Straight from the Horse's Mouth

New World Library

Excerpt

In his strange, not-quite-human way, [Adam] is constantly reminding me that realmagic doesn't come from achieving the perfect appearance, from being Cinderellaat the ball with both glass slippers and a killer hairstyle. The real magic isin the pumpkin, in the mice, in the moonlight; not beyond ordinary life, butwithin it. . . . It is a quality of attention to ordinary life that is so lovingand intimate it is almost worship.
? Martha Beck, Expecting Adam

Rodney Speaks

I was as skeptical as any sane person would be that morning, fourteen years ago,when I loaded Rodney, my cat, into his carrier to take him down to the holisticveterinary clinic where a psychic was seeing animals. I was having some problemswith Rodney that my regular vet couldn't help, and I figured, why not give thepsychic a shot? It seemed a little goofy and I felt a little foolish, but whatdid I have to lose? No matter what, it was sure to be good for a laugh.

I thought at the time, as some of you may think now, that the psychic businessis either a hokey sideshow act or a solemn, mystical affair, full ofincense-burning Gypsies and weird witches with crystal balls. Boy, was I in foran eye-opener.

Gladys, the psychic, wore no heavy eyeliner, no gold hoop earrings or janglingcharm bracelets. She was less gypsy fortune-teller and more midwesterngrandmother. Were those ketchup stains on her shirt? I was perplexed.

When I extracted Rodney from his carrier and put him down on the cold metaltable in front of her, he didn't howl like a triggered car alarm or jump off thetable, his usual reaction at the vet's. Instead, he sat perfectly still andquietly scrutinized Gladys. He actually seemed startled to see her. She returnedhis gaze.

"What are you doing?" I whispered to her.

"I'm talking to him," she replied flatly.

You've got to be kidding! I wanted to yell. No incantations? No sweeping armmovements? No speaking in tongues? My curiosity won out over my skepticism.

"What does he say?" I whispered.

"I asked him what his favorite food is and he says chicken."

Good guess, I thought. True, Rodney gobbled up quite a bit of fresh chicken, butwhat cat doesn't like chicken? Any ninny could have figured that out.

"Now I am asking him what his favorite spot in the house is," shesaid. Again, Gladys did nothing more than look at the little cat, who returnedher gaze, nonplussed.

The answer must have come to her quickly: "He says he likes to sit on theback of an orange chair that overlooks a window. A chair in the den."

"That's exactly right," I gasped. When Rodney was inside the house, heplanted himself on the back of the peach-colored armchair in the den.

"The window in the den overlooks the yard with the little white dog,"Gladys said.

"What dog?" I asked.

"Across the street from your building is a little dog behind a fence.Rodney likes to go over there and tease that little dog. He walks back and forthin front of the fence to make the dog bark."

I cast a fish-eyed glance at him. There was, indeed, a small white terrierbehind a fence across the street, but I never dreamed Rodney went over there."You torment that dog, do you?" I snarled at him.

"He's very full of himself," she continued. "He says women arealways commenting on the pretty yellow markings on his head. He loves women.He's been told that he's quite handsome."

My jaw made a nasty clattering sound as it hit the linoleum floor. Myboyfriend's secretary had been visiting our condo only the weekend before, andshe had made a huge fuss over Rodney. She had praised the three little stripeson his head and used the very word handsome.

I took a deep breath and cut straight to the punch: "So why does he go doorto door caterwauling?" I asked.

"He only howls at the windows where there are other cats. He thinks that ifhe calls them, they will be able to come out and play. He's lonely.?

The answer was so obvious, I felt pretty foolish. Not once had it occurred to methat he was meowing not at the neighbors, but at the neighbors' cats.

"But . . . . but . . . .how can I make him stop before we get kicked out ofthe condo? I can't bear to keep him cooped up inside, but when I let him out, hescreams," I whined.

"Get another cat. He's lonely. He doesn't want to be the only cat,"she snapped. She had no way of knowing Rodney was the only cat at home;nonetheless, I wasn't thrilled with her prescription. One cat seemed to be moretrouble than I bargained for ? the little furry foghorn had already gotten usbooted out of our last apartment; now the homeowners association in our newcondo threatened to give me and my pint-sized Pavarotti our walking papers . . .again. How was I supposed to consider a second cat?

"Did you know your neighbors feed him?" she continued.

"What? What neighbors?"

"The neighbors with the two little girls. He goes in their house. Severalof your neighbors let him in to be fed." I knew the neighbors with the twolittle girls, but I had no idea they were having my cat over for dinner.

"That's why he hasn't seemed very hungry lately.?

I cast a wary glance in his direction. Rodney had settled into a squat on thecold table. He was calm, he was smug, and there was no mistaking the expressionon his little furry face: He was smiling. He was finally getting the best of me,as he always thought he should. By this time, the strangeness of thecommunication had worn off and I was asking questions freely, like a foreignambassador with a really fast translator:

"Ask him why he pees on my clothes," I said.

"He doesn't want you to go away and leave him alone. Peeing on your clothesis the only way he can express his anger." This was too true to bebelieved. I had a promotional modeling job that sometimes took me away forweekends, where I'd wear a specific uniform. When I got home Sunday night andemptied out my suitcase, I'd pile all my travel clothes on the floor, minglingmy uniform with a week's worth of other dirty laundry. Then I'd get distractedby other chores. Later I'd find the pile strewn all over the floor. Rodney wouldhave singled out my uniform from the pile of laundry and peed only on it.Eventually I learned not to leave my laundry on the floor, so he resorted topeeing directly into my freshly packed suitcase. That way I wouldn't discoveruntil I unpacked my bag in Palm Springs that everything I brought was soaked andmy uniform reeked to high heaven.

"He seems to know the uniform I wear when I go away. How could he possiblyknow what clothes I wear to work?" I asked.

"He just does," she replied.

"Why does he freak out every time I leave? He even seems to be afraid ofthe dark. Ask him why he has screaming panic attacks at three a.m. Ask him wherehe came from," I urged.

"He says he lived in an industrial part of Van Nuys, where there were a lotof strays. Men would put food out in the alley for the cats. There were piles ofcardboard boxes and machinery and a lot of grease on the ground. He got shut upin the warehouse at night and was very cold and hungry. Howling was the only wayhe could get fed."

"So, he really is afraid of the dark? And he gets claustrophobic?" Iasked.

"Only at night, he says."

"Poor little guy," I cooed, and patted his head. This explanationshone a whole new light on our dilemma. It couldn't have made more perfectsense. I had found him in the North Hollywood pound, on feline skid row. Thelittle operatic kitten had serenaded me even as I'd entered the...