The Wild Ones
by Clover Long
The first time she saw him, she was just a girl. She was with her sisters; this was before the incident with the coyote.
They prowled the cul-de-sac. Watching.
Waiting for something to happen.
He sat on the roof, alone. Grooming his ears in the moonlight.
Important things happen under full moons, or so they say. Cats aren’t wolves.
Who’s that? she asked.
He’s bad news, they told her. He’s not from around here. He’s wild. You can never trust the wild ones, they said.
Perched atop the roof, his silhouette was his only discernible quality. She could not make out the color of his eyes, or the pattern of his fur. But his ears flitted in the April air, and his tail swayed languidly behind him.
It’s time to go, they said. They’ll put food out soon. If you’re not there, you won’t get any. Then they went away, down the path between houses leading to the shed they slept in, leaving her alone.
She stared up at him. He looked down at her. The trees rustled in the wind. Neither of them said a word.
One of her sisters crept back up the path towards the street.
What are you doing? she scoffed. Put him out of your mind. Come have dinner.
She looked back at the roof. He was gone.
She stretched her hind legs and followed her sister out of the circle.
The next time she saw him, she was alone.
The coyote had since come and gone, and had taken all that was good and warm in the world with it.
She padded up and down the alleyway, as she often did then. Looking for a dry place to sleep. A cardboard box. A semi-clean stoop. The crawlspace under a car. She wasn’t picky.
He stalked the balconies lining one side of the alleyway, jumping from railing to railing a story above her. She caught his silhouette in the air each time he crossed in front of a window, swift and silent.
Mrrw, she whispered, glancing up at him.
He halted. Perched atop a metal staircase, he peered down at her through barred handrails. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he said, it’s not safe here, you know.
In the dark of night, she could barely make out where the wall ended and he began. Save for the two lustrous yellow eyes looking back into her own mischievous green ones.
That restaurant serves cat, he said, gesturing to the wall on the opposite side of the alleyway. If they catch you, they might turn you into soup.
Humans don’t eat cats, she replied.
No, he said, after a moment. It was a joke.
He was right, though. It wasn’t safe there. The streets were different. People didn’t kneel to pet her like they used to. Cars didn’t stop or swerve to avoid her when she crossed the street. Houses didn’t leave plates of food on their window sills at dinner time. The dogs weren’t friendly, and the birds were still dicks.
He licked his paw. This block belongs to the raccoons. If they catch you here, they’ll chase you out.
They wouldn’t eat me though, would they? she whispered.
No, he said. They’re too lazy for that. Bunch of city slickers. He licked his other paw.
If this is raccoon territory, then why are you here?
A wind blew through the alleyway; it ruffled their fur, and smelled of spice and spontaneity. Loose trash skittered across the pavement. Neon signs buzzed on the street behind them. An unlocked door blew open and shut.
I go where I please, he said, eyes fixed on her.
She said nothing, staring back.
I know somewhere safe. You can come with me, he said, standing up. If you want.
Mrww, she said, moving to join him on the stairs.
They trod carefully across a long line of slippery balconies in varying states of disarray. The jumps were treacherous and wide, and they took her longer to cross. But he always waited for her on the other side, and meowed in contentment when she landed safely.
As he walked, his ears bounced in a way that she found amusing.
They rounded the corner of the building and came to another staircase—its rusting steps left reddish-
orange smudge marks on their paws.
Wait, he whispered, just as they settled over the roof’s edge. He crouched low, and pounced. In the dark of night, it was difficult to tell what caught his attention—a rodent, a bird, the air itself. But the satisfying squeak which followed gave it away.
Here, he said, tossing the mouse in her direction. I’ve already eaten today.
She played with it, rolling it from one paw to the other on the pavement.
Do you remember me? she asked.
Yes, he said. You’ve grown.
She smiled.
Where are your sisters?
A coyote got them. Now I’m wild like you, she said, taking a step towards him.
He said nothing. But his eyes were wide and luminous, and they glinted like amber, golden and indecipherable.
After a moment, he turned and crept on.
He led them along a stretch of the main road: it smelled of exhaust and anxiety, tasted of spoiled food and bad decisions, and put grit in their paws. Almost swept underfoot by several passing humans, they ducked into another alleyway, climbed atop an overflowing dumpster, and hopped to a conveniently protruding ledge.
This was much more their speed.
They walked several blocks this way, stepping from ledge to ledge to windowsill where needed, their path illuminated by the glow of storefront windows, car headlights, and the traffic jam beneath them.
It was here that she could finally get a good look at him; underneath the neon burn of a 24-hour karaoke sign, she could see that his fur was as black as the night around them.
They settled between a graffitied concrete block and the roof’s edge, next to a stack of forgotten laundry baskets. As they gazed beyond the ledge, snowflakes began to fall.
No one else comes up here, he said, sitting on his tail.
No one? she asked, letting the mouse out of her mouth.
No one except the birds, he said. But you know how they are. They don’t really give a shit.
You’ve got a snowflake, she said. Here.
She scooted towards him and licked his cheek. His fur was damp and bristled where their bodies touched.
Mwwr, he said, all but leaning into the act.
He pulled away to look at her for a moment, then looked back at the falling sky.
They stayed silent for some time.
Messy clumps of snow continued to fall. The city continued to flicker and pulsate around them. The stars continued to twinkle and dance in the sky above the clouds. The lucky ones slept soundly at the feet of their owners’ beds; the wild ones managed with bushes and cardboard boxes.
What do they call you? he asked.
What?
The humans. What do they call you?
She looked at the ground. She had to think about this one.
Where I used to live, the humans we saw the most called me Sweet Potato. Because I’m orange.
Sweet Potato, he repeated. That’s demeaning.
She smiled. My sisters were Pumpkin and Carrot and Apricot. I think Mama was just called Orange.
You deserved better than that.
What do they call you?
He paused for a moment and looked at the sky.
I was Midnight in that neighborhood where you used to live. I used to run into a group who called me Spooky, and another who called me Shadow. I got Morpheus once, out here. I liked that one.
That one suits you, she said, and licked another snowflake off his cheek.
He closed his eyes and nuzzled into her face. We used to have our own names, you know. Ones we gave to each other.
She stared into his eyes for a moment.
Mama used to talk about the old languages sometimes. She said that no one remembers them anymore.
It’s true, he said, looking into the distance. They say we stopped needing them once the humans came along, so everyone just forgot.
Cats are pretty forgetful.
Mrww.
She looked into his eyes again. He did not meet her gaze.
She smiled coyly. We could make our own language. I could give you a name, she said.
He looked at her amusedly. What would you call me?
She leaned and whispered something in his ear.
I see, he said. That’s good.
And what would you call me?
He leaned and whispered something in her ear.
Mrrw, she said. I like it.
He smiled, flicking his tail.
She curled up behind him and slept.
When she woke, he was gone.
The final time she saw him, she was different.
The warmth and the green had since returned to the world, and gone again, several times over.
She wandered up and down the railroad tracks, as she often did in those times. Searching. Hoping someone would come wandering the other way. On this day, someone did.
The trees rustled as he approached. The goldenrod swayed in the sunlight, and the cattails bobbed in their ponds.
Yellow eyes met green. They met for a long time.
Mwwr, he said.
Mrrw, she replied, her posture softening.
He padded closer to her and licked her cheek.
He stared at her a moment longer. Her eyes gleamed and flickered in the sunlight like the forest around them.
The tracks took them to a clearing in the trees, where the bees sang and the butterflies danced.
What do they call you now? he asked.
She closed her eyes, tilting her head to the sky. I was Ginger for a while. Then I was Amaretto. There was a little girl who called me Honey. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten a new one.
Amaretto suits you. It’s sexy.
She stared at him. What do they call you now?
I was Smokey for a while. Then I was Licorice. Then there was a long stretch where I didn’t get a new one. Now I’m Kiki, which I hate.
Kiki’s cute.
It’s boring. And I’m not a girl.
You’re a cat. You don’t care about that sort of thing.
He looked at the ground. No, I suppose you’re right, he said, and scratched his side.
They walked on. Field became forest, forest became field, and field became forest again. Midday melted into afternoon.
They came to a fork in the tracks. One path lead deeper into the forest, and the other into another field.
They halted.
Which way should we go? he asked.
I don’t know, she said. I’ve never been this far before.
Let’s stay here a while.
Okay.
They sat on the tracks, and basked in the breeze and the sunlight. They groomed each other’s ears, and she caught a mouse in the field which she gave to him. They laid down in the grass, dozing intermittently.
You’re different than when I last saw you, he said, turning to her. You’ve grown again.
It’s been a long time. I was barely full-grown then, and I didn’t know how to hunt. Of course, I’ve changed.
I know. I didn’t mean it as an insult.
She gazed at the sky. There was a steeliness about her that he couldn’t place.
You’ve changed, too, she said.
How so?
She turned to him, and paused. I don’t know. You’re not as mysterious. You seem more real.
He stared at her. Then he looked back at the sky, and closed his eyes. Things are changing, he said.
What do you mean?
Some say the humans might not be around much longer. That all of this might be ours again, he said. Soon.
She turned her gaze to the sky, and closed her eyes. She had also heard these rumors. Whispers of a war on its way, in which both sides lose. Metal machines fighting for concepts too complex and too human for cats to understand. A world ravaged and scorned, left for animals to conquer and rebuild without their masters.
But she knew it wouldn’t happen like that.
I hope you’re wrong, she said.
What?
You’ve seen what they’ve built. You know what they’re capable of. If there’s a war, there won’t be a world left for us to live in.
Mrrw, he said in agreement, and rolled over.
She closed her eyes again, and felt the breeze on her face. It whistled in her ears, and danced in the trees. The grass underneath them ruffled her fur. The scent of her companion filled a hole in her heart.
My children are out there, she said, opening her eyes.
He turned and sat up. What? he asked.
My children. They’re out there. Somewhere. She paused for a moment. I want the world to keep going for them.
He stared at her. The clouds passed lazily overhead.
What happened to them? he asked.
They took them from me.
The humans?
Yes, she said. That’s why I also hope you’re right.
He laid down next to her again. He licked her cheek, and nuzzled into her face. Her fur was soft and inviting. They stayed silent for a time.
Can I tell you something? he asked.
Mrww, she said, her eyes closed.
I always told myself that if I ever saw you again, I’d ask you to stay with me. We’d go back to that neighborhood where we first met.
She sat up abruptly, and walked away from him. You’re the one who left that night.
I know, he said. You were young and naive, and I was young and stupid. I went back to that spot later and you were gone. He rose and walked towards her.
He studied the back of her head. The orange pattern of her fur had grown out. The crickets sang in the field next to them.
She turned and looked into his eyes.
It’s okay, she said. If I had been paying attention back then, it could have taught me a lesson.
What’s that? he asked.
That the ones who love us always leave us. One way or another. Nothing stays the same. If I had learned that then, maybe everything that happened afterwards would have felt different.
She stepped towards him and licked a blade of grass off his nose.
He leaned and whispered something in her ear.
Mrrw, she said.
She leaned and whispered something in his ear.
Mrww, he replied.
They lay back down on the tracks and slept.
The evening sun lowered in the sky.
When he woke, she was gone.