’s scratching. Fleas! He’s probably got fleas. I stop a foot or so away . . . safe distance.

“Hi. I’m Bucks,” I tell him. “Guess you’re Tom.”
“You talkin’ to me? You callin’ me Tom? You in that bourgeois fur coat. What you doin’ on this street? You lost? I’m gonna’ call you Pussy. You can call me, Boots. I’m a number one killer and the neighborhood thriller. I run this street.”
“I’ve never seen another cat on this street,” I tell him.
“Yeah. That’s right. I’m why, and you’re lucky I don’t run you off.”
He’s looking me over. I’m twice his size, and big enough he doesn’t want to tangle with me, or not now at least. “Whatever,” I say. “See you later.” I saunter off, a graceful cat-like walk. I feel him watching as I leave.
“All the birds in this neighborhood are mine,” he calls after me.
"Whatever." I'm observing houses, trees and lawns. A dog on a leash held by his servant comes by on the sidewalk. Servant holds a plastic poopie bag. I skirt around them, heading west into the woods toward Puget Sound. The scent of ocean carries on a morning breeze, and fish!