The Speed of Souls Read online

  I give each of them a sniff.

  Goodbye, Frogs.

  Good luck out there.

  Hugo

  A trail.

  I find a trail. And then I see two people. They are wearing big backpacks.

  Hikers.

  I must be close.

  Once they pass, I zoom down the trail. It doesn’t take long for me to reach the bottom of the mountain and flat land.

  Flat land!

  I made it over the Mountains.

  I scamper to the road. Something about this road seems familiar and I follow it for an hour until houses start to pop up.

  “Come here, kitty!” I hear someone yell. It’s a she-human. She’s chasing me down the street.

  I haven’t come this far to be captured again. I sprint away from her like she’s the snake, then turn onto another street.

  I stop.

  I’ve been on this street. This is the street where the Farmers’ Market is. Which means the Lake is only a few blocks away. I know how to get home. I know exactly how to get home. I can see it in my head: I go to that street, then turn there, then go down that way, then I’m Home.

  I start running. I see a dog sitting on the porch of another house. I know that dog!

  Running.

  I know that smell!

  Running.

  I know that tree!

  Running.

  I know that mailbox!

  Running.

  I know that car!

  Running.

  I know that trash can!

  Running.

  I know that house.

  That’s my house!

  I’m Home!

  ~

  I run to the front door and scratch at it.

  Cassie! Jerry!

  I claw and meow at the door. No one comes. I run around to the back fence. I know where a small hole is and I scurry under.

  I’m in my backyard.

  This is my Backyard!

  I scratch on the back door, but again, no one opens it.

  Where are Jerry and Cassie?

  They must not be home. And come to think of it, I didn’t see Jerry’s car.

  I jump on a bench on the porch. I used to lie on this bench all the time. I could see Jerry through the window, sitting in front of his computer. I jump to the windowsill. The desk where Jerry would sit at is empty.

  I glance around the rest of the room. Everything looks the same except there is no water bowl. The big silver water bowl that is always in the exact same place isn’t there.

  That’s when I realize Cassie and Jerry aren’t just not home.

  They’re gone.

  Jerry

  Cassie has her head out the window. Her golden hair and ears whip in the light breeze.

  We’re five miles into Nevada, fifteen minutes into our forty-one-hour cross-country drive. My goal is to make the drive in three days. First stop, Cheyenne, which is a good fifteen hours away.

  After another few minutes, we pass Zephyr Cove. I remember back to three years earlier when I rode my bike there to watch the 4th of July debauchery.

  “Dammit,” I shout, slowing down and pulling over to the shoulder. “My bike.”

  I forgot to pack my bicycle.

  Megan was insistent I bring it. Apparently, West Haven, much like South Lake Tahoe, is extremely bike-friendly. Megan bought a cruiser bike and she rode it to work every day.

  I wait for a break in traffic, then make a U-turn.

  Hugo

  Gone.

  I can’t believe they’re gone.

  Where did they go?

  I jump down from the windowsill. Next to the porch is the small blue baby pool. I think back to how Cassie would bark at me whenever I tried to get in. (She was so protective of those dumb little frogs!)

  I’m never going to see Cassie again. I’m never going to get to sniff her. Lick her. Wrestle with her. And Jerry. I’m never going to see Jerry again. My human. My Jerry.

  I lie down on the porch and put my head on my paws.

  Where do I go now?

  There’s a rumble and I lift my head.

  Is that?

  Yes.

  It’s the garage door.

  I spring up, then dart back toward the hole in the fence. I scurry under, then scamper around to the garage.

  Jerry

  I grab the bicycle leaning against the wall and begin wheeling it out of the garage.

  “Ahh!” I yelp.

  A tiny little cat darts into the garage. He’s gray and white striped, with darker gray racing stripes on his head, and yellow-green eyes. He rushes toward me and begins clawing at my leg.

  I set the bike back against the wall and say, “Hey, little guy. You scared me.”

  The cat is spinning in circles. It’s like he just ate a pound of catnip.

  “Take it easy,” I say. “You’re gonna have a heart attack.”

  Hugo

  It’s Jerry!

  It’s Jerry!

  It’s Jerry!

  It’s Jerry!

  Jerry

  “Where did you come from?” I ask, leaning down and checking the cat for a collar, which is difficult because he’s still doing a Tasmanian Devil impression. He doesn’t have one, but this doesn’t mean much. Not all cats wear collars. I assume he belongs to someone in the area.

  He rolls over on his back and exposes a little white belly. I give him a few scratches. “Ah, you like that, don’t you?”

  My phone chimes in my pocket and I pull it out. It’s a text from Megan: You on the road yet?

  I text back: I forgot to pack my bike and had to turn around. Headed out now.

  “Well, buddy,” I say. “On any other day, I would make sure you get back home safely, but I have to hit the road.”

  I’m not overly concerned. The next human he saw, he would attack them, just like he attacked me, and then they would take care of him.

  I give the kitten a few last scratches, then say, “See ya later, buddy.”

  Hugo

  I claw at Jerry’s leg, but he shakes me off. Then he grabs the bike and wheels it out of the garage.

  He doesn’t know it’s me.

  Jerry

  I parked my car and the U-Haul trailer on the street in front of the house and I wheel the bike up the ramp. The trailer is only half full and I lean the bike against the wall, then pack a couple of trash bags of my clothes against it to keep it upright.

  Something scratches at my leg and I look down.

  It’s the kitten.

  “What are you doing?” I laugh.

  I can’t believe he followed me into the trailer.

  I shoo him away, but he’s resilient, he keeps rushing back at me and clawing at my pant leg.

  Food.

  He must want food.

  “Sorry, pal, I don’t have any food.”

  I jump out of the trailer, waiting for the little cat to follow me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns and begins clawing at one of the many trash bags full of my belongings.

  “Dude,” I yell, jumping back into the trailer. “Knock that off.”

  By the time I reach him, he’s clawed a hole through one of the bags. He pulls something out through the hole. An orange tennis ball.

  I feel my eyebrows raise.

  I hadn’t seen that ball in over a year, then I decided not to throw it away, and now a tiny little kitten has dug it out from my belongings.

  Too weird.

  I roll the ball a few feet down the trailer and the little cat bounds after it. The ball is too big for the kitten to hold in its mouth—it’s practically the same size as his head—and he bites at the orange fibers, the ball swinging back and forth from his teeth.

  He waddles with the ball back to me, drops it at my feet, then sits back on his butt, his tail wagging back and forth.

  I lean down and pick him up.

  I hold him out in f
ront of me and stare into his chartreuse eyes.

  His little black nose and whiskers twitch.

  “H—”

  No.

  It’s not possible.

  Cassie

  I watched the little cat dart into the garage and attack Jerry, then follow him toward the trailer.

  What a crazy little cat.

  Jerry

  I pop the door open to the car and slide into the driver’s seat. It took me a long couple of minutes to get the kitten out of the trailer. Once out, I tossed the orange tennis ball into the grass in the Winston’s front yard and the kitten darted after it. Then I ran to the car.

  I turn the key in the ignition and put the car in drive. I haven’t gone two feet when something springs onto the hood of the car, then starfishes itself against the windshield.

  Cassie

  The little kitten plasters his body to the windshield. It scares me and I let out a loud bark.

  Hugo

  It’s Cassie!

  It’s Cassie!

  It’s Cassie!

  It’s Cassie!

  Cassie

  The kitten stares at me through the windshield.

  Then he meows.

  It can’t be.

  Jerry

  I turn on my windshield wipers, giving the kitten a scare and he jumps off the windshield.

  “Crazy cat,” I say, then begin accelerating.

  Cassie barks twice.

  “What?” I ask. “What’s going on? Is it that stupid cat?”

  She jumps from the passenger seat and onto my lap and claws at my hands on the steering wheel.

  “Ouch! Stop, Cassie! I can’t see!” I yell, hitting the brakes and pulling over. I’ve made it as far as Pete’s house.

  Cassie is spinning frantically in my lap. She’s possessed. I’ve never seen her like this before. I open the door and she leaps to the ground and begins running down the street.

  Hugo

  Cassie’s ears flap as she runs toward me. I almost forgot how beautiful she is. She’s the most beautiful dog in the world.

  When she reaches me, she gives me a few long sniffs, then she begins to twirl.

  Jerry

  I climb out of the car and glance down the street. Cassie has the small kitten pinned to the road and I race forward.

  Why is Cassie attacking a kitten?

  When I draw closer, I realize Cassie isn’t attacking the kitten; well, she is attacking him, but with kisses, her huge tongue slobbering down his little face.

  “Cassie!” I shout. “Come on! We don’t have time for this.”

  I grab her by her collar and give her a pull.

  She growls at me.

  Cassie has never growled at me before.

  Not once.

  Not ever.

  I stare at her for a long second. “What has gotten into you?” I say. “It’s just a cat. You’ve seen hundreds of cats.”

  As if on cue, Cassie leans down and picks the kitten up by the scruff of his neck. Then she turns to me and sets the kitten at my feet. Then she barks five times.

  Cassie had done this exactly once before.

  When she picked out Hugo.

  Chapter 22

  “CONNECTICUT”

  Jerry

  I throw the small orange tennis ball—which Megan special-ordered from one of her new vendors—five feet into the churning gray-blue water. He races into the surf, swims up and over a small wave, and grabs the ball in his tiny kitten mouth. Then he deftly turns around and swims back.

  A small wave carries him the last several feet, then deposits him on the coarse brown sand. He shakes out his fur, then carries the ball to my feet and drops it. Then he sits back on his butt, his tail wagging back and forth. When I don’t immediately pick up the ball and throw it back in the ocean, he lets out a loud, “Meow!”

  ~

  Two weeks earlier, when Cassie dropped the small kitten at my feet and barked five times, I was in a state of shock. It was clear Cassie thought the small kitten was Hugo, but I wasn’t convinced. Mostly, because it was impossible. Yeah, the kitten attacked me as if he knew me. And yeah, the kitten pulled Hugo’s orange tennis ball from a trash bag of my stuff. But those could easily be coincidences.

  Regardless, I knew there was zero chance of getting Cassie back in the car without the kitten. So I scooped him up. Even if the kitten wasn’t Hugo—which of course he wasn’t, like I said, that would be impossible—he was still the coolest little cat I’d ever seen.

  He rode in my lap for the next four hours. When I stopped for gas in Winnemucca, Nevada, I bought a few tins of cat food, a red collar, and a small retractable leash at the neighboring grocery store. And I bought one other thing: a block of Tillamook Medium Cheddar.

  When I returned to the car, I set the kitten on the ground and I conducted my first test.

  I pulled the block of cheese from the grocery bag and waved it at him. “Do you know what this is?”

  The kitten’s tail started whipping back and forth so fast I thought it might break off. After feeding him a few small pieces of cheese and watching him devour them with force, I lifted him up and there it was: a tiny quarter-sized pool of urine.

  Happy pee.

  We’d been in the car for four hours. Maybe he just had to pee.

  Next I put him through a few commands.

  Sit. Lie down. Turn around. Play dead.

  Each time, he obeyed.

  I’m sure lots of kittens know commands. Maybe his past owner trained him well.

  Ten hours later, we stopped at a motel in Cheyenne. After giving the kitten a bath (he was a stinky little cat), the kitten slept on the pillow next to my head.

  Pillows are soft. Who wouldn’t want to sleep on a pillow?

  In Davenport, Iowa, I woke up to find the kitten sprawled out on the tile floor in the bathroom.

  It was warm in the motel room. Maybe he just wanted to cool down on the tile.

  In Youngstown, Ohio, in the middle of the night, I heard scratching. I woke up to the little kitten scratching the front door of the motel. I thought about leashing the kitten up, but I wanted to see what he would do with free rein. The little kitten walked a few feet to a small section of grass in front of the motel, went pee, then came right back inside, where he promptly snuggled up into Cassie’s side.

  He’s well-trained. Undoubtedly, by the same person who taught him all those commands. And who wouldn’t want to snuggle up next to Cassie? Cassie is the best.

  In White Plains, New York, an hour from West Haven, we stopped at a small park. The kitten chased Cassie around the park, then went off on his own. When he was uncomfortably far away, I yelled, “Hey, kitten, come back!”

  He didn’t.

  “Kitten, come back!”

  He continued to ignore me.

  I wanted so badly to yell his name—I’d yet to let myself utter it—but I couldn’t get myself to do it. I couldn’t give myself hope.

  A few minutes later, he scampered back on his own.

  Back in the car, idling in the parking lot, I stared at the little kitten in my lap. Then I glanced at Cassie. She was staring at me with her large amber eyes. I could almost sense her saying, “It is, Jerry. It is.”

  I pulled out my phone and searched, “Kitten growth chart.”

  After comparing the kitten in my lap to the pictures and the weights. (I grabbed a five-pound dumbbell from the back of the U-Haul and compared that to the kitten—the dumbbell was heavier), I deduced the kitten was between five or six months old.

  I did the math. Today was October 13th. I split the difference and subtracted five and a half months, which meant the kitten was born right around May 1st.

  Hugo died on February 24th.

  My heart sank.

  I turned to Cassie and shook my head. “It isn’t him.”

  I mean, what was Hugo’s soul doing? Just hanging around for a little over two m
onths waiting for a kitten to be born? Surely, thousands of kittens were born before this kitten. Wouldn’t Hugo’s soul have gone into them? And furthermore, dead dogs’ souls do not go into kittens, so what did it even matter?

  Cassie’s ears flattened.

  I rubbed her head and said, “Don’t worry, girl. We’re still gonna keep him.”

  Even though the kitten wasn’t Hugo, I was still in love with him. He was so cute. And he was already potty trained.

  I rubbed the kitten’s little black nose and said, “Looks like we’re gonna have to come up with a name for you.”

  I put the car in drive and started back on the last leg of our nearly three thousand mile journey. Ten minutes later, I merged onto 1-95 North. A mile later, I crossed into Connecticut. We were three minutes into the Nutmeg State when I pulled over onto the shoulder of the highway with a loud screech.

  My heart was beating wildly.

  You don’t get a soul when you’re born. You get a soul when you’re made.

  I fumbled for my phone and searched “Cat pregnancy length.”

  I clicked on a link and then there it was: Cat / Gestation period, 58 - 67 days.

  58 - 67 days.

  A little over two months.

  It fit.

  It all fit.

  I looked at Cassie and I said, “I don’t know how it happened, but you’re right. It is him.”

  Her ears went up and her tail started to helicopter.

  I looked down at the little kitten in my lap and whispered, “Hugo?”

  The kitten’s tail fluttered and his butt wiggled. I picked him up and he gave my nose a soft lick.

  “You came back,” I cried. “You came back.”

  ~

  Hugo lets out a second impatient, “Meeeoooowww!” and I bend down to pick up his ball. Before I’m able to grab it, a blur that is Wally races in and picks it up in his mouth, then tears down the beach. Hugo gives chase and the two end up in a ferociously adorable wrestling match twenty yards down the shore.