The Stray
Although she had no husband or significant other, Noelle Benedict was by no means a lonely woman. When she inherited her parents' rambling farmhouse upon her mother's death, she filled it with homeless animals. Most of these dogs and cats found refuge in her house or backyard until suitable pet adoptions could be arranged through a nearby animal shelter. From time to time, however, she would grow attached to one of the strays. Such was the case with Salem, a black cat that one of Noelle's friends rescued from beneath a dumpster near a busy warehouse loading dock.
Barely four weeks old, the kitten was so small he could fit in the palm of Noelle's hand. A few days after it was rescued, the animal became sick. Noelle noticed that the ailing cat could barely stand. Throughout the night, she held Salem on her shoulder, never closing her eyes to sleep. Early the next morning, she took the cat to the vet's office, and three days later it came back home fully recovered. As a result of Noelle's ministrations, the cat formed a deep attachment to the young woman and vice versa.
Salem had been living at the old Benedict farmhouse for more than three years when his owner met and fell in love with Roscoe Woodall, the man she had hired to paint the exterior of her house. While their courtship was not the fairy tale romance Noelle had always dreamt of, the two did enjoy spending time together. For the most part, they liked the same books, the same music and the same movies, but there was one thing Noelle liked that Roscoe did not: animals. While he could tolerate dogs to some extent, he had absolutely no use for cats. Thus, when the couple reached the point in their relationship when they discussed cohabiting, Roscoe brought up the subject of Noelle's inclination to take in strays.
"They don't stay here that long," Noelle said defensively. "The shelter has an excellent record of finding good homes for them."
"Yes, but it seems that when you get rid of one, you take in another the next day," Roscoe argued.
"I had no idea you objected to my efforts to help save these poor creatures."
"Now you make me sound like a cruel, callous person."
"I didn't mean to."
"Can't we come to a compromise on this issue?" he suggested.
"What do you mean by compromise?"
"I'll build a two-car garage in the backyard, and you can keep the animals in cages out there."
"You want me to cage them?" she asked with horror.
"It won't be for long. You said yourself that the shelter is good at finding homes for them. Look, I don't care how many animals you take in, just as long as they're not running around inside the house."
Noelle reluctantly agreed to his terms, but she resented the fact that, although they were not married yet, he was already telling her what she should and should not do in her own home.
The following weekend Roscoe rented a U-Haul truck and moved his belongings into the farmhouse. On Monday evening he came home late after a long day of work, tired and hungry. When he walked up the front stairs, he found a dead mouse on the welcome mat beneath the front door.
"That was just a present for me from Salem," Noelle laughed when Roscoe told her of his discovery. "It's his way of telling me he loves me."
"Salem? A cat? I thought we agreed to keep the charity cases out back in the cages."
"Salem's not a stray; he's my cat. I've had him since he was only a month old."
"Let me make myself clear," Roscoe said firmly. "I don't want any cats in the house."
Noelle bristled at his edict. Who was he to give orders? Then she remembered that she was past thirty and had no other likely prospects. She would have to restrain her anger and try to meet him halfway in this matter or she might lose him.
"Salem is an outdoor cat. He only comes inside to eat or when it's really cold in the winter. He won't be any problem. I promise."
"If you want to keep it, then start feeding it outside."
Roscoe and Noelle did not discuss what would happen when temperatures fell below freezing. If the man of the house had his way, the cat would not be living with them by that time.
To keep the peace, Noelle no longer allowed Salem in the house—at least not when Roscoe was home. When he was at work, however, she would bring the cat inside, feed it and sit on the living room chair with Salem on her lap, purring contentedly. Unfortunately, Noelle could not prevent the cat from leaving his kill on the front porch. At least twice a week Roscoe found a dead mouse or mole on the welcome mat when he went out in the morning to get his newspaper out of the mailbox. These little gifts infuriated him, but rather than vent his anger by complaining to his girlfriend, he decided to rid himself of the unwanted animal instead.
* * *
One day in early summer Noelle, a freelance writer, had to drive to Boston to meet with her publisher. Roscoe, who was supposed to be painting a house in Ipswich that day, left an hour before her. Unbeknownst to his girlfriend, he called the homeowner and informed her that he would not be working that day, claiming he had a family emergency to attend to. He did not bother to explain that the emergency involved getting rid of an annoying cat.
It took Roscoe nearly three hours and a half hours to locate the animal and get close enough to it that he could grab the cat and put it inside a box. Luckily, he managed to complete Operation Salem with minimal blood loss—just a few scratches on his upper arms. He would have to wear long-sleeved shirts for the next few days so that Noelle would not guess what he had done.
With the black cat secured in a cardboard carton, Roscoe drove to a vet that practiced in a neighboring town rather than the one his girlfriend patronized. He sat in the waiting room for forty minutes before a veterinarian technician took him into one of the examination rooms. Before the vet entered, the young woman typed the pertinent information into the hospital's computer system. Roscoe gave the girl his real name, but he used a fake address.
"What's the cat's name?" she asked.
"Midnight," he lied.
"How old is the cat?"
"I think we've had him about five or six years now."
"And what seems to be the problem with Midnight?"
"Well, I feel bad about this," he began, trying to put on a good act. "But my wife and I are moving to New York next week—to an apartment. We tried to find a home for Midnight, but we didn't have any luck. A friend tried to take the cat in, but, quite frankly, it became vicious. We've decided it would be best to put it to sleep."
"Have you tried calling the no-kill shelter? If they're full right now, I know of a woman who takes in stray animals. I can give you her number."
"Thanks," Roscoe replied—he had no idea that getting rid of the damned cat would be such a task—"but we've made our decision. We want the cat put down."
The technician scratched Salem under his chin and was rewarded with a steady purr.
"What a sweetie you are," the girl addressed the animal. "If I didn't already have six cats, I'd take you home myself."
She felt tears well in her eyes—her usual reaction whenever an animal had to be euthanized—and she hurriedly left the room, telling Roscoe, "The doctor will be with you in a moment."
* * *
Later in the week, Roscoe noticed that Noelle had become distracted. She could not eat, sleep or work, and she did not show much interest in her social life.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Aren't you feeling well?"
"I'm just worried about Salem. I haven't seen him for three days."
"Maybe it ran away."
"He's never done that before. I've looked in all his usual hiding places, but I've had no luck in finding him. I'm so afraid something has happened to him."
Roscoe shrugged with indifference. He had never had a pet as a child and did not realize that to some people an animal was like a member of their family.
"It's just a cat."
"He's my baby!" Noelle cried. "He might be out there hurt or sick." She didn't want to voice her worst fear, that the cat might be dead; instead, she went into the hall closet, got out a flashlight and announced, "I'm going to go look for him again."
Nothing Roscoe said could dissuade her. Unlike Noelle, he was glad the cat was gone. While he did not like to see the woman he loved mope around the house, mourning a useless animal, he was confident that she would eventually get over it. The next night when he returned home from work to a smiling, joyous Noelle, Roscoe was delighted that his prediction had come true—and much quicker than he had expected.
"I'm glad to see you're in a better mood," he said.
"Now that I know Salem is okay, I'm fine."
"You found the cat?" Roscoe asked, trying to hide his surprise.
"I didn't actually see him, but he ate the food I left out for him."
Roscoe breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Some wild animal must have eaten the cat's food. His happiness was short-lived, however. The following morning when he opened the front door, Roscoe found a dead mole on the welcome mat. Salem, it seemed, was alive and well and still bringing dead rodents to his owner.
That damned vet didn't put it to sleep, after all, Roscoe thought angrily.
The doctor had probably found a home for Salem, and the cat must have subsequently found its way back to Noelle's doorstep.
"Well, as my late father used to say, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself."
* * *
For several weeks, Roscoe tried to corner the black cat, but the animal would not go near him. Ever since the trip to the vet, Salem mistrusted him. On two occasions, he tried to run over the cat with his pick-up truck, but both times the animal was able to escape injury. With each failure to rid himself of the unwanted feline, its owner's boyfriend became angrier and even more determined to succeed. The biggest problem he faced was how to destroy the cat from a distance. He ruled out using a gun since he did not want to risk anyone hearing the shot. He was not very good with a bow and arrow, nor was he likely to inflict a fatal injury if he threw a knife at the animal. In all likelihood, he would probably only succeed in scaring Salem off.
Poison! he thought with triumph. Why didn't I think of it earlier?
The next day Roscoe went to a local farm supply store where he explained to the man behind the counter that he had a pest control problem and asked him to recommend a poison.
"You don't plan on using this on your wife, do you?" the man joked as he rang up the sale on the cash register.
The house painter politely laughed at the shopkeeper's wisecracking.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to kill anything on two legs."
When he got home, Roscoe heard Noelle in the den typing on her computer. He went into the kitchen and out onto the rear deck where Salem's cat bowl was kept. Smiling at the sight of the fresh food in the dish, he picked it up, took it into the kitchen, and mixed two tablespoons of poison with the cat's ocean whitefish dinner. Roscoe was about to put the bowl back on the deck when Noelle walked into the room.
"What are you doing?" she asked when she saw the cat's food dish in his hand.
Then she spotted the poison on the counter and realized her boyfriend's intentions.
"You were going to kill Salem!"
"Let me explain," Roscoe pleaded, but he could think of no plausible lie.
"I can't believe you would want to kill my pet."
"All right," he said, starting to lose his patience. "I promise I won't hurt the damned cat, but you've got to find a new home for it."
Noelle became livid with rage.
"Salem isn't going anywhere," she screamed, "but you are."
"What?"
"I want you out of my house. I've put up with your trying to boss me around, but I won't stand for any cruelty to my animals."
"You can't throw me out," he argued. "I gave up my apartment when I moved in here."
"Then you'll just have to stay in a motel until you can find another one. Now, get out!"
Roscoe, who had never been any good at managing his anger, advanced toward his girlfriend menacingly. Noelle cringed when he raised his hand to strike her. Suddenly, Salem jumped on the screen of the back door, his claws gripping into the mesh. Roscoe was startled, and that gave Noelle a chance to run upstairs into the bedroom, lock the door and phone the police.
* * *
Although Roscoe moved his things out of the house, he did not give up on the relationship. He made several attempts to patch things up, but Noelle wanted nothing more to do with him. He persisted, and she threatened him with a restraining order.
"You'll be sorry," he warned when he realized that she would never forgive him.
For weeks, Noelle sat inside her house, jumping at every sound. She did not sleep well at night, fearing Roscoe would murder her in her bed. Her former boyfriend knew she was afraid and enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game he was playing. Finally, one cool autumn night, he decided to close in on his prey.
It was a dark night with no moon or stars in the sky. He put on a pair of black pants and a sweatshirt. Quietly, he walked through the woods that surrounded the farmhouse, carefully making his way across the lawn and up onto the rear deck without being seen or heard—or so he thought. He was unaware that the whole time he had been creeping up to the house a pair of green eyes had followed his every move.
When Roscoe reached the back door, he heard a low growling sound. He spun around quickly. There was nothing there, so he turned back toward the door. Suddenly, Salem jumped down from the drainage gutter. The cat landed on the intruder's face and dug its claws into the man's eyes.
Roscoe screamed with agony and pulled the cat from his head. He tried to get away, but he felt a sharp pain as the cat sank its needle-like teeth into his ankle. The ex-boyfriend no longer had any desire to break into Noelle's house or to exact revenge on her for breaking up with him. He wanted only to go home, to end the cat-and-mouse game in which he found the roles were reversed: Salem, Noelle's stray cat, was now the hunter and Roscoe his terrified prey.
As the injured man attempted to make his way across the deck, the cat attacked him again and again, toying with him, allowing Roscoe to move a few steps toward safety before pouncing on him once more. In the light of day, Roscoe might have been able to overpower the cat, perhaps strangle it or break its neck. But the darkness and the blood in his eyes left him nearly blind. The cat, a nocturnal creature, had all the advantages.
Upstairs in the house Noelle, who had been on the point of exhaustion for days, had at last fallen into a deep sleep. Not even Roscoe's blood-curdling screams could wake her.
* * *
The following morning was cold but clear. Noelle woke up at seven, went downstairs and turned on the coffee maker. Then she picked up Salem's food bowl, which since Roscoe's departure was again kept in the kitchen, and filled it with Meow Mix. She unlocked the back door, expecting the cat to run in.
"Salem," she called, instantly fearful that something had happened to him.
Her heart sank when she saw bloodstains on the deck.
"Salem!" she sobbed.
A familiar meow eased her fears.
"Come on in and eat," Noelle said as she scooped her pet into her arms, making sure he was not injured.
Noelle poured herself a cup of coffee and then headed toward the front door to get the morning newspaper. She tried to open the door, but something was blocking it. She walked to the living room window, stuck her head out and looked down. A scream caught in her throat. Lying on the porch, his bloody head resting on the welcome mat, was Roscoe Woodall. It was obvious from the coagulated blood on his face and the layer of frost that clung to his body that her tormentor was dead.
Salem walked out of the kitchen and stood beside her in front of the door.
"This is your doing, isn't it?" she asked. "Another gift to show that you love me?"
Noelle realized what a ridiculous notion that was. How could a cat have killed a man and dragged him up onto the porch?
Salem looked up at her, his green eyes full of love. Then he arched his back, rubbed against her legs and purred.
Salem wanted to add a moral to this story. (And for once I agree with him!)
