The rain didn't let up for ages. It poured from the sky like a waterfall, soaking the ground and transforming Susan's yard into a bog with a floating matt of pine needles. He sat in his window and watched it fall, listened to it patter incessantly against the sill and make the branches in the trees bow down under the onslaught. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled. He felt the sound in his belly — in fact, he imagined that there was a similar storm in his gut, a mournful one that, like the one outside, would not let up.

"Susan."

He turned at his name and saw the Russian sitting below him on the floor, looking concerned.

"Why don't you come have some food?" his friend asked. "You've been sitting up there for hours. Aren't you hungry?"

Susan turned back to the rain outside. "No.". He hadn't felt hungry for a while now. Grief had hollowed out his belly, killing any interest he had in food or drink.

Movement — the Russian had jumped up beside him, and now copied Susan's pose and folded himself down into a ball before the window. Together, they stared out into the gray downpour, watching the yard drown in water and the leaves shake in the trees.

Finally, the Russian said, "You can't stay in this stupor forever, Susan. I know what happened was upsetting, but have a little faith in Mooky. He'll be all right."

Susan's tail swept in irritation. "Faith? What good is faith going to do him there? He's in the Catcher Place, for pity's sake!"

"I know," the Russian said. "But that doesn't mean—"

"How do you know? Don't you remember what happened to Tiger?"

"We don't know what happened to Tiger," the Russian pointed out. "Perhaps that old coot is still alive, out there someplace else. The same could happen to Mooky. Just because he's not here doesn't mean that he's not alive."

Susan shook his head, wishing that he could believe it. But all he could think about was Mooky's battered, broken body, and how lifeless he'd looked when the Catcher Place human had arrived and placed him into that cage. The memory still sickened him, drowning out any triumph he might've felt at seeing Kenny's dog forced into a similar cage and shoved into the back of the Catcher Place's van. In the scheme of things, Kenny's dog had been rendered insignificant—Mooky being taken away had struck a bigger blow, one Susan couldn't shake no matter how hard he tried.

Sometimes, he felt that he was the only one who'd been affected by what had happened that night. It had been nearly five days since they'd set their plan in motion, and yet he seemed to be the only one wondering if Mooky was all right. The other neighborhood cats either didn't care or had more faith in Mooky's ability to survive at the Catcher Place than he did. Only One-ear's son seemed to be mourning the loss of Mooky like he was — the other day, he'd caught him lying on his porch, looking upset and forlorn, while his father sat beside him, brushing his tail against him in a silent gesture of comfort.

One-ear. Susan's claws came out, scraping against the wood beneath him. He wished that he could slash them across the contemptuous cat's unapologetic face — if it hadn't been for his kit, Mooky might not be in this mess. After the Catcher Place van had left, his son had admitted to sneaking under Mooky's hiding spot to apologize to him, and had explained how Mooky distracted the dog when it had come near to give him an opportunity to escape. Because of this, Susan suspected, One-ear had assisted him in attacking the dog when it had finally set its jaws around Mooky, but afterwards, he couldn't have been more apathetic about Mooky's predicament.

"What's done is done," he'd said. "The dog is gone — let's all be grateful for that."

Black-hearted, unsympathetic—

"Susan," the Russian prompted.

Susan blinked, bringing himself back to a forlorn world of rain. "Yes," he mumbled.

"I said, even if something horrible does happen to Mooky while he's at the Catcher Place, we won't forget him," the Russian said. "He was a brave cat — much braver than we gave him credit for. A hero. He attacked the dog, after all." He curled his paws beneath him. "You should tell your kits about it."

Susan closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Why did he do that..."

"Do what?"

"Attack the dog! We had him running. One-ear's owner was going to call the Catcher. Why did the fluffing idiot... He should've been hiding until the Catcher arrived!" He bent his head, pained. The Russian watched him, eyes soft with sympathy.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe he had to. Things went wrong because of One-ear's son; maybe something happened that we didn't know about, and Mooky had no choice but to attack."

"But—"

The Russian lifted his tail in a gesture for silence. "Agonizing over it won't change what happened, Susan—you know that more than anyone." He turned to look out into the rain again. "We'll just have to wait and see what happens."

He was right, but Susan hated how unruffled he sounded. Am I the only one who really cares about what happened to Mooky? Or again, did he just not have as much faith in him as the Russian did?

***

Later, Susan finally grew tired of watching the rain — he wanted to go outside, work off some of this restless energy. The Russian retired to the big couch for a nap, and Susan crouched by the door and meowed. One of his owners appeared and let him out, and he headed into the rain, hoping the cold onslaught would distract him, wash away his pain.

It didn't — if anything, it made it more acute, harder to ignore. He padded into the street, restless, not knowing what to do. All he could think about was Mooky, and his still, bloody form as he was lifted him into the Catcher Place van. Was that the last he would see of his friend, hurt and broken?

His paws carried him to Lizzy's house, which was barely discernible in the downpour. Heavily, he climbed the steps and flopped down beside the cat flap, wondering if he should nose his way in and call for her. Luckily, he didn't have to — a few moments later, she stuck her head out, sniffing the air.

"Susan?" she said. "I thought I smelled you." She slid out of the cat flap and appraised him disdainfully. "Why are you so wet? Have you been out running in the rain?"

He looked down at himself — already, he was causing a puddle to spread across the wood. "Sorry," he said. "I just—"

"Is that Susan?" A kitten poked its head out curiously. "It is!"

"Hi Susan!" Another kit appeared. "Come inside and play with us!"

Susan purred. "Sorry, little ones," he said. "I don't think I feel up to it today."

"Aw, why not?" the kit asked.

Lizzy narrowed her eyes at Susan's anxiously-sweeping tail and said, "Go on back into the nest and get comfortable. It's time for your nap."

"What?" the kit protested. "But we wanna play with Susan!"

"Now," Lizzy commanded. "You can play with him later." She batted them gently back inside. "Get along now."

There was grumbling, which quickly faded as the kits plodded back into the house. Lizzy hissed a little as she stepped gingerly around Susan and then curled herself around him, wrapping her tail around his flanks. "Come on now, pull in your legs," she ordered. "Let's warm you up a little."

Surprised, Susan lay down and did as he was told. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"You're going to catch something, walking around in a downpour like that," she chided. When he didn't respond, she tucked in her paws and fluffed herself out a little before staring out with him out into the rain. "Are you thinking about Mooky?" she asked.

The tip of his tail twitched. "Yes. Do you..." He paused. "Do you think he's all right?"

She sighed. "I don't know," she said. "He and the dog were taken to the Catcher Place, and you know the rumors about that place."

"I know, I know, but they can't have done anything horrible to him, right?"

The she-cat said nothing, simply returned his desperate look with unflinching green eyes, and he knew that there would be no comfort to be found here. Mate or not, Lizzy would tell him the truth, no matter how painful. And the truth here was the same as the Russian's: they simply didn't know, and it wasn't a good idea to get their hopes up by speculating. Susan rested his head on his paws, flinching as rain splashed against the edge of the porch. His tail twitched as he felt Lizzy's tongue rasp against the back of his neck.

"When's the last time you washed?" she asked. "You've got a mat here."

"It's been a few days," Susan said tiredly. "Ever since the run with the dog..."

She made a scornful noise. "What a bad example you set for your kits."

Susan said nothing more as she slowly began to groom him, the smooth passes of her tongue working out the clumps in his fur and the knots in his muscles. Quickly he grew drowsy — it was a little chilly out, but Lizzy was warm against his side, and the sound of the rain was soothing. Soon, he'd succumbed to a fitful, if slightly restless, sleep.

He didn't know how long he was out, but his ears pricked some time later at Lizzy's sharp mew: "What is it?"

Susan blinked awake and saw that the rain had stopped. High above, the clouds had begun to break up, bathing the cul-de-sac in a watery sunshine that glinted off of wet vehicles and standing puddles of water. And wet cats: One-ear's son was crouched at the edge of the porch, his soaked fur gleaming and sticking out in a hundred different directions.

Susan lurched to his feet, bristling: Mooky got hurt because of this furball! "Why are you here?" he asked, furious.

The bushy-tailed tom cringed away and crouched, his belly fur brushing a small puddle of water gathering on a lower step. Clearly, he knew that he was not welcome here: Susan had left little doubt as to what he thought of the young cat shortly after Mooky had been taken away by the Catcher. Only a bristling One-ear standing between him and his son had prevented Susan from raking his claws down the cat's spine. Susan and the Russian had seen little of the two felines since.

This made the young tom's sudden appearance all the more baffling, especially as he was alone — Susan looked left and he looked right, but his overprotective and prickly father was nowhere to be seen. "Where is One-ear?" he demanded.

"I don't know," the son said anxiously. "He was gone when I got up. Hunting maybe?" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I-I... I'm here because I thought I smelled Mooky nearby. I was heading out for a drink when I picked up his scent. I-I thought you should know."

Susan's ears pricked. He scented Mooky? Hope raced up through his chest like an excited mouse... Only to falter at the flat look on Lizzy's face.

"That's not possible," she said. "Mooky was taken to the Catcher Place."

"I know," the young cat said earnestly. "But maybe he's been brought back...?"

"Tiger wasn't brought back," Lizzy said, unconvinced.

The striped tom's face fell. "But... I could have sworn..."

Susan stepped closer, desperately curiously despite himself. "Where did you smell him?" he asked.

The cat indicated with a wave of his bushy tail a ways further down the damp street, to the yellow house; the great, bushy tree in the yard hung heavily under the weight of fallen water.

"There," he said. "There are some patches of dirt there that make huge puddles when it rains — Dad told me to get my fresh water there when I could. So I was there taking a drink when I thought I scented Mooky on the bushes."

Susan narrowed his eyes at the house, then exchanged a look with Lizzy. She did not look impressed, and he knew why: "Are you saying that you scented him after the rain?"

"Yes." Sudden dismay crept into the son's voice. "No, no!" he insisted. "Dad taught me the difference between a fresh scent and an old one. And this one was fresh! Mooky was there after the rain, I promise you!" He swung his head over to Susan. "You're his friend. Don't you want to at least investigate, and see if it's true?"

Lizzy eased back down to her belly. "I just fail to see how or why the humans from the Catcher Place would return a stray cat to where he'd first been caught."

Susan couldn't either, but he found that he had to know regardless — that mouse in his chest was running around in fevered circles, excited at the possibility that Mooky could have somehow returned safe and sound, and terrified at the prospect that One-ear's son was mistaken. He peered into the young cat's eyes, and tried to clamp down on the emotion that rose in him at the earnest desperation in his eyes; clearly, he was trying to earn back Susan's goodwill after what had happened with Kenny's dog, but it was too soon to feel hopeful yet.

But even so... He wouldn't approach Susan with a bogus claim...would he?

"All right." He shook out his pelt, which was misted by rain. "I'll come take a look." He glanced down at Lizzy, who remained expressionless. "Who knows, maybe..."

She gave a short, slow nod. "For what it's worth, I hope he's right."

Susan went down the steps to join One-ear's son at the bottom, and together they went to the edge of the street. "Wait here," he said. "I want a second nose on this."

The Russian had been let out of the house after the rain had eased up, and was sunning himself on their porch when Susan approached. But as soon as Susan told him the news, he leapt down from the porch swing to join him, and they hurried back down the steps and into the street.

"Are you certain?" Susan's housemate demanded when they rejoined One-ear's son. "It was really Mooky you scented, and not another stray?"

"Yes!" the young tom insisted. "I'm certain of it!" They padded down the street, and it didn't occur to Susan until they actually passed Kenny's house how silent the cul-de-sac was without that blasted dog barking at them as they went by. "Sometime after the rain, Mooky was near those bushes, maybe scratching himself. I smelled him on the steps and on a spot on the porch, too."

"And it couldn't have been from that one time you took Mooky over there to investigate those things the humans had heaped out front?"

The young tom's ears flattened, as if he hadn't thought of that. He shook his head a moment later. "No, that was days ago. And wouldn't the rain have wiped away those old smells?"

The Russian exchanged an uncertain look with Susan, and he understood: One-ear's son wasn't dumb, but he was a young cat whose nose maybe hadn't fully developed yet, and it could be that, despite his claims, he couldn't sort through scents like an older cat could. Or perhaps, in his desperate attempt to make up for his mistakes, he was smelling things that couldn't be there.

Well, we'll see for ourselves in a moment, won't we?

They reached the yellow house. There were two vehicles in the driveway, and under the big tree they found one of those long, claw-like tools that humans used to scrape leaves into piles. It had quite a job ahead of it — the yard was covered in detritus, and with the bed of pine needles the lawn had been transformed into a mat of flotsam and mud. One-ear's son led them along, winding through soaked anthills and puddles of water, only to come to an abrupt halt.

"Dad!" he exclaimed.

Susan spotted One-ear several tail-lengths away, stalking a squirrel over the carpet of damp leaf litter. He flinched at his son's call, and the squirrel scrammed, disappearing across the road. He swung his head around in annoyance...which turned into fury at the sight of Susan and the Russian.

"What are you doing with him?" he demanded, marching towards Susan. His son lifted his tail, not blocking his father, but drawing him over to one side.

"Dad, please," the young tom said. "I invited them. We're here to look for Mooky."

An odd look came over One-ear's face — not puzzlement, as Susan had expected, but a strange acknowledgement, as if his son's brusque claim was not unexpected. The smaller cat seemed to realize this too — his ears stood straight up, and his tail swept, knocking a couple of damp leaves into the air.

"Dad, you don't look surprised," he commented, tilting his head to the side. His eyes glowed with excitement. "Were...you out here looking for Mooky too?"

Susan couldn't help it — he let out an obnoxious snort. "Why would he?" he said. "Your dad doesn't like Mooky very much, if you hadn't noticed."

He realized he was the only one laughing — the Russian was staring at One-ear with sudden intrigue, and Susan saw why: the persnickety cat's single ear lay flat against his skull, and his eyes were dark with regret. Susan's amusement vanished.

"You aren't serious!" he said.

One-ear looked away. "Earlier, I was out hunting," he said lowly. "I headed down to the end of the street and I thought I scented Mooky. I decided to check on the way back."

His son swung around, his eyes shining. "See?"

Susan stared at One-ear, baffled, and the Russian said, "Is it because he saved your kit from Kenny's dog?"

"I'm sure neither of you cares," One-ear growled. "You aren't here for me to explain myself."

"Yeah!" his son cried, bounding away. "Come on, all of you! See for yourselves!"

Throwing One-ear a resentful look, Susan followed along behind the young tom, over to where he stood beside a wall of dripping bushes, snuffling along the ground. His ears pricked a moment later. "Here!" he exclaimed. "Susan, take a look."

Susan went over and put his nose to the ground, hissing a little as it touched water. Earth, rain, sunshine... And what was that? Something else... Something he couldn't quite place. He lifted his head, cleared his throat, and then bent back, closing his eyes, and took another deep breath. Yes, there it was, the faint, barely discernible scent of cat. But was it Mooky?

"Susan," the Russian said. "Over here too." He was sniffing an unkempt branch of one of the bushes further down, closer to the porch. Susan came over and took a breath. Yes, that cat scent was stronger here, more distinct. More like Mooky, but not quite Mooky. Something about the scent was more...clinical now, sharp and tangy like that cleaner that his owners used to keep the kitchen and windowsills and china sparkling.

Does that matter? His heart pounded. It's Mooky, isn't it?

"Yes," One-ear said, as if reading Susan's thoughts. "The scent is strongest here. Fresh." He was on the porch, crouching next to a small straight-backed chair that looked uncomfortable even for a cat to rest in. Susan and the Russian bounded over and took a sniff, then exchanged a look. One-ear was right — Mooky had been laying right in this spot some short time ago, maybe sunning himself.

"What happened?" Susan asked. He was boiling with questions, but it was the only one that made it out past his amazement. Mooky had gone to the Catcher Place, but now he was back; how was that possible? He didn't think any doomed creature came back from that place — poor Tiger hadn't.

"Who cares?" One-ear's son said impatiently. "Let's find him! Do you think he's nearby?"

Very suddenly, a loud sound came from the door — Susan looked up and saw it opening, and then he and the rest of the cats bolted, finding shelter beneath the steps and under the wet bushes. A human man came down the steps, dressed in a green pelt, whistling as he headed to one of the cars. Soon he was inside and the vehicle rumbled to life, its headlights flashing before it backed out and headed down the road. They crept out of hiding moments later.

"Did you smell that?" the Russian asked. "When the door opened?"

Susan had — a river of confusing, unfamiliar scents, all save for one. "He's inside. But..." He looked to his housemate again. "Why?"

He asked it in a way that wasn't exactly a question, because he thought he knew. But it was a little too much to think about at the moment.

"If he's inside, maybe we can talk to him through a window," One-ear's son suggested. He bounded off. "Come on! Let's jump up and see if we can see him!"

It was as good a plan as any, so they split up, circling the house and trying to find a window that wasn't blocked by blinds or curtains. Most, unfortunately, were, save for two in the backyard that looked down into some kind of washroom, and another that gave a shadowy view of a garage. He did not see Mooky in either space, and began to worry.

Then, he heard the Russian's loud meow, and hurried around to the east side of the dwelling, where the Russian was perched precariously on a wedge that could barely be described as a sill. "Mooky!" he cried.

Both Susan and One-ear's son launched up beside Russian at the same time — there was a moment of desperate scrambling as each cat tried to find their footing, and then all three peered together through the glass, into a room painted in soothing pastel colors. There were a few pieces of furniture, and then a bed pushed off to one corner. A very young human girl lay there, fast asleep with her curly golden fur pooled around her on a comfy cushion. A black and white cat curled in a dark ball at her side, dozing. Susan's heart leapt into a frantic run.

"Mooky!" he yowled.

Mooky's ears twitched, and his eyes opened blearily. When he spotted the three cats crowding the window, he leapt up and raced over, scaling a piece of furniture until he was before them. His eyes were glowing with wonder, and Susan no doubt looked the same.

"You're all right!" he mewled, feeling his entire body vibrating with pleasured purrs. "You furball, you had us worried!"

"How are you feeling?" the Russian asked frantically. "You were hurt pretty badly. Have your injuries healed?"

"Come outside!" One-ear's son cried. "We want to see you!"

Mooky responded, but the glass was too thick and they couldn't hear him. After a moment, he dropped down to the floor and paced, looking frustrated. Then, ears pricking, he hurried through the door of the human girl's room. His mouth was open wide.

"What is he doing?" One-ear's son asked anxiously. "Is he going to come back?"

Very suddenly, a human appeared in the sunny hallway beyond, a female. Mooky circled her legs, and she bent to pet his head. Then he rubbed against her ankles again and disappeared. Smiling, she followed him. Susan suddenly got it.

"He's trying to get her to let him out," he exclaimed.

They heard the creak of the front door opening, and as one, they dropped down from the windowsill and pelted around the house, just in time to see Mooky appear at the top of the steps. He was sleek and clean, and when Susan ran to him, he nearly bowled him over with happiness. The Russian and One-ear's son were quick on his heels.

"Mooky!" the young tom exclaimed.

"You're healed!" the Russian cried in relief.

"I'm so happy to see you," Susan said.

"I'm happy to see you too!" Mooky said.

Soon, their words dissolved into joyful purring, and they all wound around Mooky, pressing against his side and drawing their tails along his spine, beneath his chin.

"What happened?" Susan finally asked. "Did you actually go to the Catcher Place? I thought you were done for!"

"Yes," Mooky replied, "and so did I. It was a scary place: there were lots of cats in cages there, and dogs too, and they were always barking. I met a cat there — Mandarin — who said that cats were taken away all the time, and sometimes they didn't come back. And then I was taken away, and I thought it was to die. It was to a place where there were a bunch of humans..." His eyes glowed. "Oh, and Kenny's dog! It was there! We did it."

"Really?" One-ear's son cried.

Susan felt a beat of triumph...and then derision. He snorted. "I don't care a lick about that fluffing dog anymore," he growled, and he realized, deep down, that it was true; he'd barely allowed himself to enjoy the dog's absence in Mooky's absence. "Even if the plan hadn't worked."

"But it did," the Russian said, gazing proudly at Mooky. "You were so brave, Mooky, a true hero."

Mooky stared down at his paws, embarrassed. "Thanks. And I guess they thought so too... The humans who came to take me from the Catcher Place. Molly's parents."

Susan cocked his head. "Who is Molly?"

Mooky indicated the house with his tail. "The humans who live here. They're the ones who came and took me away. They're my new owners."

Suddenly they were up and winding around Mooky again. Susan was so happy for his friend — he'd suffered from such bad luck since coming to this cul-de-sac, and now he finally had what he wanted: shelter, food, comfort, security. And for ridding them of that accursed dog... He surely deserved it.

"Oh, and by the way," Mooky said jokingly. "I'm not 'Mooky' anymore. They keep calling me..." He trailed off, his eyes trained on something behind them. The fur on his shoulders lifted a little uncertainly. "Er... Hello, One-ear."

Susan turned to see the thorny cat slinking towards them, his face unreadable. On any other occasion he might've been tempted to hiss and try to send the unlikeable feline on his way, but what he'd said when they'd arrived at the house earlier still baffled him. Against all odds, he'd been looking for Mooky too. Now that he was here, what was he going to do?

"Hello." One-ear's voice was mild, and he beckoned his son with his tail. Reluctantly, the younger cat came away to his father's side. Then, One-ear said, "I have something to say."

Susan's ears pricked; behind him, he felt Mooky shift uneasily. "O-okay...?"

"I wanted to thank you for what you did for my son. I thought that you were a cowardly cat, but a craven would have used him as bait that night, and secured their own escape." He curled his tail protectively around the younger cat's flank. "You chose instead to try and save my son like he was your own, and nearly died for it. You saved him when I couldn't, and he wouldn't be here if you hadn't."

Mooky sounded stunned; they all were. "I'm glad you're safe," he said. "Both of you." He pawed the ground. "And thank you too, One-ear. Before I...passed out, I saw you and Susan fighting off Kenny's dog. That was brave too."

Some of the coolness seemed to leave One-ear's eyes, and mutual respect crept in; with a curt nod, he said, "We have to go. Come, son."

With that, he turned and headed across the yard at a stiff pace; his son followed, waving his tail happily at them. Susan purred in amazement.

"Well will you look at that!" he meowed. "There's a heart under all those bristles after all, and we all got to see it!"

"And it only almost cost me my life," Mooky said cynically. "That seems fair."

The Russian chuckled and flicked his tail against Mooky's flank. "Will you come sun with us? I want to hear more about the Catcher Place."

"I bet the kits would too," Susan said. "What do you say? Will you spin them a yarn, Mooky? A little something to keep them in line? 'Listen to your mother, or you'll go to the Catcher Place!'"

"Sure," Mooky said. As they three of them headed across the yard, he said, "Oh, but it's 'Tux' now."

The Russian looked confused. "Tux?"

"Yes, it's what my owners have been calling me. I didn't like it at first... But I'm kind of stuck with it now, and I guess that's okay: new life, new name, right?"

"I think it suites you," Susan said as they headed into the warmth and sunshine. "Well, Tux: welcome to the neighborhood."

Completed April 11, 2020