The cat and I were up a tree. The cat was supposed to be on the set of Netflix’s latest paranormal romance two hours ago. In it, Phyllis, the cat’s given name, is possessed by demons, controls minds, and can fly. One of those facts would be helpful at present. When I hit the pothole, the lock to her cage clicked open and her claws immediately sought my throat. Three strips of skin draped spaghetti-like beneath my ear. In response, I opened the door and tossed her out. She landed on the soft sand berm and shot into the woods. I, nursing the bloody gashes, followed, my weekly paycheck reliant on Phyllis’s appearance on the sound stage.
*
The tree was a maple. We were fifty feet off the ground. Seven bobcats circled the base. More lingered in the undergrowth, out of sight. Their mewling came from every direction. I read they hated meeting their own species for anything other than mating. Their present number debated the fact. Phyllis’s second power would also be useful, supposing cats share a universal language. I knew bobcats could climb trees, but they were saving their energy, waiting for me to fall asleep and slip off my branch. They were not there for Phyllis. She’s a small cat and her fame isn’t widespread enough to inspire feline hero worship in the sticks.
*
I didn’t want to throw Phyllis. I love animals. It’s why I’ve worked as a transporter for BYK Studios for three years. I’ve driven juggling bears, that talking corgi from that show, and Flipper’s stunt double. Phyllis should have been easy cargo.
*
I peed hours ago. Phyllis didn’t approve. I could see it in the way she watched. I think that’s what attracted the bobcats. Predator urine supposedly scares wildlife off like a protective barrier. The bobcats knew I wasn’t a threat.
*
I followed tufts of orange hair from the roadside. The pine needle and moss strewn trail lead to the base of the maple. From the fallen bark and rotting branches, I should have realized a few things about the tree. But I didn’t. Phyllis was an orange smear in the tree’s upper reaches. The bark was rough on my hands as I climbed, damp in patches. I nearly fell when the uppermost branch gave way in a shower of rotten wood chips.
*
The crook we nestled in was perfectly concave, like a pulpy hammock. Things could have been worse, I thought, petting Phyllis as I searched for nonexistent cell service. That was before the bobcats showed up.
*
On their own, I could probably fight off a single bobcat. Maybe two. Seven would undoubtedly eat me, slowly, their mouths too small for large bites. There were only so many directions a guy could kick at the same time, endangered species or not.
For the past three months, I’d been asking my boss for a promotion, from transportation to trainer. I had taken the appropriate classes and recieved my animal handler certification. I was qualified. I could get toy poodles to perform cartwheels, could get cockatoos to sing Ariana Grande. Square dancing ferrets were my specialty. My boss had no reason to turn me down, but he did. Maybe it was my anger that made me forget to double check the cat carrier. Maybe it was a cheap cage. Maybe God intended to provide the bobcats with a feast on the brink of starvation, my corpse ensuring survival.
*
In the back of my head, a nasaly feline voice blossomed. “You’re Fucked, Jim” Phyllis said, staring up at me from the neighboring branch. She shook her head, gazed down at the bobcats circling the trunk, then levitated off the tree. She hovered their for a moment, scanning me with mournful eyes before ascending through the canopy, brushing maples leaves aside until she disappeared. The studio must save a fortune on green screen effects. Looking down, Phyllis’s words rang true. The bobcats sat on their haunches, faces upturned, waiting for the eventual drowsiness to set in.
