The other day when I took my dog, Abbie, out for her bedtime walk, I read a notice on the front door of my apartment building. The title was “Crime Watch.” A couple of apartments in the complex had been burgled.
On the way out for our afternoon walk in the woods the next day, I noticed the building’s back door was not completely closed. I pulled it shut and made a mental note to talk with the office.
When we got back, instead of sitting and waiting for me to open the door, Abbie snarled. She’s usually a quiet dog, and it scared me. “Abbie, hush. Sit. Stay,” I said.
I shrugged, opened the door, and saw Jackson sitting on a man’s chest. I’d heard him growl before, but the man didn’t seem to like the sound. He twitched—his face was pale and shiny, like he was sweating. Jackson’s growl got louder, rose up the scale, but never broke into a meow. It’s a fearsome sound.
The man twitched again, and Jackson lashed out with a front paw. It was then I noticed the thin lines of blood on the man’s chin. I almost laughed.
The man—he must have been the burglar—said, “Lady, call off your cat. Please.” Jackson licked his paw, as if to say, “Move along, nothing to see here.” He seemed to be enjoying himself.
I took my time calling the police.
Jackson is my real cat, he growls just as described, and there was a Crime Watch sign on the building in November. The rest of the story is fiction.