Boo

Fudge is a good cat. Each night round about 10:00 or 11:00 she’ll run excitedly to the door having heard me tie the bag of used litter to take to the bin. Frankie can’t come with us; she’s too excitable and would run around outside for hours before deciding to come back. Not Fudge though. Fudge appreciates her night visit to the garden and listens when told it’s time to come in. Fudge is a good cat.

I had dropped the double bagged used litter in the bin and was waiting for Fudge to come down the three steps in the close and out to the garden. She always hesitates because of the noise she hears from out there and thinks it may be a stranger – someone not within her comfort bubble that she doesn’t want to be around. The noise is my neighbours overflow pipe. It’s been broken for as long as I can remember and makes a cracking sound as it hits the constantly wet gravel.

Crack.
Crack.
Crack.

A steady and constant sound like a metronome.

In barely anytime at all Fudge remembers the origin of the sound and has a short burst of a run to reach the door. She stopped short however strafing to her left as she spots something on the close floor. A bug. I can’t see it but I know it’s there because Fudge’s head follows its path her nose never leaving the ground; her mouth never leaving the bug.

Our roles are reversed as I stand out in the pitch black stillness of the night and look in oh my cat as her head jerks and her mouth twitches in such a way that I know she’s just eaten her tiny prey.

“Aw Fudge that’s nasty ha ha.”

“ha. ha. ha.”

My head darts towards the sound of the laughter and my mind races. Maybe someone on the path past the fence? Maybe someone with an open window in there flat? Maybe my imagination? Maybe, but if I imagined it Fudge did too. When I looked over to her she had backed away toward the stairs, her head was down and her eyes were black.

Ten. Twenty. Thirty seconds looking into the blackness and trying to find a shape that didn’t belong, straining to hear movement but hearing nothing but the pipe drip.

Crack.
Crack.
Crack.

One minute now. Long enough. Fudge is half way to the door and I’ve proved to myself that I’m a man and not afraid by bumps in the night. But this was a laugh and despite finding no evidence in sight or another sound I can feel eyes on me and know that the chill in my spine has little to do with the winter air.

That was a week ago and no voice or otherwise has been heard or seen since. Fudge has trotted outside happily as always and in truth it’s the absence of the fearful little cats reluctance that is of most comfort to me. I used to walk with her out to the garden and stand with her as she sniffed the air. Now stand in the door. At the door nothing waits behind your back.