Murdoch McMurray    ISBN 0-9699407-4-2

I normally do not care who walks up my street, but when I saw the neighbourhood bully, Murdoch McMurray, heading toward my house, I froze. Everyone knew if Murdoch's red hair was standing on end, you had better run for cover. Well, his hair looked to be jumping right off the top of his head. That's how steamed up he was. Instinctively, I flattened myself beside the front window. Murdoch McMurray was the biggest and meanest kid in our school, and he was not even big. He and I were the same size and same age, ten, but he fought hard, and his punch had snap, more like a grade sixer's.

Murdoch McMurray did not like me. He did not like anyone and he hit hard to prove it. Some kids tried making friends with him, but he soon beat them up. I knew you could not trust him. Teachers were not afraid of him, not like us kids. Teachers would let him go for a run on the track on days he was really cranky. Or shoot baskets. And they would give him drawing paper. He liked that. He even hummed when he coloured. He was a good drawer too, not that anyone said so. But out on the playground, he did not play with crayons. He played with fists. Last week he punched me in the face and I got heck for it. That made me mad. My dad won't let me fight, and guys like Murdoch know it. It's just not fair. And it's no fun going to school worrying about getting clobbered.

I was so busy thinking I almost did not see what I was seeing. Murdoch was not just walking down my street. He was walking down my street carrying a green garbage bag. And it was heavy. I could tell. He was not dragging the bag on the ground like a sack of potatoes either. He held it up like it was a plate of cookies.

But his face was scrunched up tight as a dishcloth, and he was crying. That bothered me--seeing him cry, but I had no idea why. It was weird. When he opened my gate, I made a fist. I could hear his footsteps coming closer and closer. He was so near I could hear him snivelling. As far as I knew, no one had ever heard Murdoch McMurray snivel before, and I can assure you, it is not a pretty thing to hear.

I could see Murdoch but he couldn't see me. I watched him struggle with the bag, saw him almost put it down, then saw him change his mind. The snivelling got louder. And louder. Then I heard my mom coming down the hall. She looked at me. I looked at her. I could tell she heard it too. Before I could stop her she opened the door.

"I didn't doooo iiiitt", wailed Murdoch, and he fell to the ground like a big clump of dirt. My mother pulled him up and rubbed his back. That bugged me. Murdoch kept saying he was sorry, and he blubbered on and on about a car and some birds. I had no idea what he was talking about so I just stood there, watching, waiting. But deep down it felt a little bit good, you know, watching him cry. He handed Mom the bag and she opened it. Out fell Socrates, our cat. He was dead. Mom let out a scream. And that's when I jumped on Murdoch McMurray. I hit him and hit him and hit him. I wanted to punch him inside out. We were all screaming. Murdoch. Mom. Me. That brought out Grampa and he starting yelling too. 
He pulled me off and yanked my arms behind my back, and held them way too tight. He looked at Murdoch, then at me.

With his fists shoved in his eyes, Murdoch sobbed, "Your cat was in old man Salmo's yard, you know, watching the birdbath. Then he dashed out into the street, and...." We knew.

Mom was crying. She made a sour face and knelt down beside our cat. Poor Socrates. His white fur was dirty, very dirty. And messy. His eyes were open, and he stared straight ahead. I could not look. Instead I touched his tail. It was still fluffy and nice.

I could tell Mom did not want to, but she did anyway-- you know-- touch something dead. Grampa too. That is how my little sister, Wendy, found us-- all of us, kneeling down, trying to stroke our dead cat. Wendy did not seem to know what to do, so she screamed and ran away. Mom ran after her, but first she yelled to Grampa to do something. Anything. And I could tell by the tone of her voice she meant it. At first Grampa did not move. Murdoch kept trying to say something, but the words came out sounding like hiccups. He finally shut up when Grampa patted his shoulder. That's when I realised Socrates would never again sleep on my pillow. That's when I really started bawling like a baby, and Grampa pulled me onto his lap.

Mom must have called Dad because within minutes, he was home. Socrates had been Dad's cat, even though he slept with me. Dad did not touch him. He just stared. Dad's ears got redder and redder and I could hear him swallowing hard. Then he started playing with his watchstrap the way he always does when he's waiting for someone to make a decision.

Grampa stood up and said, "Let's go, guys." Dad nodded, but he did not move. Grampa pulled him towards the tool shed. I followed. Murdoch asked if he could come too, and Grampa said, "Sure." That bugged me. I did not want Murdoch in my back yard, but I was too full of tears to argue. Grampa grabbed some wood and Dad pulled out the tools. Murdoch and I sat on a bench kicking sawdust. Murdoch told Grampa his cat got run over too. That surprised me because he never told anyone at school. I felt a little sorry for him, but no way was I going to tell him.

I heard Dad say, "Richard, go ask your mother where we should bury him." He said it three times and I heard him each time, but I just could not speak. Instead I ran into the house. To Mom. I had to get away from Murdoch. And Socrates.

My sister was sitting on Mom's lap and Mom made room for me too. She rubbed my head and held me close, and I started bawling all over again. We all did.

Between sobs I told her what Grampa was doing and she squeezed my hand. She said it might be nice to add some special things to the little box. Wendy grabbed a catnip ball and I picked up a toy mouse. Then we stood there, staring at each other, not knowing what to do next. Everything got sadder and sadder. I ran to my room and slammed the door. Socrates was everywhere. I could hear him purring in my ears, feel him licking my hands, and I could smell his fur. Socrates sat where he wanted, slept where he wanted, and did what he wanted to do. He knew everything about me, all my secrets, and all my hiding places. He was everywhere, yet I was terribly alone.

I curled up beside my pillow and stroked it. Socrates loved that pillow. I could almost hear him purring. I could almost feel his tail wave across my nose when he was bugged. I stroked and stroked and stroked. It made me feel better.

Socrates was not our only cat. We had three. He was the oldest and my favourite. He was fourteen years old, four years older than I was, and he ruled the house. Last year Dad brought home two kittens and Socrates was not too pleased about it. He tried to avoid them, but couldn't, for they were like dust-absolutely everywhere. When they made him mad, he would bat them on the ears and hiss. Deep down, I knew he liked them though, because he would always purr when he washed them. And they would purr back.

I wondered if the kittens would miss him too. I knew cats sometimes got lonely or sad. I had seen it. But I did not know if they cried in the night. I knew I would, and I hoped one of the kittens would start sleeping with me.

And then I wondered how much it hurt--you know, being hit by a car. Mom had said, not much. She had said Socrates had been killed so fast he wouldn't have had time to meow. I hoped so, as I did not want to imagine the other stuff.

That's when I remembered Murdoch McMurray. He had seen it. He had seen our cat die. He was the one who picked him up, put him in a bag, and carefully carried him home to us. It did not make sense. Guys who schmucked you in the face were not supposed to bring home your dead cat for you, were they? Bullies don't do nice things, right?

Wendy knocked on my door. She said people were filling our back yard. I knew that. I could see them from my window. It was Saturday so everyone was there, the Chans, the Hurleys, and the Shapiros. My friends were there too. But nobody stood next to Murdoch.

I saw Mr. Bernardino, the gardener, arrive dragging a tree. I knew Mom always wanted something planted and guessed this must be it. Soon a hole appeared. Everyone took turns digging. First Grampa, then Dad. Then the others.

My friends took turns too-- Skylar, Ramiro, and April. Even Murdoch. I wanted to help but could not. I was stuck to my chair, stuck in a bad dream, stuck in my heart. But when I saw my little sister grab the shovel I jumped.

I felt like a stranger in my own back yard. Kids were hiding in their mother's skirts and dads stared at their shoes. Dirt was everywhere. The hole looked huge and frightening and I felt uneasy. Mr. Bernardino patted me on the back and helped me jump in. I nearly fainted. He handed me the shovel and pointed. And so, with tears in my eyes I dug and I dug, and I dug my cat's grave.

Then we gathered round and Dad cleared his throat. He thanked everyone for coming, and he thanked Murdoch McMurray for bringing Socrates home. I could tell from all the nodding that people were impressed. Mr. Bernardino leaned over and shook Murdoch's hand. That made Murdoch smile. Dad told how he found Socrates in a tree when he was a kitten, how he looked like a ball of cotton with eyes, how he curled up in his shirt. And he told everyone how much Socrates meant to our family. Then Dad did something strange. He asked the rest of us to tell our own story.

Mr. Hurley said he once saw Socrates play tag with an old raccoon. Mrs. Hurley agreed. She added that Socrates was great at catching mice. Mr. Philbrook laughed and said Socrates ate forty bucks worth of goldfish from his fishpond every year, and he pointed to the kittens and said, "Don't you dare."

Grampa described the time Socrates had been trapped by a weasel under our cottage. No one could help him there. Finally the weasel escaped and we thought for sure Socrates was dead, but he wasn't. He needed thirty-six stitches though. The vet said he might not live, but he did.

When it was Mom's turn, she just smiled and sniffled. And me? Well, I could not think of anything to say. I looked up and saw the kittens watching from the porch and that got me crying again.

Grampa brought out the box. Inside on his blanket lay Socrates. Beside him lay the catnip ball, his old collar and some toys. I ran and grabbed the picture of me and him from the fridge. It hurt, but I put it in the box. Little Naomi Shapiro jumped up, plucked her soother from her mouth and threw it in too. That made everyone laugh, especially when her mother rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, oh"

Wendy added the pink dress Socrates wore when they played dressup. I thought it was kind of dumb, but figured Socrates would understand.

Just as Grampa closed the lid, Naomi said she wanted her soother back. Everyone laughed again. Her mother spit on it and wiped it on her pants real good before hiding it in her pocket. She told Naomi she could have it later. Grampa closed the lid again.

"No! Wait." cried Murdoch, "I've got something too," and he ran off. I was furious. All I could think of was how I did not want anything of his touching my cat. But what could I do? I looked at Dad and knew he would not listen. And so, we waited. And waited. Grampa sent us kids out front to have a look. Sure enough, there was Murdoch McMurray chugging up the street. I do not know why I made the kids wait there for him, but I did. And I could tell Murdoch was pleased.

When he caught his breath he placed a dead bird beside the cat. "He got him," was all he said. And somehow, it was right.