Mooky yawned as he padded along the edge of Lizzy's yard. By now the sun was up, bathing the cul-de-sac in a pinkish light, and the black-and-white cat had the urge to take a nap. The day's main task — finding food — had been accomplished, and, with his belly now full with that strange, sweet food, drowsiness made his eyelids droop. He wondered if Susan and the Russian would mind him taking a nap on their porch swing.

He tensed, drowsiness evaporating. The sobering warning the two cats had given him yesterday made his fur rise as he remembered his dilemma: as a stray, he had a high chance of being scooped up by the Catcher and being taken to...who knew where, like Tiger. He remembered his nightmare and shivered. He had to find an owner, and soon. Else he'd wind up being carted off to the Catcher's Place with a dog riding shotgun.

The problem was, he didn't know where to start. He'd never had to look for an owner before — his last ones had taken him from his birth mother. This unnatural flip-flop would only make things harder.

"WOOOOOOF! WOOOOOF!"

Mooky bristled at the yap of Kenny's dog, but saw, with some relief, that it was corralled behind its fence — it was barking at the Russian, who was padding across the street towards him. The dog continued baying, but the Russian only flicked his tail in annoyance at the sound — he must've been used to it by now.

"Morning, Mooky," he said when he reached the cat. "Sleep well?"

I wish. "Yes, fine," he said. "You?"

"Like a kitten. Hungry? My owners just filled our bowls. Susan went off somewhere this morning, so you're welcome to his portion."

Mooky's tail twitched in surprise. The one day he'd gotten food on his own...and suddenly some cat was being generous with his Meow Mix. Irony at its finest.

"Actually, I already ate," he said.

The Russian's ears pricked in surprise, but he said, "That's good. More time for what I have in mind for you."

"Excuse me?"

"I was thinking on our conversation yesterday," the Russian meowed, "and I have an idea of how to help you find a new owner."

Mooky felt his chest heave with relief. Thank goodness! With the Russian's help, maybe he wouldn't lose too much fur over the problem. "Thanks," he said gratefully. "What is it?"

"Follow me." The Russian beckoned with his tail. "I'll tell you when we get there."

They headed back down the street. But they hadn't gotten far when One-ear suddenly came streaking out of his yard. Too late, Mooky saw that the dark-furred tom's eyes were bright with hostility.

Before Mooky knew what happened, the cat had bowled him over, knocking him onto his belly. Mooky scrambled to his paws, trying to protect his soft tummy, and yowled as pain scalded his hindquarters; One-ear had raked unsheathed claws down his flank, drawing blood. Before Mooky could launch himself away from the cat and flee, One-ear sprang on top of him, pinning Mooky underneath his weight and razor-sharp claws.

As Mooky's tail thrashed in terror, the Russian cried, "One-ear! What're you doing?"

The rugged cat ignored him — he hissed down in Mooky's ear, voice venomous: "How does it feel? Being in danger?"

"Wh-what?" Mooky's voice was barely a squeak.

"You heard me," One-ear growled. "How does it feel, knowing that your life is at stake? That every heartbeat might be your last?"

It didn't feel too fluffing good. Mooky said as much: "Not good."

"Really?" The cat hissed humorlessly. "You could've fooled me. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you love the thrill of danger. And dragging innocent cats into it."

"Wh-what are you talking about?" Mooky cried. He was completely baffled by this conversation, and by One-ear's abrupt hostility.

One-ear snarled, and his weight suddenly disappeared from atop him; Mooky wildly scrambled around to see One-ear give his bristling fur a lick before glaring up at him.

"The next time you put my son in danger like that," the cat said, "I will drive you out of this neighborhood myself. Is that understood?"

Mooky didn't demand an explanation, and he certainly didn't protest: an uneasy glance downward showed him that One-ear's claws were still unsheathed.

"O-okay," he stammered.

"Good." The tom turned before throwing one last threat over his shoulder: "I'd stay away from me and my son in the future, if you know what's good for you." With that, he stalked off, back into his yard.

For a second, Mooky stared after him, baffled and frightened by the knowledge he'd barely come from that confrontation with his life — and his fur. As he bent down to inspect his scratched flank, the Russian padded up beside him, casting One-ear's retreating figure an incredulous glance.

"What in the world was that all about?" he demanded.

"I don't..." Then Mooky remembered this morning, journeying into the yellow house's yard and poking around, how the Kitten had run off when the little human, Molly, had tried to pet him. Was that what that had been about?

"Mooky?" The Russian's eyes pressed for answers, so Mooky quickly told him what had happened at the yellow house. The bluish-gray cat's eyes softened in understanding when Mooky finished.

"Ah," he said. "Now I see."

"See what?" Mooky snapped; talking about what had happened at the yellow house had worked up a knot of irritation inside him. He couldn't help but think that One-ear was being a little overprotective of his son: it wasn't as if the Kitten had gotten hurt! He'd been spooked by the little human and had bolted — how on earth was that Mooky's fault? Especially since it had been Kitten's idea to go over there and explore in the first place?

"Don't be too hard on One-ear," the Russian urged. "He has his reasons for protecting his son."

"Like?" Mooky couldn't stop his annoyance from leaking into his voice as he licked his wounded flank — the tang of blood faded after a few licks, telling Mooky that the scratches were shallow.

The Russian glanced uncomfortably at One-ear's house — the cat had retired to the swing, but his eyes were on the two cats in the street, as if he knew they were talking about him. The Kitten was nowhere in sight.

"Look," the blue-furred cat said, "it's not my place to talk about One-ear's business, but...I suppose you deserve an explanation after that scratching he gave you."

Got that right. Mooky gave his chest fur an annoyed lick before saying, "Well?"

"This is just hearsay," the Russian said, "but apparently, a long while ago...One-ear and his son were abandoned by their owners."

Mooky's ears pricked in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes. But that's not the worst of it. These same owners? They kept One-ear's mate and his four daughters. But they left the other two some distance away from here, to die in the rain."

Mooky's fur prickled, and he glanced in One-ear's direction, pity overtaking his irritation. The way Mooky had been left had been bad enough, but at least he'd just been a solitary housecat. To have been part of such a large family, and then to have them ripped so cruelly from you... One-ear's protection of his son suddenly made sense.

"Since then, One-ear's never trusted humans," the Russian said. He flicked his tail over to the cat's territory. "That woman who lives there, feeds them? He doesn't even trust her. He allows her to feed him, but other than that, she is not his owner. Technically, he's as much of a stray as you are."

By now, most of Mooky's anger towards the cat had dissolved, leaving understanding and sympathy in its wake. He couldn't help it — he would've been just the same if he and his son had been separated from the rest of his family like that.

"But while I understand One-ear's aversion to humans, given his own experiences," the Russian murmured, "I wish he wouldn't poison his son with such suspicions. Not all humans are like the ones who left them in the rain. They are a minority. Most are warm and kind to us. But after his ordeal...I doubt his grudge will allow him to see them that way."

That made Mooky wonder about his own feelings towards humans. Look at the way he'd been abandoned — some cats in his place, like One-ear, might've held a grudge against all humans for such an affront. But while Mooky was certainly annoyed at his owners for dropping him on the fly like that, he found that he didn't hate them for it. Much as he wished that they hadn't left him on the shoulder of that highway, he hoped...and knew, deep down, that they'd had a logical reason for it.

The Russian flicked his tail against Mooky's side. "Come on," he said. "Let's focus on getting you your new owner."

***

"Are you out of your fluffing mind?" Mooky cried.

He hadn't expected to come to this place again: LoLo's yard, crouched beneath one of the hedges. The Russian sat in the cool earth beside him, relaxed; Mooky, on the other hand, was tense and restless, just waiting for the old gray tom to come dashing down from the porch, intent on making a scoreboard out of their faces.

"Just hear me out," the Russian said. "It's not as unsavory as you think, trust me."

"Of course it isn't," Mooky hissed, "because you won't be the one incurring the wrath of LoLo."

The Russian looked a little put out, making Mooky sigh, muscles tense. So far, the Russian seemed like a fairly reasonable cat — there had to be a good explanation for why they were out here, waiting, in the badlands. "Okay, fine. What's your plan?"

"Simple," the cat mewed. "I'm sure you've noticed that LoLo is getting very old. He's not going to last much longer. I suspect that the old buzzard will have moved on by the fall. His owner will be looking for a new cat soon."

Long pause. "That's it?" Mooky asked. "I just go and...replace LoLo?" He couldn't help but feel sorry for the touchy cat, with the way the Russian so off-handedly spoke of his death.

The Russian shrugged. "In a nutshell, yes."

"Well...that sounds all well and good," Mooky said pointedly. "But there's a problem: at the moment, LoLo is still alive. And we're here now."

The Russian nodded. "Yes I know. Before LoLo dies, you'll need to curry favor with his owner, show her that you're a tolerable, lovable cat who would be a delightful companion."

That made sense. Mooky doubted that LoLo's owner would just take any stray off the street. But that still presented a problem: "I'm not sure that LoLo would appreciate me going to woo his owner," he said to the gray cat. "How am I supposed to do that without him—"

An angry yowl suddenly cut him off — the two cats peered from beneath the hedge, in time to see Susan bounding across the yard, with LoLo hot on his heels. The skinny old cat's fur was bushed out in fury, inflating him to twice his original size, and the growing sunlight flashed across his unsheathed claws.

"SUSAN!" he screeched furiously as he pelted after the much-younger cat. "THAT DOES IT! I'M GOING TO MAKE MINCEMEAT OUT OF YOU!"

The two cats disappeared down the way — Kenny's dog barked excitedly as they passed its yard.

Mooky glanced back at the Russian. "What in the world is going on?" he demanded.

"Distraction," the cat said. To Mooky's surprised look, he said, "Neither of us want to see you taken off to the Catcher's Place. We want to help."

Mooky flicked his tail against the cat in gratitude — he never thought that they'd see him, stray that he was, as a friend. It felt good, knowing that the two cats were so ready to help him, enough to risk LoLo's ire to do it.

"Ah, here she comes," the Russian said. The sound of an opening screen door met Mooky's ears — he glanced out from underneath the bush to see LoLo's owner hobbling out of the house, armed with a broom. As she had yesterday, the woman began methodically sweeping dust and debris from the long porch, sending it to settle down in the patch of grass below.

"She always sweeps at this time every day, like clockwork," the Russian said. He nudged Mooky. "Now's your chance!"

"What?" Anxiety suddenly filled Mooky's chest. "N-now?"

The Russian purred in amusement. "Yes, before Susan comes back with LoLo, if I were you. Don't worry," he added encouragingly. "Just go introduce yourself."

Mooky nodded and set his teeth. After taking a calming breath, he padded out from beneath the hedge, heading towards the porch steps. He was distinctly aware of the racket coming from down the street — LoLo's yowling filled the air, and by the sound of it, Susan was somehow making a fool of the old tom.

Trying to ignore that, Mooky nervously mounted the steps, to see the old woman sweeping slowly at the far end of the porch. Wetting his throat, he announced himself with a meow.

She didn't appear to hear him: she kept sweeping, slowly shuffling back towards him. Maybe she was hard of hearing. In that case... Mooky padded forward, trying to look purposeful, until he reached the woman's feet.

That seemed to do the trick: "Well now, what have we here?" She bent to get a better look at Mooky and smiled, petting his head. "What a handsome young man! Haven't seen you before. Are you new around here?"

Mooky purred and rubbed against her knees, and she ran her hand down his back. It's working...!

Her hand suddenly left him as she straightened, gripping her broom. "Well, enough dilly-dally," she said. "On your way, young man. I've got work to do." She returned her attention to sweeping.

Mooky's tail drooped in disappointment. But then he shook himself — she has a cat! he reminded himself. It's not like she's going to open her home to you right away. Like the Russian had said, this was simply an introduction — he was just letting LoLo's owner know who he was.

He stepped back, intending to return to the hedge, but paused at the sight of LoLo's food bowl. He padded up to it and saw, with some disbelief, that it was nearly full. Susan must've gotten his attention before he'd finished eating his breakfast.

Well, don't mind if I do! Mooky bent, prepared to take the edge off of his returning hunger, when an angry voice cracked the air behind him.

"What do you think you're doing?" He spun around to see LoLo's owner marching towards him, looking angry. "I spend enough money feeding that greedy old furball! I'm not wasting more of it on providing for two cats!" She jabbed her broom at him. "Go on, git!"

Mooky flinched at the first swing, but the second actually battered his nose with sharp bristles. He bounded away from the porch, scrambling back underneath the hedge, where the Russian was waiting. A quick peek through the leaves showed that the old woman had returned to sweeping.

He dropped next to the Russian, who said sympathetically, "Bad luck. Don't worry, you did fine."

Mooky didn't feel so optimistic. He doubted that trying to steal her cat's food had endeared himself to the old woman. Not for the first time, he wished that his stomach had an off switch.