By Ken Luber
Idyllwild author

Editor’s note: This is the last of several installments of a short story local author Kenneth Luber has written. See prior Town Criers for the other installments.

Fortunately, Fred had decided to renovate the breakfast nook. He hired two workers to make the window looking out on the backyard larger, strip the old wallpaper and paint the walls a bright, cheery yellow. I would have gone with a mellower peach. But the good thing was that Milty was busy bothering the workers every day and I didn’t have to deal with his drooling and gnawing and woofing. I wasn’t even jealous when one of the workers brought Milty a burger!

The only thing that bothered me now was that the winter nights came early. It was already dark when the workers left for the day and Fred still wasn’t home from work. He had installed a timer that turned on a living room lamp and a kitchen light but, still, it was ghostly. Milty didn’t seem to mind. When you’re under a table gnawing a leather bone, how much light do you need?

I was the one who saw the lamp cord fizz. I was the first to hear the hiss.

Then I saw sparks.

Smoke was curling up from the floor. I started to blink. My nose twitched. I’m not what some people call a scaredy-cat, but I’m smart enough to know the signs of fire. Small yellow flames growing bigger were shooting across the rug toward the drapes. I started to yowl. My house, Miss Betty’s house that she had put so much time and love into decorating, Fred’s house with a paid-off mortgage was being threatened! The fake Tudor was going to go up in flames! I shot a look toward the living room arch. Milty had scampered into the room, probably attracted by my desperate yowls. He looked over to the leaping flames. “Do something!” I screeched. Milty spun around and charged from the room. “Scaredy-cat!” I yowled. “I knew you didn’t care about the house. You never gave a woof about the rooms I showed you!” I jumped from the Lazy Boy and leapt to the safety of a China cabinet.

That’s when I saw Milty. He had the wire handle of one of the worker’s plastic buckets between his teeth. From my perch I could see it was filled with water. He lugged it step by step, dropped the bucket at the edge of the flames, and butted it over with his head. The water splashed across the flames. I couldn’t believe it. My eyes were fluttering. Milty raced from the room, as fast as my racing heart. Seconds later he was back. The second bucket was heavier. He was yanking it between his teeth, grunting with each step as he dragged it toward the fire. It was the bucket of sand he had been sniffing at, when we went room by room through the house. He reached the flames just as they caught the bottom of the drapes. Again, he knocked the pail over, smothering the flames, kicking the sand with his giant paws. He grabbed the base of the burning drape with his teeth and pulled it down into the soaking wet sand.

I saw him through the smoke. He was facing me, panting. Limping towards me on his burnt paws.

I told you I have a heart. It dropped a thousand miles.

I explained everything to Fred when he got home. I didn’t hold back on the tears in my eyes or my praise for Milty. “He’s my hero,” I whimpered. Fred listened but I could see his mind was on getting Milty to the vet. I wanted to go along. While they were gone, I sat like a statue in the front window waiting for them. Hours passed, in what seemed like endless moons, until they finally returned. Milty’s front paws were wrapped in white gauzy bandages. Fred cooked him a huge burger for his evening meal. Again, I wasn’t jealous. I would have cooked it for him and smothered it with a fancy cheese, if I knew how to cook.

That night, from my perch on the scratching tree, I watched Milty circle his bed a hundred times on bandaged paws before he flopped down. I waited until I heard his snoozing breath. Then I climbed down from my post and curled onto the plaid-covered bed with the star in the middle, beside my hero.

And to this day, that’s the way Milty and I sleep each night. I still see Chester and Gabriella the Princess on the fake Tudor roof, but now I spend most of my time hanging out with Milty. I know Miss Betty would be very proud of me.

Like I said, I’m seven. Sages and even ordinary people think seven is a very lucky number. It only came once in this cat’s life. The year I met Milty.