Between Wild and Home
by Andrew Moore
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
The young rat was a gift for a little boy who soon forgot all about her. The little boy was careless, and let his new pet loose in the backyard. The freedom was too much for such a young rat. She ran through the grass, feeling the blades fly across her whiskers and, before she knew it, she was lost. Such a small creature has no idea how big the world is.
The rat had a series of frightening encounters. A cat in a nearby yard chased her through a hole in a fence. Wild dogs terrorized her. Without a daily supply of food and water, she nearly died. But a happy accident one night changed everything.
The smell of food was in the air. It was overpowering for the young rat, but there was another smell: cat. The smell of cat meant danger. It was instinct, woven into her very DNA. The rat clung to the shadows, ready to make a hasty escape should she be discovered, and followed the smell of food to a curious pack of scavengers, scrounging through a tipped-over garbage can.
There was a possum, rodent-like and picking over chicken bones. A raccoon, just as dexterous as the rat, dipping a half-eaten apple into a puddle. Leading the pack, cleaning her paws, was the cat. She was a calico-tabby mix, her orange and white patches shot through with gray stripes. The top of her left ear was notched. She was remarkably clean for a stray.
Despite her fear, the young rat followed this pack around, eating their leftovers. One night, while she was making quite the supper of old chickpeas, she heard a purring voice, soft and low.
“Hey, creeper...”
The young rat stopped mid-bite, her heart pounding in her chest. She gulped down her fear — and a mouthful of chickpea — and turned to face her worst nightmare.
The cat was sitting, tail delicately painting the ground, calm and undeniably beautiful under the streetlamp.
“The name’s ‘Momma,’” said the cat. “You’re the rat that’s been sneaking food from our raids.”
“That’s me.” She was scared to death. The cat had her. She knew this was it.
“What’s your name?”
“Don’t have a name.”
“What does your family call you?”
That cut deeper than the cat’s claws could have. The young rat sniffed at the ground. “I don’t have a family. I had people, once. But they lost me.”
Momma’s whiskers twitched. “‘Creeper’ is good enough, then. Why are you scared? Why do you creep around the shadows?”
“Y-you’re a cat,” Creeper stuttered.
Momma chuckled. “I’m not going to eat you, Creeper. I have a proposition.”
Creeper perked up. She had never spoken to a cat, let alone had a conversation, let alone received a proposition from one!
“I scout out the neighborhood, looking for the best scraps. But there are places I can’t get to. A little creeper like you could help me out.”
The rat didn’t say anything.
Momma wondered if the purported intelligence of rats was just a rumor and nothing more. “You won’t have to keep creeping around. You can raid with the rest of us.”
“The raccoon and the possum?”
“Fidget and Wormy.” Momma rose and turned away from Creeper. Her tail whipped the air. “It’s your call, Creeper. Think it over.”
“I’ll do it.” The rat appeared right beside Momma, who tried not to jump.
“You are a creeper, aren’t you? Let’s get back to the others.”
* * *
That’s how a young rat got a name and a new family. Fidget was the raccoon, a deviously smart creature with incredible dexterity. He could unlatch gates, open bins and, with the right tools, he could probably pick locks. He had round, intelligent eyes beneath broadly set ears; brindle black and burgundy fur. Fidget was a joker, always getting up to mischief and, possibly, the only creature on earth who could play a trick on Momma without getting her claws.
Wormy was a quiet possum with a sleepy voice and soulful eyes. Thoughtful and observant, he was the first to warn the pack of coming danger, although he mostly did so by playing dead. Too many times, Fidget had to drag Wormy out of an alley or street and away from whatever triggered his “play dead” response.
Momma was difficult to read. Creeper felt that she could pounce at any moment, but she never did. If anything, the cat seemed bored with the jittery rat unless they were on one of their scouting missions. When they went out, Momma gave Creeper very strict orders: “Wait here!” or “Follow me through the yard.” or “Go through that hole and see what’s in the pantry.” Creeper followed Momma’s orders without question.
Momma kept her safe from other cats, and the patchwork pack feasted on the pick of the neighborhood garbage. Creeper got to know Fidget and Wormy like brothers. There was much Creeper didn’t know about Momma, but she knew whom to ask.
Fidget was crouched over a puddle, washing his hands. Not for cleanliness. No, the purpose of this ritual was to increase the sensitivity of his already incredibly sensitive hands. It made his foraging much more successful. It also gave him his nickname.
Fidget paused, catching movement in his peripheral vision. He glanced up at Creeper. The rat’s eyes were darting left and right, her head slightly nodding.
“Something on your mind?”
“Why do they call you Fidget?”
Fidget paused again and laughed in spite of himself. He held up his hands. “I think you know the answer to that question.”
“Oh. And Wormy has a wormy tail.”
“Correct. And you creep around, hence...”
“Creeper.” The rat scratched her nose. “Why is Momma’s name ‘Momma’?”
Fidget shook water from his hands and took a good look around, sniffing the air. He sat opposite Creeper and leaned down to the rat. “I’ve been in this neighborhood a long time,” he whispered. “I’ve seen a lot. Before I teamed up with Momma, before she had that notch in her ear, she had a litter of kittens.”
Creeper sat up.
“The kittens gave her the name. She had them under a house not far from here.” Fidget looked around and sighed. “You can’t tell her I told you this.”
Creeper nodded.
“It was her house. Her family’s house.”
“She had people?”
Fidget nodded. “She got out one night and met up with a stray tomcat. Her family was angry. So, she hid under the house. That’s where her foraging began. She was down there for a while with her kittens, but the family heard the mewing.”
Creeper covered her face. “Did they take her kittens?”
“It’s worse than that. Someone opened a panel to access the kittens but didn’t finish the job.” Fidget sighed deeply and looked away from Creeper. After a moment, he spoke again. “There were wild dogs in the neighborhood.”
“Oh no.”
Fidget nodded. “Momma was distraught. Running away from the house, she stumbled into a cage. People took her away. That’s when she got the notch. I’m the first one she met after the people released her. I’d seen the whole thing, really felt for her.” Fidget scratched his cheek and looked over his shoulder.
“It took her a while to come back from that. I took care of her, bringing her food. The only thing she could say for weeks was...” And Fidget cut off.
“It was ‘Momma,’ wasn’t it?”
Fidget nodded and looked down.
Momma’s voice broke the stillness. “Fidget. Creeper. It’s time to forage.” The raccoon and rat looked up at the cat. How much had she heard? “Let’s go.”
Fidget held Creeper back and, in a hushed tone, told the rat, “Not a word.”
* * *
And so they foraged, night after night, sleeping in a crawlspace under an abandoned house during the day. Creeper wondered if it reminded Momma of where she had lost her kittens. There was a particular spot in a distant corner where Momma would go to be alone. The rest of the pack knew not to disturb her when she did.
Most nights Momma and Creeper would scout ahead around dusk, when the people were having their dinners. It wasn’t enough to know which garbage cans were filled tonight; they needed to know which garbage cans would be filled tomorrow night. That’s where Creeper came in particularly handy, creeping into the homes, sussing out what was on the tables and reporting back to Momma.
Momma had a good memory. “This house will have spaghetti leftovers in the garbage tomorrow night. That house will have root vegetables. The house down the corner just started marinating a chicken. Check back in a couple of days.”
When they weren’t foraging, the pack kept themselves entertained in other ways. Wormy was a good storyteller with an active imagination. Most of his stories involved some tragic death, which he would act out.
Fidget was a master of sleight of hand and put on displays of dexterity. As for Creeper, she was a scrounger. Fidget or Wormy would name some object — it had to be something the rat could easily carry — and she would race out into the night and retrieve it.
Momma stayed aloof as always, maintaining an air of slight disapproval, but her purrs gave away her true feelings; she enjoyed the nonsense.
It was a good life. The dangers they faced were few, although quite real.
The people would sometimes set up traps for them, sometimes try to bait them with poison. The pack employed every instinct, every survival skill in the service of protecting each other. Once, Wormy fell prey to a trap. Fidget spent hours working the lock, and eventually sprang him loose. Momma was wily when it came to sniffing out poison; she knew people quite well.
Momma’s pack got along well with most of the creatures they encountered. Even the occasional coyote, wary and solitary, didn’t pose much of a threat. Wild dogs were another matter. They could not be reasoned with and, when they tore through the neighborhood, all that could be done was to wait them out.
* * *
A strange thing happens to wild dogs. Dogs, by nature, are both pack animals and apex predators. Without a strong leader, a gang of wild dogs can become reckless and dangerous, egging each other on to new heights of savagery.
Domestic dogs, even the occasional stray, are completely different. Like Baron. Baron lived with the Kims, a family in the middle of Sycamore who rarely had leftovers, but when they did, they were divine.
Momma wasn’t fond of dogs in general. They were loud and exuberant but mostly content with barking at her rather than giving chase. Baron never barked. A lackadaisical golden retriever, old and graying around his eyes and snout, he was the one dog Momma got along with.
“How are you now, Momma?” Half-blind, his sense of smell was sharp as ever. He was lying in a flowerbed.
“On the prowl, Baron. Anything good in the works?”
“Father brought home barbecue last night. Don’t suppose they finished it all. Got myself a treat with breakfast. I figure leftovers in the garbage come tomorrow.”
“That’s good news.”
“Say, you ought to visit the young miss. You should hear the way she carries on about you.”
Ella Kim. Momma was fascinated by the girl, and the girl loved the cat. Although she wouldn’t admit it, Momma enjoyed the attention. “I can’t stay long.”
“Yah.” Momma couldn’t fool the old dog, which irritated her immensely. “She’s in the front yard.”
Momma walked past the dog, brushing against him. He wagged and laid his head down.
“Stay careful out there, Momma. There’s a smell of wild dogs on the wind.”
Creeper waited until she was sure the old dog was asleep, and began creeping along the fence line to the front yard. She was almost to the side of the house when she heard him.
“That’s alright, little rat. I know you’re with Momma. Just stay out of the house, and we won’t have a problem.”
Creeper stopped and slowly turned back. Baron looked sound asleep in the flower bed. He lazily opened an eye and chuckled. Creeper darted away.
She heard the little girl before she saw her. Cooing and singing the way they do to their pets. Creeper didn’t know many of their words, but it was easy to understand their emotions. She hid in a rose bush and looked for Momma.
Creeper didn’t recognize Momma at first. Gone was the street-cat aloofness. In its place was the fawning affection of a pet. Tail up, tickling the air, Momma leaned against the young girl. Creeper could hear the purring from some distance away.
Baron was right. The next day was a feast of brisket, potato salad, and macaroni and cheese. In spite of the glorious bounty, Momma was anxious. The smell of wild dogs was strong enough that you didn’t need a golden retriever’s nose to pick up on it. She maintained a watch while Fidget and Wormy fed.
“You want us to grab some leftovers for you?” Fidget waited for Momma to answer. “Hey, maybe Wormy can put some in his pouch.”
“We’ve been over this,” Wormy said with a mouthful of macaroni. “I don’t have a pouch. Male possums don’t have pouches.”
“Momma doesn’t know that.”
“So what? So you make her a promise I can’t keep?”
“Who’s making promises?”
“Keep it down,” Momma hissed.
Fidget and Wormy froze. They could hear it. Maybe a block away.
Creeper paced between Momma and the trash can. “What do we do?”
“Back to the crawlspace. Stay in the shadows. Move!”
* * *
Copyright © 2025 by Andrew Moore
