Gabriel

Maine Coon Cats are (allegedly) cuddly
but Gabriel missed that gene. He’s a
medium — size tiger in a cat’s body, sly,
cunning, thinks he’s smarter than me.
He’s right.

How he got to Levin is his secret
but while I’m sniffing that teal shirt
he ducks out from behind a shop
door and wiggles his ears in a way
that says, Gotcha.

I shout, ‘There’s a Maine Coon Cat
called Gabriel in your shop’. I charge
over to the window but — you’ve guessed it —
big shit Gabriel has scarpered. The woman says
now she’s heard everything.

‘Get back home Gabe,’ I yell. I feel a fool
Not unusual. To hell with him. I only look
for Gabe in the mornings. Clint is afternoons.
Gabe’s owner has offered a large reward
plus a good retainer. I’m broke.

Maine Coot Cats are large and friendly
the online site says but there’s a comment
from someone who says my Coon Cat
Caesar is snarly, bit my hand and ate my
canary. I showed him the door.

Enough. Bugger Caesar. Bugger Gabe.
Think of Clint. Where do you hide a body?
A river? The sea? Why does the shirt
smell of Little Sister’s perfume? Why
was it in the opshop?

Little Sister likes opshops. She likes
The opshops along the Coast. She never
buys new. She buys a dress or shirt
wears them for a few months then
recycles them.

Has she recycled Clint? Or simply
his shirt? Where the hell is Gabe? I need
the money. His owner says he can’t live
without Gabe. Gabe’s his life. Jaysus.
But beggars can’t be choosers.

Then —
something moves on the back seat…

Renée