The Five Lives of Our Cat Zook Read online

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  “Miraculo and the Twenty-Six Toes” is an original story by the author, as far as she knows. As is “Mud.”

  The “ghost story” section of “Jewel the Ghost Cat” is derived from similar folktales from around the world, using the motif, or theme, of “A Corpse Claims Its Property.” (Source: Aarne-Thompson-Uther type 366, translated and edited by D. L Ashliman, 2000–2008; http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/type0366.html).

  “Beau the Flying Cat” is also a variant of folktales from many countries, using the motif “The Talkative Tortoise.” (Source: Aarne-Thompson-Uther type 225A, edited by D. L. Ashliman, 1999–2010; http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/type0225a.html).

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

  and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used

  fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

  establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained

  from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN: 978-1-4197-0192-4

  Text copyright © 2012 Joanne Rocklin

  Book design by Maria T. Middleton

  Published in 2012 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

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  Contents

  1. The Important Stuff

  2. The Cats-Have-Nine-Lives Theory

  3. My Rainbow Whopper Theory

  4. My Third and Fourth Jobs

  5. Life Number One: Miraculo and the Twenty-Six Toes

  6. My Name Theory

  7. My Wishing Theory and My Hope-of-the-World Theory

  8. Just for Coffee

  9. Life Number Two: Jewel the Ghost Cat

  10. My Cat-Owner-vs.-Dog-Owner Theory

  11. My Seven-Second-Meltdown Theory

  12. My Desperado Theory

  13. Matilda and Zook

  14. More Secrets

  15. Life Number Three: Beau the Flying Cat

  16. I Am Dreaming

  17. Fiddle-I-Fee

  18. Galileo and the Theory of Noticing

  19. My Common-Letter-of-the-Alphabet Theory

  20. Life Number Four: Mud

  21. F = PH

  22. My Theory of Happy-Ending Times

  23. Pets Rock

  24. Life Number Five: Zook

  25. A Delivery

  26. The Theory of Story-Making from Oona and the Great Rebus-Maker and Whopper-Teller

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  ur cat’s named Zucchini, and we call him Zook, but that’s not the most important thing about him. And neither is the INCREDIBLE fact that he’s got seven toes on each front foot and six on each one in the back, for a total of twenty-six. (Most cats have five and four, for a total of eighteen.) His eyes are blue, like old faded jeans, and his coat is dark brown. But when he’s lying on a sidewalk scratching his back, you can see some white markings shaped like the state of California on his belly. And some black tufts in the spot where Oakland is, which is where we live. One corner of one ear is clipped off. He’s got shaky teeth, black gums, and breath that smells like the restroom in the Chevron station—a smell we love, because it’s Zook’s.

  If you run your palm along his right side, you can feel something like a little pebble stuck under his skin. It’s not a pebble. It’s a pellet from a BB gun. And that’s not the most important thing about him, either. In fact, I try not to think about that so much.

  Two and a half years ago, my brother, Fred, and I found Zook in the alley that connects the back of our apartment building with the back of O’Leary’s Pizzeria. We go to O’Leary’s a lot because of their famous fried zucchini. (Fried is the only kind of vegetable Freddy will eat.)

  It was a warm, sunny Saturday, just like this one. Mom was in the stuffy basement laundry room, and Fred and I were sitting out in the alley eating lunch from O’Leary’s. We had folding chairs out there, and back then the big blue pots were filled with lavender and red geraniums. You could smell the eucalyptus tree and lavender over the traffic smells. Birds were chirping, which I suppose they’re always doing, but this was the kind of day when nice things like that got your attention.

  Then something else got our attention.

  “EE-OW! EE-OWEY!”

  That’s another thing about Zook: He’s got the greatest pair of cat lungs ever. There he was, stretched out in the warm dirt of one of those geranium pots, howling away as if he and the birds in the alley were singers in a band. Nowadays, Zook is famous in the neighborhood for his singing, but at the time we’d never heard anything like him before. And then he let Freddy and me pet him, rubbing his head against our legs. Probably hadn’t been stroked in a long, long time. I noticed he was wearing a collar with a silver rectangle dangling from it. INCREDIBLY, in the middle of that rectangle was a little sparkly diamond! We lured that starving cat into the building with some fried zucchini. (Get it? Zucchini … Zook.) Mom said we could keep him, so we cleaned him up, bought him some cat food, and brought him upstairs to live with us. Dad said our family could always use a diamond, or the gobs of cash you could get for it.

  That diamond isn’t even the most important thing about him. Anyway, we found out it was fake. But we’d already started to love Zook by the time we absolutely found out for sure. Actually, I began to love him the second I met him.

  The most important thing about Zook right now is that he’s sick, and Fred and I are waiting around on the steps of the Good Samaritan Veterinary Clinic, where Zook’s getting help. The clinic has big windows in the front, and Freddy keeps jumping up to look in.

  “There he is! I see him!” Fred shouts.

  I push myself up from the stone stairs. I feel like a tired old lady, even though I’m only ten.

  “Where?” I say. I don’t see Zook anywhere.

  It’s Saturday, so the office is busy. A woman is answering the phone at the front desk, a man is bending over a filing cabinet, people and their pets are sitting around on couches, and a man with a stethoscope in his shirt pocket is scratching a slobbery golden retriever’s ear while talking to its owner.

  “There!” Fred says, and I realize he isn’t talking about Zook. Fred’s pointing to the stethoscope guy. “That’s Zook’s vet!”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. It was kind of a blur when my mom and Fred and me rushed Zook in that morning, but that’s the guy.

  Fred is looking at him like he’s God or something. Just like a five-year-old, to think like that. Of course, it is sort of godlike to cure a living, breathing being. Then a really SCARY question pops into my head. Even though Zook’s vet is probably a good person who loves animals with all his heart, does that also mean he’s good at his job? I mean really, really good?

  We go inside and stand near the vet’s elbow. He’s explaining to the slobbery golden’s owner that the dog’s medicine has to be given three times a day for the first three days
, then two times a day for the next three days, then once a day until all the pills are used up.

  “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that one more time?” says the golden’s owner, a man who looks just as smart as you or me, except for the fact that his sweater is on inside out.

  The vet takes a breath, holds up the little bottle of pills, and explains again, in a fake-patient voice, about the three times a day for the first three days, etc., etc. Fake-patient voices are always easy to spot because of the slowed-down syllables.

  “Hope I remember all that,” says the dog’s owner.

  I can hear unhappy yipping coming from behind the big closed doors past the front desk, and you can’t miss Zook’s famous yowling over it all: “EE-OW! EE-OWEY!” Yes, there’s lots of stuff for the vet to do back there, like take care of Zook, for instance! And when we brought Zook into the Good Samaritan Veterinary Clinic, he didn’t look one-seventeenth as frisky and healthy as that slobbery golden, who is now happily licking Freddy’s shoe.

  That’s when, all of a sudden, I notice two things. Two important things that make me open my mouth. My big mouth, as some people (OK, my mother) would say.

  Gramma Dee says I have chutzpah, which is a Yiddish word for “nerve,” but I only have it when the situation is serious. Which this is.

  The first important thing: The instructions are right there on the pill bottle. IN CAPS.

  I think it’s important to notice how words are written. Italics tell you to emphasize the words, or that the words are new or unusual, or that someone is thinking or writing or singing the words. Quotation marks tell you when someone is talking, or that the speaker is wriggling her fingers as she says a word in order to make that word “special.”

  It’s as if the words have feelings. They come alive!

  CAPS are like neon signs, or shouts, and they’re even more important than italics. You’re REALLY supposed to pay attention to them.

  “The instructions are right there on the pill bottle,” I say.

  The man and Zook’s vet both turn to look at me. Then the dog owner looks down at the caps on the pill bottle. The vet taps his index finger on the bottle—or, more specifically, THE VERY LONG FINGERNAIL ON THE INDEX FINGER OF HIS RIGHT HAND.

  You may have guessed that the second important detail I’m noticing is the very long fingernail. Actually, all five of the very long fingernails on his right hand, which could only mean that:

  1. Zook’s vet is a serious guitar player. And I know exactly what that means, because my friend Riya’s uncle is one.

  2. Zook’s vet wishes he were home, practicing his guitar or playing with his band. Zook’s vet and his band want to leave Oakland and go to L.A. to get famous. (That’s what Riya’s uncle wants to do with his band.)

  3. Zook’s vet is also thinking about the chords to a new song about his love. Many guitarists—Riya’s uncle, for example—sing songs about their loves, haven’t you noticed? Zook’s vet is thinking about all the words that rhyme with “pretty,” like “city” and “witty” and lots of others. He’s thinking that nothing rhymes with “beautiful,” and it’s driving him crazy. Also, should the song be sad and slow, or happy and dancey?

  In other words, he’s worrying and thinking about all those things. And he’s NOT worrying and thinking about ZOOK!

  “Excuse me, young lady,” says the vet in his fake-patient voice. “Take a seat and I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

  Freddy and I don’t take a seat. I draw myself up tall. I try to put on a serious face, like my mother does when she’s putting unkind people in their place. I say what she would say in this situation.

  “I beg your pardon,” I say, even though I’m not really begging his pardon, and tears are showing up in my eyes, which wouldn’t happen to my mother.

  Freddy says, “We want to know about Zook, please!”

  Fred is still looking all googly-eyed at the vet, like he’s God. Fred actually looks at a lot of adults like that, especially father-figure types. But God would remember who Zook is. I can tell by the way the vet pauses and studies the ceiling, like something important is going on up there, that the vet doesn’t have a CLUE. Of course, the vet’s memory is poor today, after a late night out playing a gig with his band, showing off for his love with fancy guitar strumming.

  Then I give the vet a clue. Lots of them.

  “I’m Oona Armstrong, and this is my brother, Fred,” I say. “Don’t you remember us? We just brought in our cat this morning! Zook’s the big old brown cat, with faded blue eyes, with a clipped ear, and the state of California on his belly. He has bad teeth and gums, but that’s not the problem. He has a BB-gun pellet on his right flank, but that’s not the problem, either. We brought him in this morning because the problem is—the problems ARE—he’s stopped eating and he keeps staring into space, and when he isn’t staring into space, he’s hiding in dark places, or staring into his water bowl, too tired to drink.”

  The golden retriever’s owner gives a kind of salute to Zook’s vet and leaves. And now Zook’s vet really looks at us. I can tell he remembers our cat because of all the clues I gave him. I guess he feels sorry for us, too, because he takes us down a hall to a door with a window. We’re both allowed a quick peek, and there’s Zook, a sad brown blob in a cage, a tube hooked up to his paw, and a blue bandage keeping it in place.

  “Zook’s kidneys are failing, and he’s very dehydrated,” the vet says. “We’re giving him fluids intravenously so he’ll feel better. We’ll call you when we’re done with the treatment. There’s nothing you can do now except go home.”

  I don’t like being told there’s nothing I can do. I don’t like feeling that way, either.

  The vet hands me his card, and his name is Howard Fiske, DVM. And there’s that long fingernail again! I’m scared for Zook’s failing kidneys, so the tears roll out of my eyes, and then a whole lot of really loud caps roll out of my mouth. “WELL, YOU GOTTA MAKE SURE THOSE KIDNEYS PASS, PLEASE!” I say. Loudly.

  o now I’m thinking that wasn’t very smart.

  “You yelled at Zook’s doctor,” Fred says on our way home. He’s crying, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  “I know, I know,” I say. “Hey, don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong. Zook will get fixed.” I feel shivery inside, and I’m crying, too. I’m not sure I believe what I just said.

  The vet had patted me on the shoulder and said he understood. But, as I said, that vet isn’t God. He’s just a plain old human, who eats and sleeps and scratches an itch, like everyone else. A human who really doesn’t like being yelled at, and who may not do his very, very best work when he sees Zook. Because when he sees Zook, he will think about Zook’s owner with her big mouth and feel super annoyed.

  We sit down on our special bus bench, even though we’re not waiting for a bus. This particular bench is about halfway between the Good Samaritan Veterinary Clinic and our apartment building on Telegraph Avenue. It’s a good place to stop and hang out if you’re not in any particular hurry. Also, it’s right across the street from a Bank of the West. If there happens to be a bank robbery, I am in the best position to notice important details to help the authorities. For instance, what the bad guys look like when they race outside, the license plate number of the getaway car, the exact time of the event, any witnesses, etc., etc. I’m a good noticer. Not that I’ve ever witnessed a robbery, but you never know.

  I look over at Fred. I notice some important details. He’s got that Sad Fred Look, all droopy-mouthed, and I know he’ll be eating air again at the next meal. That’s what my mom always says, that Fred eats air—boiled, fried, roasted, and grilled. In other words, his appetite isn’t so hot. And we’re always so scared that he’ll go back to that time when he was REALLY wasting away, after our father died, two years ago.

  Then I know what to do. It’s one of my four jobs. Yes, believe it or not, I have four jobs.

  One of my jobs is to crank up Fred’s appetite. I reach into the pocket of my shorts and pull out a lit
tle plastic bag filled with tiny crackers. Fred likes food that’s shaped like cute things. These crackers are shaped like goldfish.

  My second job is helping Fred improve his reading skills. I want him to be a STAR when he gets to kindergarten next year. That’s what happened to me. Also, reading will take his mind off things and make him happier. And I’m happy when Fred is happy.

  I pull out a pencil stub and a little pad from my pocket, handy just for this purpose. I get inspired and draw a really good rebus, if I do say so myself. Rebuses taught me to read and now they’re teaching Fred. My dad, the Great Rebus-Maker himself, was the one who taught me.

  “Cats,” reads Fred.

  “You got it. Go on.”

  “H-h-h-a-a-ve.”

  “Great!”

  “Nine. Hives. Cats. Have. Nine. Hives. They do?”

  I point to the code RW above my drawing of the hives. “Rhymes with, remember? Make hives rhyme with something that starts with L.”

  “L-l-l-ives. Cats have nine lives.”

  “There.” I scribble I ♥ Fred under my rebus.

  I feel like Miss Crackenhower must have felt. Miss Crackenhower was my first-grade teacher, way back. Practically everything she ever said was in caps. Her teeth were very white and it looked like she had more of them than a usual human. She was always smiling. That’s because you get a happy feeling helping someone read. You feel sort of like a wizard. I have to say, to this day, Miss Crackenhower still has the whitest teeth. And she still seems much happier than any other teacher, especially my fourth-grade teacher, Mr. Fry, who has trouble keeping the lid on Room 7.

  “Ha, ha, that’s silly! Nine lives!” says Fred, and he gives me a little punch on my arm. Of course he doesn’t believe me. And all of a sudden, it’s important, VERY important, that Fred understand and believe. He’ll feel happier right away. And like I said, I’m happy when Fred is happy.

  So I start talking very fast. “Listen to me, Freddy. Cats are born with nine lives inside of them. They have the ability—the POWER—to live nine whole lives! Some of those lives can be very long, and maybe some are shorter, but this is how it works: Whenever something bad happens, like a cat fight, or a bad fall, or a failing kidney, just like that, PRESTO! That cat’s back in business again!”