The Curious Cat Spy Club Page 7

  “Let’s ride together,” he says, grinning. “I can’t wait to hold an alligator.”

  “Watch out—or it’ll chomp off your fingers,” I warn as I shift to a lower gear to bike up the steep hill leading to Becca’s property.

  “A reptile doesn’t scare me,” he scoffs.

  “Are you afraid of anything?” I ask.

  He pauses and looks serious before answering, “Yes.” I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.

  Becca is meeting us at her house, so we don’t stay long at our clubhouse. Leo feeds the kittens while I refill their water bowl. It’s my turn to empty the litter (gross). My kitten finds a loose screw from the broken clock on the floor and bats it around with her claw. The other kittens join in to swat the metal screw like it’s a soccer ball. They’re so cute, and they’re getting more personality every day. Leo’s calico (still unnamed) is the smallest in size but fiercest in personality, attacking any bug or shadow that moves. Midnight-black Chris is shy and skittish, hiding at sudden noises. And orange girl Honey purrs the loudest and loves cuddles. I want to take her home so bad. Sigh.

  We leave my bike and Leo’s gyro-board at the Skunk Shack since we’ll stop by later to check on the kittens. We make our way through tall weeds up a craggy hill. When we reach the top, Wild Oaks Animal Sanctuary spreads out below us. I catch my breath, gazing down in awe.

  Rustic buildings are surrounded by grassy meadows and towering oaks that must be over a hundred years old. There aren’t as many trees in the valley that nestles a sprawling L-shaped home and four outbuildings with high fences and dark moving shapes that I know are animals.

  “It’s like a hidden community but with more animals than people,” I say, marveling at the sprawling property.

  “Fifty-six acres,” Leo says. And I don’t doubt that he’s right.

  We make our way down a winding path past prickly blackberry bushes with branches that snag my clothes like bony fingers. The closer we get, the larger the buildings seem. The first building we reach is a huge red barn beside a fenced-in pasture. I hear mooing and see a dappled cow grazing with a deer by a water trough where a mallard duck swims.

  We pass a building with solar panels and tinted windows. I try to peer inside to see what animals are in there but it’s too dark.

  Gravel smooths into a paved driveway leading to a blue ranch house with an attached garage bigger than my entire apartment.

  An official-looking white truck idles in front of the house and a dark-haired woman who reminds me of Becca leans into its open window. I’m sure the woman is Becca’s mother. She’s talking to a middle-aged man who’s all in brown; his uniform, cap, and even his short hair. I read the printing on the truck: County Animal Control.

  “Skeet’s uncle,” Leo guesses, frowning.

  Officer Skeet leans out the truck window, smiling at Becca’s mom in a friendly, relaxed manner. He seems like a cool guy, but Leo is glaring at him like he’s to blame for his nephew’s meanness.

  I nudge Leo and whisper, “Don’t be too quick to judge him. Becca said he entertains sick kids at hospitals and rescued baby ducks.”

  “He’s a Skeet.” Leo grits his teeth. “Enough said.”

  The front door bangs open, and Becca waves as she runs eagerly down the front steps to meet us.

  “You made it!” As she hugs me, she whispers, “Is everything okay you-know-where?”

  “Per-fect,” I say purposely rolling the r like a purr.

  She laughs. “I’m glad you came. Come meet my mother,” Becca says with a gesture toward the dark-haired woman. “Mom, these are my friends, Leo and Kelsey.”

  “Always a pleasure to meet Becca’s friends,” Mrs. Morales says. She turns to the animal control officer who is smiling at us through his open truck window. “This is my friend, Officer Skeet,” she says.

  “How you doing, kids?” Officer Skeet says in a deep, resonant voice like a TV announcer. He doesn’t wait for us to answer, shifting his gaze over to Becca. “How’s that pygmy goat coming along?”

  “Sinbad’s almost weaned,” she says proudly. “It wasn’t easy to get him to drink from a dish instead of a bottle but I worked with him every day.”

  “That’s what it takes,” Officer Skeet says. “I wish that ornery nephew of mine had even half your persistence. Fool kid only wants to play games and slacks off instead of working.”

  “Um … well,” Becca says awkwardly. “He tries.”

  “I suppose he does.” Officer Skeet sighs then pulls his head back into the truck. “Well, I better be on my way. Good to meet you kids. And we’ll talk later, Renee.”

  Exhaust puffs from behind the truck as he starts to back out, but Becca rushes over to the truck. “Wait!” Becca bends toward the open window. “I almost forgot to tell you about the dog.”

  “Be more specific.” Officer Skeet chuckles. “I see lots of dogs.”

  “The one from the flyer you were passing out. You may not have heard, but Jasper was found and returned to his owner.”

  “Best news I’ve heard all day.” Officer Skeet taps his hand against the side of the car as if he’s keeping in beat with a country song twanging from his radio. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  An idea strikes me and I step forward. “Officer Skeet, do you have any more lost pet flyers?”

  “Why? You starting a collection?” he asks, chuckling.

  “No.” I feel my cheeks redden. “We ride our bikes a lot and might see other missing pets.”

  “Good thinking. Too many pets have gone missing lately.” He reaches into his glove box and hands me a bunch of flyers. “Keep a lookout for these pets.”

  I flip through the flyers, counting eight missing pets. More dogs than cats and most offer rewards. But I don’t want to focus on the cash, so I put the two flyers that don’t offer rewards on top of the pile.

  As Officer Skeet drives away, I remember what Becca said about him raising koi fish on Willow Rose Lane. Of course, owning a koi fish pond doesn’t make him a suspect because all the houses on the street have ponds. And if he found kittens, he’d take them to the shelter. He’ll know if any of his neighbors have a history of animal abuse—especially Mrs. Tupin.

  Mrs. Morales tells Becca she’s going to check on an injured goose. “When you go in the house, watch where you step. The fur-bros are loose.”

  “Fur-bros?” I ask as Becca leads us up the steps and the front door bangs shut behind us.

  “You’ll see,” she says mysteriously.

  We walk through an entryway with hooks on one wall for an assortment of coats, hats, and animal leashes. There’s a living room on the right and a kitchen on the left. A faded green couch is ripped on one corner like something tried to eat it. There isn’t any carpet, only marbled tile that is slick to walk on.

  I find out why we need to be careful quickly enough when three gray streaks of fur whoosh past my feet to hide beneath a couch.

  “What are those?” I ask.

  “Ferret brothers,” Becca answers, leading us down a hallway decorated with oil paintings of wild animals. “They’re soft and floppy in your hands like furry scarves. Come see my room.”

  I hurry to catch up with Becca. I can’t wait to see her room. She’s so creative, I’m sure her room will be gorgeous and reflect her passion for leopard, tiger, and zebra designs.

  But when she opens her door, I see a lot of empty space. No carpet or pretty rugs, just plain marbled tile like the rest of the house. No personal things like photos or knickknacks. Just a bed with a fluffy white pillow on a dark-blue comforter, a dresser, a desk, and a chair where two terrier-mix dogs have jumped off to bark excitedly at us.

  Becca pets each dog then points. “Look up,” Becca says.

  “Wow!” I say. “It’s like your room is upside down.”

  All her personal things, like a collag
e of her life, are plastered like wallpaper to the ceiling: photographs, drawings, letters, report cards, and award certificates. High on the walls, close to the ceiling, are a cork bulletin board, nature paintings, photographs, and award ribbons for showing animals at the country fair. Shelves trail like a road named Becca’s Favorite Things, including a shelf of animal books: Charlotte’s Web, Freddy the Pig, Shiloh, Black Beauty, and Hank the Cowdog. A rolling ladder, propped in a corner, gives Becca quick access to her ceiling belongings.

  “I got tired of animals chewing my stuff, so I tossed out the old carpet and moved everything out of reach so cats, dogs, and my goat can’t ruin them,” Becca explains with a gesture to the bed.

  Her pillow moves and I jump back with a gasp.

  Not a pillow—a tiny, snowy-white goat.

  “He’s so sweet!” I exclaim. “Can I pet him?”

  “Sure. Sinbad loves cuddles.”

  The tiny goat has floppy ears and pale wavy fur. He’s so cute I just want to hug him. But he’s sleeping soundly … and snoring.

  We pull up chairs and get down to CCSC business.

  “Let’s sort through the lost pet info,” I suggest.

  Leo nods. “I can compile location, breeds, dates, and pet descriptions.”

  “And I’ll talk to—” Becca stops when her mother rushes into the room.

  “Hurry, Becca!” Mrs. Morales cries, clasping her daughter’ hand. “I need your help—the goose’s bandage ripped and you’re the only one who can hold her still so I can replace it.”

  Becca’s already through the doorway. “I’ll be right back,” she calls to us.

  While we wait, Leo picks up the flyers to read and I climb onto the ladder to look at awards, photos, and paintings. I’m impressed to see Becca’s signature on the paintings. I knew she was artistic with her clothes, but still I’m blown away by her painting talent.

  I move on to her bulletin board, which is crowded with photos, mostly of her with the Sparklers. There are lots of birthday cards. I glance at the date on one with a chimpanzee hanging upside down from a giant banana. Becca’s birthday is in March—just the day after mine. I love having something else in common with her.

  I start to climb down until I notice a card that stands out because it’s not glittered or pink. It’s a photograph of a single blooming rose, hinged open so it’s hard not to read the message:

  Roses are red.

  My eyes are blue.

  I hope you like me.

  Because I like you.

  Will you go out with me again?

  It’s signed Burt.

  (As in Burton Skeet.)

  - Chapter 13 -

  Wild Times at Wild Oaks

  Footsteps clatter from the hall, and I jump away from the wall, plopping onto the bed beside the snoring goat. Becca strides into the room, her cheeks ruddy and her clothes mud-splattered.

  “You’re wearing a feather,” I point out then pluck the smooth white feather from her tiger-striped shirt.

  “Feather fashion is très chic,” she says in a bad French accent. “I’ll weave it into a braid and tell everyone it’s the latest style.”

  “You’ll start a new trend.” I grin.

  “Très magnifique. Everyone will beg me for goose feathers.”

  “Which you’ll sell for a ridiculous amount and make lots of money.”

  “I’ll be rich,” Becca says with an airy swish of the feather.

  “Great for you—but the poor goose will be naked.”

  Becca and I giggle and Leo gives us the weirdest look—like he can’t figure out what’s so funny.

  It’s easy to joke around with Becca—and I like her more each time we hang out. But a whisper in my brain warns me not to trust her. Becca said she didn’t like Skeet, but the card proves she lied.

  Skeet wrote, Will you go out with me again?

  Again? So they’ve gone out at least once.

  How well do I really know Becca? I wonder.

  I study her as she playfully dangles the feather near her goat to wake him up. The animal bites at it. Becca has a fun sense of humor and she’s a natural with animals. We’ve been having so much fun today—even Leo is more relaxed, less like a mini-adult and more like a kid. I don’t want to ruin the mood by asking about Skeet. It doesn’t matter to me if Becca likes him; what matters is that she wasn’t honest with me.

  “Ready to see the animals?” Becca asks, standing up and leaning against the doorway.

  Leo goes over to her. “I’ve been ready for forty-seven minutes.”

  “You only care about seeing the alligator,” I tease.

  “I want to do more than see it.” Leo looks at Becca hopefully. “Will you let me hold him?”

  Becca shakes her head. “He’s small but his teeth are sharp.”

  Leo makes a humph sound. “I have no intention of being bitten.”

  “Famous last words,” Becca says ominously.

  As we tour Wild Oaks, Becca explains that it started as a sanctuary for horses but soon her family was taking in both wild animals and farm animals. The goal is to be a place of refuge for any injured, abused, or abandoned animals. They also educate the public with tours and fund-raising events.

  The first stop is a corral that sweeps up to the woods with horses, donkeys, goats, and of course, a zorse. Zed perks his striped ears when I call his name but he continues nibbling his dinner of hay, not at all interested in humans.

  I peer into a pen with four massive pigs as Becca pours grain into their trough. They snort and stomp and shove one another with their snouts as they scarf down dinner. Becca explains the different breeds: black-and-white is Hampshire, reddish-brown is Duroc, and the white one is a Yorkshire. Leo says they stink—which is true—but they’re cool anyway.

  Behind the pig pen a shallow pond glints with reflected gray clouds. At the center is an island covered with white goo and crowds of birds. Ducks, geese, and even a pair of elegant white swans all seem to be having a party on the island. If Becca really were to get abandoned koi, they could swim here, I think—until a duck dips its beak into the green-gray water and pops back up with a wiggling fish. Okay, not a great place for fish.

  We enter a small out-building with a low ceiling and rows of bird eggs warming beneath heat lamps.

  “The bird nursery,” she explains. “We supply feed stores with baby chicks and other birds, and proceeds help run this place. It was Dad’s idea—before he and mom split. They’re still really good friends, just not right for each other. Dad is happier living in Seattle. He works for a major IT company but still volunteers here when he’s in town.”

  She pauses like she expects me to share what my father does. But “looking for a job” isn’t something I want to talk about, so I point to an open-air enclosure with climbing rocks and ask if we could go there next.

  That’s when I meet Fuzzy Wuzzy.

  “Dumb name for a bear,” Leo says.

  “It’s from an old poem,” Becca says then recites:

  “Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.

  “Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.

  “Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t very fuzzy.

  “Was he?”

  I laugh but Leo shakes his head like he thinks we’re crazy. And maybe we are, in a good way.

  Fuzzy is black but mostly bald with burn scars and random tufts of fur. Even with the scars, he’s really cute.

  “He was burned in a forest fire that killed his mother,” Becca says in a hushed voice as she cradles the cub like a human baby. “He’s too injured and gentle to return to the wild, so he’ll stay here until a zoo claims him. Here, you hold him.”

  She hands him to me, and I’m in cuddly bear heaven.

  Leo is impatient to see the alligator, but Becca leads us to a rabbit hutch with cages mounted on the wall. Water tubes hang like straw
s for the bunnies to sip. The cutest rabbit has a mane like a lion, and he’s so tiny he fits in my palm. Becca explains how people give cute bunnies to their kids for Easter then decide they’re too much work and get rid of them.

  Leo runs ahead when he sees the alligator pond.

  “Be careful!” Becca warns, hurrying to catch up with him. “Didn’t you ever read Peter Pan and learn about dangerous gators? Do you want to wear a hook instead of a hand?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs. “That was a crocodile.”

  Still, when Leo gets close to the reptile enclosure, he slows to a stop a few feet from the fence. The alligator is half-submerged in a muddy bathtub that’s sunk into the ground. He’s only a few feet long, looking more like a log than anything living—until he lifts his head and his yellowy eyes glitter wickedly.

  Leo leans cautiously toward the fence. “I thought he’d be bigger,” Leo says, sounding disappointed.

  “He’s only a few months old,” Becca says. “But if you offer him your finger, he won’t return it.”

  “I’ll watch from here.” Leo flexes his fingers and tucks them into his pockets.

  “Are you sure? I can get him to come closer so you can touch him.”

  The alligator swishes his tail and mud sprinkles like raindrops. Leo jumps back, his face pale. “Um, no thanks,” Leo says, moving away from the fence.

  The last stop of the tour is the dog and cat kennel, where the pens are roomy with soft pet beds. But even the large pens are crowded, so I get why Becca said there isn’t room for three kittens.

  “These are all foster animals,” Becca explains. “Once a week volunteers take them to shopping malls where people can adopt them. But lately, only a few have found homes,” she adds as she watches a gray tabby scamper up a climbing post. When Becca sighs I know she’s thinking about our kittens, wishing they could be here instead of hidden away.

  When we return to Becca’s bedroom, we get down to CCSC business. I sit beside Becca on her bed and Leo pulls up a chair.

  I hold out the flyers from Officer Skeet. “These will help us recognize missing pets.”

  “So many lost animals,” Becca says sadly as she pets her sleeping goat.