Free Cat Breaking Free by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

woolen throw around her with careful paws when a muffled report, sharp as gunfire, exploded from the center of the village: a shot echoing between the shops. Distant tires chirped and squealed, racing away, then silence. But Joe, as hungry for action as any cop, couldn’t bring himself to leave Snowball.
    Licking her ears, he snuggled close, purring to her until at last she dropped off into sleep. The poor little cat was worn out, done in from stress and worry, from her pain over Rube. I guess, Joe thought, that ordinary cats—the kind of cat I was long ago—I guess there’s a lot more understanding there than I remember having. I guess that even a regular cat is far more than he appears to be.
    And that was the end of the night’s philosophizing. He licked Snowball’s ear again, though she was deep under, relaxed at last. “Stay here,” Joe told her uselessly. “Stay right here, Clyde’ll be back soon. And Rube will be…Rube will be the best he can be.” As a second shot rang out, he leaped to the desk and was out of there, desk to rafter to tower and to the shingles, where he stood listening.
    But all was silence now. He could see no lights moving beneath the trees. Only up at the high school was there increasing commotion as the fire licked higher across the night sky, heralded by the faint echoes of shouting men and by car lights appearing and disappearing as if moving back and forth behind the buildings.
    Had kids set the fire? Students? That would be a first for this village. But he guessed every town had its troublemakers. Watching the red stain in the sky, he couldn’t decide whether to take off up the hills to see what was happening, or seek out the mysterious events occurring somewhere on the dim village streets.
    The decision took care of itself, quite suddenly.
    The tomcat was crouched to leap away, when a figure appeared from the shadows in the neighbors’ dark yard, a black-clad figure slipping swiftly through the bushes and around the far side of the house.
    Sailing across to the neighbors’ roof, Joe stood with his paws in the gutter peering down as the figure moved silently along the drive toward the back, heading for Chichi’s door.
    As much as he disliked Chichi Barbi, he didn’t want to see something ugly happen to her. There she was, watching TV at the front of the house, and had likely heard nothing. Above the raucous canned laughter, what could she hear? The woman was a sitting duck in there.
    Slipping along the edge of the roof to follow the intruder, the tomcat had to laugh. Black leggings, black sweatshirt, black hood pulled up, and even black gloves, a character straight out of a cheap movie.
    But that didn’t make him any less dangerous. Joewatched him slip up the steps into the shadows beside the door. In a moment the door opened, the figure slipped inside, the door closed softly, then all was still.
    Trotting across the roof again to the front of the house, Joe hung out over the gutter looking down through the front window.
    Chichi’s sharp silhouette hadn’t moved; she appeared totally entranced by the insipid sitcom. Backing up and kneading his claws on the shingles, he trotted away to the pine tree between the houses. Leaping onto its trunk, clinging, he backed down to where he could jump into the little lemon tree—slashing his paws again on its wicked thorns. Why the hell did lemon trees have thorns! No cat could avoid them.
    Looking into the dark room, trying to spot the intruder, he saw nothing at first but shadows. Nothing moved until…Yes. There. Black within black, slipping stealthily along beside the dresser. For a brief moment, Joe Grey was uncertain what to do. Shout at Chichi through the window to warn her? And jeopardize his own neck? Or wait, bide his time, try to see what the burglar would take, or what he was up to?
    If this was only theft, and not the precursor of an attack on Chichi herself,