Elgin, Page 3
M.A. Harris
Chapter 2
In which something saves his cat and he resists temptations of several different kinds.
Elgin waved to Emmit Smith as the older man’s battered old F-350 pulled away with a mellow diesel rumble. He clambered over the plow pile that blocked the entrance to the little plot of land that his home sat on and then waded through the foot plus of snow to the free standing front porch in front of the 1960’s vintage Air-Stream trailer. He cleaned the porch off with the snow shovel hanging from one of the posts before opening the door.
Once inside he froze, he could smell something very wrong. Blood and worse, he flicked the lights on. Near the ‘cat trap’ he’d built into the floor in one corner of the tiny central kitchen lay a pile of tawny fur, too much of which was matted down with blood.
“Oh Humph!” Elgin went on his knees next to his friend and companion. Humphrey had been borne to a pure bred Siamese mother, who had gotten out of her well appointed home at the wrong time. No one was sure what the father was, one of the suggestions, was mountain lion, though biologically that was supposedly impossible. All three of the kittens had been big to begin with, two of them had grown into large if unremarkable tabbies, the third, the only one who had his mothers coloration, had grown, and grown, and then grown some more. He was bigger than any house cat anyone had ever seen. With his immensely long tail and lanky build he was often mistaken for bigger than he was. But from a distance he could easily be mistaken for a normal Siamese, down to the beautiful blue eyes.
The eyes flicked open, and Humph glared at Elgin for a moment then he let his head loll again, with a little yowl. A quick and gentle examination showed that someone had tried very hard to kill the big cat. There were gunshot wounds, probably buckshot in his shoulder and side, and then something heavy and sharp had smashed his hip.
Elgin was crying as he carefully tried to make his friend more comfortable. How Humph had dragged himself back to the trailer and inside was almost beyond imagining. It was obvious that the cat should be dead in the snow but instead he was still stubbornly alive, having dragged himself back into the warmth.
Any vet would tell him that Humph was beyond help, that the only thing to do was to ease his passage into a better world. Maybe if Elgin had been rich and this had been a big city there would be a pet hospital that could do something for the cat, but not here.
He closed his eyes and the beaky nosed man was with him, looking down at Humph, his face grim, but thoughtful, “Boy the cat may survive, but he’ll be a cripple. Do you really want that?”
Elgin shook his head, “But I can’t just put him down, it’s just not right. He’s my friend.” He didn’t say only friend, though in some sad ways it was true.
In which something saves his cat and he resists temptations of several different kinds.
Elgin waved to Emmit Smith as the older man’s battered old F-350 pulled away with a mellow diesel rumble. He clambered over the plow pile that blocked the entrance to the little plot of land that his home sat on and then waded through the foot plus of snow to the free standing front porch in front of the 1960’s vintage Air-Stream trailer. He cleaned the porch off with the snow shovel hanging from one of the posts before opening the door.
Once inside he froze, he could smell something very wrong. Blood and worse, he flicked the lights on. Near the ‘cat trap’ he’d built into the floor in one corner of the tiny central kitchen lay a pile of tawny fur, too much of which was matted down with blood.
“Oh Humph!” Elgin went on his knees next to his friend and companion. Humphrey had been borne to a pure bred Siamese mother, who had gotten out of her well appointed home at the wrong time. No one was sure what the father was, one of the suggestions, was mountain lion, though biologically that was supposedly impossible. All three of the kittens had been big to begin with, two of them had grown into large if unremarkable tabbies, the third, the only one who had his mothers coloration, had grown, and grown, and then grown some more. He was bigger than any house cat anyone had ever seen. With his immensely long tail and lanky build he was often mistaken for bigger than he was. But from a distance he could easily be mistaken for a normal Siamese, down to the beautiful blue eyes.
The eyes flicked open, and Humph glared at Elgin for a moment then he let his head loll again, with a little yowl. A quick and gentle examination showed that someone had tried very hard to kill the big cat. There were gunshot wounds, probably buckshot in his shoulder and side, and then something heavy and sharp had smashed his hip.
Elgin was crying as he carefully tried to make his friend more comfortable. How Humph had dragged himself back to the trailer and inside was almost beyond imagining. It was obvious that the cat should be dead in the snow but instead he was still stubbornly alive, having dragged himself back into the warmth.
Any vet would tell him that Humph was beyond help, that the only thing to do was to ease his passage into a better world. Maybe if Elgin had been rich and this had been a big city there would be a pet hospital that could do something for the cat, but not here.
He closed his eyes and the beaky nosed man was with him, looking down at Humph, his face grim, but thoughtful, “Boy the cat may survive, but he’ll be a cripple. Do you really want that?”
Elgin shook his head, “But I can’t just put him down, it’s just not right. He’s my friend.” He didn’t say only friend, though in some sad ways it was true.
