Free Cat on the Edge by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

the receiver and dropped it back in its cradle.
    But the next instant he snatched it up again and threw it on the rumpled bed. He didn’t want it to ring. He wasn’t answering any more phone calls. The receiver buzzed for a moment, then a taped female voice told him to hang up and dial again.
    â€œI didn’t dial!” he shouted at the taped voice. “And you can go to hell!”
    He had to have some coffee. And he’d better get in the shower, get dressed for work.
    It took him several minutes to realize that this was Saturday and his day off, that he’d still be asleep if Joe hadn’t called.
    If Joe hadn’t…
    He’d better get hold of himself.
    Cats did not make phone calls.
    Cats did not speak human words.
    Cats communicated with body language. Cats said things with angry glares, with tail lashings and butt wiggles. They let you know how they felt by squinching their ears down or poking you with a paw. By hissing at you, or flipping their tail and stalking away. That was cat talk. Cats did not speak the English language.
    He stood scratching his stubbled chin, knowing in his gut that the phone call hadn’t been a dream. Knowing that the ringing of the phone had waked him. Remembering the sunlight slashing beneath the shade into his eyes as he rolled over and grabbed the phone. Hearing that rasping voice.
    The morning sun beat relentlessly against the window shades, thrusting its bright fingers more powerfully underneath like some nosy neighbor. His face itched; he hated it when his face itched. Staring at the demanding sunlight, imagining the bright day beyond the blinds, he got an unwanted mental picture of Joe stretched out in the sunshine somewhere, maybe beside someone’s pool, talking over the poolside phone.
    He flipped up a window shade, causing the stiff fabric to spin dangerously on its roller. He stood at the window, staring out at the street praying he would see Joe come strolling down the sidewalk.
    And knowing he wouldn’t.
    Where the hell was the cat?
    He needed coffee. He needed to talk to someone. He needed to see if the rest of the animals were different this morning.
    What was he going to find in the kitchen? A tangle of chattering dogs and cats complaining about the quality of their breakfast? Bitching because he was late getting up?
    He shuffled down the hall in his shorts; as he opened the kitchen door, a barrage of leaping canines hit him. The two warm, whining dogs pummeled and pushed. The cats yowled and wound around his bare ankles, tickling with their twining, furry greeting.
    Neither the cats nor the dogs spoke a word. All remained satisfyingly mute. He petted Rube gratefully. The black Lab smiled up at him, then bent to lick his toes. Barney pushed against them both, growling as he competed for attention.
    He scratched the dogs until they calmed down, then picked up all three cats, cuddling them in a huge hug, letting them rub their faces against his bristly cheeks.
    When the cats began staring down from his arms at the counters, looking for some sign of breakfast, he put them down again on the floor. Stepping over the furry tangle, he filled the coffeepot with waterand got the can of coffee from the cupboard. But he was still so upset by the phone call he spilled half the coffee grounds, then lost count of how many scoops. He ended up dumping it all back in the can and starting over.
    That call was the perfect end to a rotten week. First the break-in at the shop, when his automotive tools were stolen along with a collection of shop gauges that would be hard to replace. The senseless burglary enraged and puzzled him. The thief could just as easily have entered the main showroom instead of the shop, could have broken the lock on the big showroom overhead doors and driven off with several million dollars’ worth of new, and vintage, foreign cars.
    Why, with that fortune sitting in the showroom, had he chosen to burgle the shop?
    Then three