I shoveled in my oatmeal as quickly as possible without choking. I was watching my mother’s parakeet Prettyboy eat his morning treat of lettuce. Afterward, he hopped out of his cage through the open door and flew onto the kitchen table. He walks across the table, knocking the forks and the knives onto the floor.
My mother pretends she’s mad. “Prettyboy stop that. Get back into your cage.”
I think she secretly enjoys his mealtime antics. 
“Susie and Karen, please eat your oatmeal.”
The oatmeal feels like a ton of bricks in my stomach. My mother believes that every child should start the day with something warm in their stomach that sticks to their ribs.
Still, it’s a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning, my favorite day of the week. I can get up as late as I want. Well not really, if I wasn’t up by nine AM, my mother would come into my bedroom to see if I was still breathing. It’s late spring, which means I only have about eight more weeks of school. Then summer will arrive. I hate school more then I hate vegetables, and that was considerable.
As soon as I finish my last spoonful, I jump up so violently from my chair that it falls over. My father starts yelling,” Susan, you are being a pain in the ass.”
“Susan, please remember your manners and asked to be excused.” My mother chimes in.
I start explaining to my father. Sorry, sorry it was an accident.” He keeps going on about how I did the same thing every day and never seemed to learn. I was pigheaded and stubborn that I would argue with the pope. “Sorry, Dad, I won’ do it again.”
I run out the kitchen door, slamming the screen door behind me. I can hear my father yelling after me, “I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t slam the door.”
I was free now, free to go where I please and do what I want. I chose to wander over to Mrs. Collins’ yard and visit my friends who live in her cellar. But they’re allowed within the confines of the outside kennel to enjoy the good life out in their backyard.
There are about twenty to thirty cats, give or take a few. I know all their names and stop to pet them and exchange a few words with each one. They come rushing over to greet me. Each beautiful in their way. Some were black and white, some calico. Some had long tails that sway. Some had no tails at all. They’re my friends.
My best friend’s name is Strottles. He doesn’t live in the Collins’ cellar. He’s a wild cat. He had belonged to one of our neighbors, the Lombardi family, but he scratched up all their furniture and sprayed on the doors. So, they put him out of their house.
He survives on his wits and on food that people in the neighborhood put out for him. It wasn’t unheard of for him to kill and eat the occasional bird or mouse. Strottles is the biggest cat I have ever seen. His fur is orange, and mangy looking. He has scars and part of one ear missing. But to me, he was the most charming and handsome of them all. I love him.
As I crouch down in the grass petting the cats through the chicken wire, I see Strottles cruising through Mrs. Lombardi’s yard and heading in my direction. I call out to him, “Strottles, hi Strottles. How are you?”
He comes over to me slowly and bumps his head on my shoulder. I can hear and feel him purring. I start telling Strottles about my morning and how my father told me I was pigheaded. I told him how I was yelled at for knocking over my chair. He gazes at me with his enormous golden eyes and somehow conveys to me with his look that everything will be ok.
Strottles and I spend the morning investigating and saying hello to all the neighbors’ pets. Strottles is very tolerant of dogs and female cats, but he can’t abide other male cats.
In my room early in the morning, I have often been awakened by the sound of cats waling and screaming. When I look out my bedroom window, I see a whirling dervish as Strottles fights any male cat that dares to interlope in his territory. As far as I know, he remains the victor in all his battles. He wears his many scars and healing wounds as any great warrior would. I hear my mother calling me to come in for lunch from the kitchen door.
“Susie time for lunch, come home Susie, lunch time.”
“Strottles, I’ll see you later.”
He stares at me intently with his great orange eyes, and I stroke him from the top of his head to the end of his straggly, broken tail. As I run towards the side of my house, I take a last look at Strottles as he strolls away in the other direction. He seems in no great hurry to reach whatever his next destination might be.
As I open the kitchen door, I smell chicken noodle soup that’s steaming in a pot on the stove. My mother stands there in her housedress, covered by her everyday apron. She has a long line of safety pins hanging down the front of it. She claims that you never knew when you might need a safety pin, to pin up an errant hem, or replace a lost button.
“Hi, Susie.” She says with her beautiful smile. I’m making grilled cheese sandwiches, please go and wash your hands before you sit down.”
As I run into the bathroom, I hear my sister Karen, coming in through the front door.
“Hi, Mom, what’s for lunch?”
Then I close the bathroom door. As I finish my business in the bathroom, I hear a great commotion coming from the kitchen. My father is yelling, and my mother ‘s crying. I run into the kitchen to see what’s going on. I see my father at the kitchen door with a broom. He’s chasing what looks like the tail end of an orange cat. I have never seen my mother cry before. I feel my lower lip start trembling, and tears sprang to my eyes. My mother gives me a look that I had never seen in her eyes before. I know that something terrible has happened and somehow I‘m to blame.
My father comes back into the house, and his face carries an angry expression. I know that I was about to be on the receiving end of something terrible. “You and that stupid cat,” he spits at me, “look what you have done.” My sister looks at me, her mouth in a circle. Then everyone stares sadly up at Prettyboy’s now empty cage.
“Where is Prettyboy?” I beg as tears roll down my cheeks.
“That dammed cat of yours, he ran into the kitchen while your mother took out the garbage. He jumped up onto the kitchen table and he killed your mother’s bird.”
“Oh no, I sobbed, oh no, Strottles wouldn’t do that.” But I know in my heart he would. He’s always hungry and on the lookout for food.
My mother looks away from me. My father roughly grabs me by the arm and smacks me on my behind.
“Go down the cellar and stay down there and think about what you have done.” He pushes me through the door and closes it behind me. It seems I was down there a very long time. I cry and cry until my eyes are swollen shut. I hear my mother’s soft voice and feel her arms around me.