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Double Take

Chapter One: It's Just Another - Reidan

I finish brushing my teeth and rinse out my mouth, looking up into the mirror when I'm done. A six foot tall, Siamese cat with opal eyes looks back at me, and I amuse myself for a few minutes by making funny faces in the reflective surface of the mirror, chuckling a small bit. My bathroom is tiny, but it works for me. It has your standard two-sizes-too-small bathtub-shower hybrid, a toilet, and a regular sink. And a mirror. Can't forget the mirror.

Now that I'm done fooling around, I leave my bathroom and instead just walk into my room. It's small, too, but it's livable space that is strictly mine and for me. I like it.

The carpet is a deep shade of blue, nice and dark, and it's a shag carpet, which I keep meticulous care of. Seeing as how it's shag, I vacuum it once every two days, just to be sure it doesn't knot up and get dirty.

My walls are a neutral off-white, and on the far wall above my bed, there's a window overlooking the street. In our front yard there's a big tree, its branches are covered in lichen, and it helps keep my room nice and cool in the summer, even though I live in the only room on the second floor other than the bathroom. I smile and climb atop the comforter that adorns my bed, and look for Nestor.

Nestor is my nightingale. Well, he's not really mine, but he sure as hell acts like it. Almost every day, he's at my window, watching me from the large, lichen-covered branches. He's not here today, which is strange. The little brown bird is normally sitting on that big branch, right there, by the time I finish with the bathroom.

I pull on the window, and it unlatches and swings inward and up, which is strange, considering that most windows slide horizontally or vertically. Mine has a hinge that opens the whole pane of glass inward, so I don't have any of those nasty frames obstructing my view, whether it's closed or open.

Smiling softly, I reach over into the corner of my room and gently pick up my cello. Still smiling, I retrieve my bow and place my cello between my knees. I mentally go through the checklist that I started doing when I first learned how to play, telling myself how to do it all over again.

Make sure it fits between your knees comfortably.

Keep your wrist flat.

Don't 'type' on the neck, press your fingers against it.

Angle your fingers away from the neck naturally.

Keep your wrist and forearm aligned.

Change fingers by rotating your hand.

Open your hand when attempting vibrato.

Don't force your hand down the neck when switching notes, let gravity do that.

I reach over and grasp my bow with gentle paws, making sure that my wrist is somewhat locked when I place it gently against the instrument, the strings letting out an almost excited little hum of sound at the contact of the bow. This never fails to grab Nestor's attention, no matter where he is. It's almost like he knows when I'm about to play.

Sure enough, as I place my left paw on the neck of my cello, spacing out my fingers and gently pressing down with a single digit as I draw the bow across the strings, Nestor appears. The little brown bird instantly starts to sing after he alights on the branch outside, his nightingale song arcing from his tiny throat in tandem with the slow, harmonious note of my cello as I cause the instrument to vibrato. His series of chirps and squeaks flow harmoniously with my single note, and when I've expended the amount of bow that I can draw across the strings at one time, I set the bow down on my bed and look at Nestor.

"Hello Nestor." I smile at him.

He chirps back at me in his singsong way that only a nightingale can manage.

I laugh and pick my bow back up. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he understands me.

I set my bow back against the strings gently, the excited little hum sounding again. I mentally flip through the many songs that I've memorized and choose one that sounds nice. It's a nameless piece of my own creation, and I briefly run through it in my head before nodding slowly. I straighten my back and prepare to play, checking one last time that my wrist and forearm are both straight on the arm holding the bow. Nestor hops up and down the branch expectantly. I glance at him before beginning, a medium paced set of notes in descending and ascending order, sometimes backtracking to start from a note or two lower or high than before and working my way down. Nestor hops excitedly and it makes me smile, and then he starts to sing. I weave my notes around his song, dodging around his chirps and cries, harmonizing, never copying.

I almost can't tell where my original song stops and a new song begins, a song I've never played before. Each song is different, the songs that Nestor and I create. We never do the same song twice. At some points during our song, I play long, slow notes with much vibrato, and in other places, I almost feel like my cello's a bird like Nestor, making short, swift cries that are nevertheless beautiful to the ear.

Nestor's species is not native to where I live. He's a nightingale. They don't normally live in the climate that I have at my house, so when I found him on the tree when I was practicing my cello a few years ago, I decided that he was a pet once, but escaped. The history suits him, to be honest. He wasn't afraid of me when he found me practicing my cello back then. He just plopped right down on the branch outside and started singing in tune with my notes, which startled me so much that I nearly broke my bow.

I forget how long it lasts, but soon Nestor gets tired and stops singing, the little bird can only sing so much before he gets tired. I stop playing as well and set down my bow, making sure to loosen up the horsehairs in it so that it won't warp.

I chat with Nestor for a while longer before he decides to fly off, doing what looks uncannily like a cute little bow before he flies off to who knows where. I watch him go, a smile playing on my lips.

Today is Sunday, and it's just after eleven o clock in the morning. I take a look around my room, wondering what I should do with the rest of my day. A soft breeze blows through my still-open window, mild and unappealing, neither hot nor cold. It's strange, really. We're almost halfway through autumn but the climate hasn't changed yet. The leaves are all still on the trees, and the sky has been taking on a sort of reddish-brown hue, but it might just be my eyes playing tricks on me. It doesn't matter much to me, though. I walk across my room and open the small closet, fishing out my rollerblades and a durable pair of socks. I head downstairs quickly afterwards. It smells like cigarettes faintly down here, but that's because my mother used to smoke. She doesn't do it anymore, I made her quit by making a deal with her. As long as I have good grades, she will stay away from the cigarettes. The stink still hasn't been eliminated, even after all this time.

I sit down near the door after opening it, pulling on my socks and then strapping on my rollerblades. I don't use a helmet, shame on me, whatever. Not like anything bad will happen to me, it never does. Besides, I've been rollerblading for years, and I haven't fallen down in a long time, even though I do it on the street mostly and occasionally the sidewalk, which is horribly uneven and cracked.

Satisfied, I stand up without even the slightest wobble in my form and half-skate, half-walk over the doorjamb. I turn and close the door behind me, turning my key in the lock before returning it to my pocket.

That wind blows in my face again, uncomfortable and annoying, smelling of dust. I'm glad I don't have any allergies.

The street my house is situated on is located in the good neighborhood, and it's more or less in a forest. The developers who built the part of town I live in wanted to make the place as natural as possible. It seems rather stupid though, to think that a black band of asphalt running through a forest could ever be 'natural'.

The sidewalk needs repaving, on account of all of the trees, however the street is nice and level; perfect for rollerblading. I lazily roll down the small walkway and over the sidewalk, into the street without fear. It's the good neighborhood, in what is more or less a sidestreet. I absently shove a paw in my pocket, checking to make sure my keys are still there. Indeed they are, and with that, I slowly begin carving my way up the street in my shoes with wheels.

I enjoy rollerblading, it's one of the few physical activities that I actually look forward to. You can go as fast or as slow as you want, and you aren't as limited as you are with a bike, or a skateboard, or a scooter. I tried biking once, and the pedaling motion was just a little too weird for me, so instead I stuck with the rollerblades. With them, I can just do the same motions I make as if I'm walking normally and go somewhere, but a bit faster. And let's not forget the wonderful feeling of the wind going through my fur, the pendulous motion of switching from foot to foot when you're going really fast. There's none of that weird scooting that comes with a skateboard or a scooter, and you rarely even get that feeling on a bike unless you try weaving - in which case you get nowhere fast. With rollerblades, the feeling is just so... so... natural, so right... Crouched down, wind flying through your fur, the momentum of your previous push easing you into the next one with the opposite paw, the sound of the world whipping by you... I love it almost as much as the cello, with its easy, slow, almost metronome-like bow movements, and its fast, almost jerky yet nevertheless rhythmic strokes, both types of strokes producing the sweetest sound in the paws of a master player.

I ease myself into the nice slow rhythm, watching the dappled bits of sunlight twist into imaginary shapes as they pass underneath my wheels at a moderate pace, their proximity to my eyes making them look as if they were whizzing by at almost impossible speed.

A rock skitters into my path from a random direction, a big rock, one that would certainly trip me if I ran over it, and I swerve one of my paws to avoid it, breaking my momentum and regaining it easily as soon as the hazard was gone. I look back, trying to see where it came from, but I see no reason for the rock to have taken the path it did, and continue on my way, the rhythm regained and seemingly in tandem with my heartbeat.

Some time later, I skate back the way I came, and as I swerve to avoid that rock again, another one zips out from the corner of my eye and impacts my kneecap, and I go down hard, landing on the first rock with my thigh, my keys digging into my rather thick fur as I give a startled yelp. My momentum carries me forward and I somersault once, twice, three times, and then my body just settles itself with rolling forward once or twice until I'm at a complete stop, knee aching, hip and thigh throbbing, whole body burning from the countless scrapes and soon-to-be bruises.

I groan and prop myself up on an elbow. The pain isn't too bad, except for my thigh and my knee, the problem is that it's everywhere. I hiss softly and take a breath, checking myself. I'm not bleeding, that much is good, but I'm definitely going to have bruises, and rollerblading back home is going to be a pain in my bum.

Nevertheless, I roll into a sitting position and get up, the pain in my thigh and knee causing me to wobble a little. I hold out my arms and steady myself. I'm not going to be falling two times in one day, if I can help it.

Shakily, I ease into the rhythm of skating, treating my injuries with care. I don't care who or what made that second rock take the course it did, I'm just going to avoid this area when I go skating again. Although, I've never had problems skating there before.

I hear a shoe scuffing the ground twice in rapid succession, behind me and to my left, and I quickly duck into a cannonball shape on my blades, although pain aches up my legs. A rock whizzes right over me, where my head was just a split second earlier, and a muttered curse reaches me over the air. I do a quick 180 degree spin on my blades and -

Nothing. No one is there. I echo the curse I heard, and start skating in earnest, not caring if it hurts now. A little bit of pain right now might save me more pain in the long run. The bruises throb dully, and I can't help but wonder who would throw something at me, never minding why. I've never gone and hurt someone on purpose, hell, I've never even tried to make anyone feel bad on purpose! I shake my head and mutter softly under my breath, hearing another rock skittering behind me, having fallen somewhat short of its mark. I put on an extra burst of speed, and my thigh complains. Midstroke, I whirl around by pivoting on the blade that I was stroking with, and let my momentum carry me backwards for a second. This time, I catch a glimpse of someone ducking behind the trees. I spin back around and start literally running on my blades, using quick, short strokes to gain speed quickly. Once I have my desired speed going, I hear the mystery person running to catch up. Their footfalls slowly fade into the distance, and I'm pretty sure that I lost them when I haphazardly skate up my house's walkway, unlock the door, and dutifully clamber inside.

I lock the door behind me quickly, wincing as my adrenaline releases me from my seemingly-painless escape. My thigh throbs in pain, and I'm pretty sure my knee won't permit me to walk much anytime soon. Walking is much more high-impact than leisurely skating, not to mention slower.

I take off my skates and walk up the stairs, still caught up in wondering why anyone would throw rocks at me. I'm not going to pretend that they weren't, they seriously were aiming right at me. Anyone who'd think that it wasn't on purpose would be an idiot, in my book.

And last time I checked, this was my book.

Still pondering it, I cross the threshold and deposit my rollerblades inside of my closet, gingerly setting myself back down on my bed. I fish my keys out of my pocket and place them on my nightstand. As I do so, I casually look outside my window, and drop my keys before I can get them to the nightstand.

Standing outside on the sidewalk in front of my house is the person who was throwing rocks at me.

I don't know how I know, but I know. The color of his - it's a he; I can tell that much now - clothes match the barely-seen glimpse of him that I caught when I whirled around on my way home. He's looking directly at my window, and I'm afraid he can see me. No. I know he can see me. He's a dragon, now that I can see him properly. Strange, we don't normally see many of those around here in the first place. He seems very tall, around six and a half feet, although I can't really tell because I'm so far away, and even though he's wearing a baggy sweatshirt, I can tell that he's very muscular. Like he goes to work out daily. His wings are folded neatly against his back, and I idly wonder how on earth he got his sweatshirt on in the first place. He stares at me for a long time, and I'm frozen in place, locked in the gaze of this predator. He has a large rock in one of his clawed hands, and he hefts it threateningly in my view. Finally, he moves, turning and walking down the sidewalk in the direction I took to get home and escape his rock-throwing.

It's as if whatever spell I've been under gets instantly dissolved; I can move again, and I let out a shaky breath. My heart is pounding, the adrenaline once again having drowned out my pain, for the moment. I scoop up my keys and fumble them onto my nightstand before hobbling downstairs, desperate to obtain ice before the pain comes back.

Mission success, I open the fridge and scoop out some ice, depositing it into a plastic bag which I seal. I take my shirt off and wrap the ice bag in it, before applying it to my side. It feels nice, even through my thick fur and my pants, and I can feel the pain numbing. My paws are scraped and dirty, I hadn't noticed before, and my pants are a little roughed up. I sigh softly, using my shirt to tie the ice bag to my thigh, and hobble back up the stairs. I can't really do much with my leg the way it is, and so I figure once it's properly iced, I'll take a nice shower and relax for the rest of the day. I've killed around an hour while rollerblading, and it surprises me. I didn't think I was out for that long.

I shrug to myself and plop down on my bed. That dragon knows where I live, unfortunately. I just hope he doesn't decide to pay a return visit.

I waste my time away by drawing. I'm not too serious about it, although I am kind of good at it. At least, I'd like to think I'm good at it, it doesn't necessarily mean that I am good at it, but... Never mind. So I spend my time drawing, okay? Okay. Drawing.

Once I can't feel my thigh anymore, I remove my makeshift ice-pack and wander over towards my bathroom. My leg doesn't hurt much now, but I can tell that it's still tender, and that it's going to be sore in a while. The only problem with it now is that it's very stiff. I reach my bathroom and turn on the water. It takes a little while for the water to get warm, but at least the water is relatively clean. It's pretty clear, at least.

Grunting softly, I bend down and put the stopper into the drain once the water is warm enough, and begin filling up the rather small tub for an as-relaxing-as-a-small-tub-can-give bath. Now I'm not large and muscled, but I'm not too slim either. I have a defined swimmer's build, somehow toned by my sometimes-daily rollerblading excursions, as effortless as they may be, and my... well... my malehood is nothing to be ashamed of, either. Quite the opposite, actually.

I take off my pants and let them pool around my feet before gingerly stepping out of them. It will be a while before the tub is full enough for me to actually bathe in, so I have a bit of time to do whatever it is that I like doing.

Strangely enough for me, I like to lounge around naked while my bath is filling up, and so that's exactly what I do. I drop my black boxer briefs and lounge on my bed, albeit somewhat awkwardly with my currently gimped leg. I curl my tail a little, grabbing a book from where I keep my stash, and begin to read. I don't get very far though, the warm bath beckons with a siren's call, and I set my book back down, remembering the page number that I left off on. I open the bathroom door and step inside; it's really steamy in here. Just the way I like it. I shut off the water, and gingerly step into the water. Hissing softly in delight, I quickly enter the tub and submerge the rest of my body into the perfectly warm water. I have a stash of towels under the sink, so I don't have to worry about that, what's on my mind right now is working out all of the stiffness in my leg, and trying to ease out the pain.

I work on it a little, and soon, my rubbing becomes rhythmic. I let out a little murr and happily work the tension out of my sore muscle. Somehow, I avoided getting a bruise, and after a while my rubbing paws drift a little closer to my groin, and before I know it, my barbed feline member is poking its head out of my furry sheath, saying hello to my kneading paws. I stop then, and mentally facepaw myself before returning to my needy length.

As I said before, my member is nothing at all to be ashamed of; in fact it's a tad too big for my taste. It stands at around eight inches long and two inches thick, so thick that I cannot fit my paw around it. Now, I'm a virgin, so I'm not really sure whether it should be that thick or not, because I've never seen anyone else naked... let alone another man naked, let alone still with their cock hard and dripping precum... oooh... I let out another murr, glad that I'm alone in the house right now.

I've known that I'm gay for a long time, despite my virginity. Ever since middle school, I noticed that girls never really elicited the same reaction out of me as... well... other men. I always found myself getting a boner in the locker room, watching the other guys change, and I dared not enter the shower, for fear of either getting made fun of for popping a woody around other guys, or for being... well... odd. Even at that age, my cock was unnaturally thick, and for every inch or two it grew during puberty, it seemed to grow another half inch thicker, up to the point where I had the cock that I'm currently stroking while reminiscing about my past.

I'm not even sure it's done growing, to be truthful. Over the past summer, I grew another two inches taller, and my tapered feline cock grew another half inch in length, and though I can't really measure how much thicker it became, I could definitely tell that it was getting thicker a little at a time as the summer went on.

My balls are hefty as well, and it makes sitting with my legs crossed slightly uncomfortable, and so I don't do it. They're each between the size of a lemon and a kiwi. Yes, I actually held fruits up to my balls in order to classify them by size. Not that I'm complaining about the size of either my cock or my balls, it's just that such size can be unwieldy at times. Especially if those times include getting hard at school. Granted doesn't happen often, but there are just some times when life wants to screw you over, so it gives you a random erection.

Needless to say, I'm thoroughly enjoying myself as my paw pumps up and down my plump, pre-slicked shaft, teasing the barbs at the tip before going back down my slightly tapered length towards the base. My tail curls happily in the water, and I let out another soft murr as another gob of precum leaks past my tip, slicking my pulsing shaft even more. It feels really good; too bad I don't think I'd use it much. I've found through much experimentation that I prefer taking it than giving it, although all I've ever really given it to was my own paw. But on the other paw, all I've ever taken is my paw. Meh.

So I continue stroking, figuring it probably would not be best to blow my load in the tub, it would get gummed up in my fur, and anyone who has ever tried to wank off in the tub knows how hard it is to get cum out of your fur. So naturally, I do whatever any cat would do. I sit up in the tub, with my erection nestled against my stomach, and lean my head down to lick at the tip, my own murring causing the tip of my cock to vibrate slightly, which in turn only causes me to murr more, and thus the cycle continues until I'm murring as loud as I can. I drag my sandpapery tongue across the head of my cock, lapping up the salty precum that seems to constantly ooze out of my tip whenever I get aroused, and let out a soft moan. I continue to stroke my thick cock, using both paws to try and simulate my own anal ring, which I'm mercilessly pounding. It works, and I feel that tiny star of pleasure start to burn in my groin, and soon it starts to grow, making me feel so good.

I take one of my paws away from my cock, still licking the tip, and bring it down under the water to start playing with my ass. I give it soft little prods, and rub circles around it, and I can't help but moan loudly, my voice echoing in the tiny bathroom. I press against my clenching pucker, trying to relax as much as I can, and one of my fingers slips in, spreading me open just a little. I let out another loud moan, and start to finger myself while stroking. It feels so good, I just wish I had something bigger to put in there other than my fingers. I can feel myself getting closer to my limit, and I slowly push another finger inside of me, crying out in delight as I start to scissor my fingers around inside of my tight, never-been-fucked tailhole. I quickly clamp my muzzle back down onto my cock and whimper softly, thrusting with my fingers and stroking my cock at an erratic pace.

It comes so violently, and with such force that I barely have time to react. The tiny star of pleasure that was burning in my groin this whole time explodes and fills my entire body with pleasure. It then all gets sucked into my cock, and ejected through the slit in the tip, and I barely manage to down the first few mouthfuls of creamy spunk that manage to pump out of my cock. I moan the entire time, gulping down mouthful after mouthful of my own delicious seed, but unfortunately I spill some. I closed my eyes a while ago, and now they're screwed tightly shut in concentration. The barbs on the tip of my cock stiffened, and I'm playing with them as I cum, stroking them gently with the paw that I was rubbing my meaty prick with, savoring the pleasure that the oversensitive nubs bring me as I continue to unsuccessfully try to gulp down the deluge of my own seed.

I start running out of air, and thankfully the torrents of cum pulsing forth from my cock diminish in size and intensity, until all that I'm left with is a steady dribble of cum streaming out of my tip, allowing me to pool it in my mouth so I can breathe at last before swallowing again. The cum finally stops flowing, and I let out a deep sigh, reclining back and laying in the warm water. My belly is full, and I give it a satisfied pat as I feel my cock starting to deflate and retract back into my sheath. I remove my fingers gingerly from my ass, and let out a small hiss of discomfort at the empty feeling that is left inside me, even though I didn't really have that much up there to begin with. I leaned back, relaxing for a while, before I sit back up and set about doing the arduous task of washing my thick fur, paying close attention to where I didn't quite catch everything.

Once I'm done, I turn on the showerhead to rinse off, and then drain the water. I have to wait a while after I finish my shower, to let some of the water that's caught in my fur drip off my body and into the drain. I'm still in my slightly dazed afterglow, so I just grab a towel from under the sink, dry off as best as I can, and walk over to my bed so I can flop down onto it and enjoy a nice sleep.

I wake up some time later due to my stomach gnawing at itself, demanding sustenance that didn't come from myself to begin with. Groggily, I rub my eyes and open them; gazing out the window. The sky is red, as if there is a lot of dust in the sky, catching the sun's dying light, and I guess that it's around seven o clock, maybe six thirty. My feline-ness surprises me sometimes; I slept most of the day away.

Nevertheless, I slip out of bed, put on some fresh boxer briefs and jeans, and walk down the stairs, careful not to overexert my injured leg. It's still Sunday, thank goodness, and tomorrow is the first day of school. I got my schedule in the mail the other day, and so I'm pretty excited about how my day is going to go. For first period I have AP Psychology, second period is Advanced Composition (I took AP last year), third is Economy, fourth period is Mathematical Ideas (turns into Statistics later this year), fifth is Glass Art, and finally sixth is Physics (it's the only science I haven't taken yet). It's sort of strange for a Senior to be taking six periods per day where I live, instead of just taking an open period for fifth and sixth, but I figured why not? I don't really have much else to do with my life anyways, other than playing my cello and rollerblading. Might as well learn some things, since I have time on my paws.

My mom came home while I had been snoozing, and she makes some comment about the sky's crimson hue as she sees me hobbling down the stairs. Dinner is already cooking, and I can smell it now; chicken teriyaki. The prolific phantom-smell of smoke in the house masks most other scents, unfortunately, unless you're somewhere that gets little to no airflow, like a closet.

Dinner's tasty, and I thank my mom for making the meal, although I'm perfectly capable to cooking for myself. I stumble a little as I get up, though, and she inquires about it, her mother's eyes zoning in on my abnormal hobbling. While explaining to her what had happened, I can't help but remember seeing the dragon outside my bedroom window, on the sidewalk, and it makes me shiver. Regardless, I assure to her that I'm okay, and stagger up the stairs determinedly, planning to read more of my book before going to bed.

The rest of the night is uneventful; however my dreams are plagued with senses of foreboding. For some reason, I keep experiencing this very vivid dream, where there is someone - me - walking along a brightly lit pathway. On either side of me is darkness, and the path ahead of me is of my own design. It's how I planned to live my life. The path is nice, but it's not as beautiful as I'd hoped it would become as I grew older. It's straight, with nothing obstructing it.

Suddenly, a rock whizzes by and hits me, knocking me off my path. I don't mean just your ordinary, fist-sized rock, but a large boulder, the size of a watermelon, going at a crazy fast speed. Somehow, the me in my dream manages to get back up from where they stumbled off the path, but they can't get back on without more rocks hurtling out of the darkness. He's forced to abort the path he wanted to take with his life, and walk a much more scraggly path, strewn haphazardly with obstacles and other harrowing objects. Whenever his path gets a fork in it, the stones start to pelt him again and force him farther and farther away from his original path. He tries to go back once, but the stones attack him again, and force him down the dark path once more.

He walks for a long time, in the dark, with no one really walking his path with him. He trips constantly, his feet catching on things that spring out from the darkness, and retract before he can even see what they are. Whenever the stones come at him, he tries to see who is throwing them, but all he can see is the darkness, the nothing. Soon, battered and broken, he decides to finally end it. He no longer cares if the stones beat him to death, he just can't take it anymore, and he veers off the path, into the darkness. The sound of breaking glass and a furious roar cut through the relative silence of the dream, and the person resembling me in the dream does not come back out.

I cry out in my sleep, bathed in a cold sweat and with my heart hammering so loud, I think it might wake up my mom. My room is hot. Very hot. Like, middle-of-summer hot. I glance at the sky, and see that it's about an hour until dawn. That means it's around five thirty or six, and that there's no way that it should be this hot yet so early in the morning.

It's the first day of school, and unfortunately for the schoolyear, there is rarely any time for me to play my cello before I leave. Besides, it would be in violation of the noise laws that are heavily enforced by our neighborhood.

I simply get dressed, dig out my rollerblades and my backpack (which really should have been considered an excavation, it was buried so deep!), and grab some teriyaki leftovers from the fridge. I munch on them hastily as I strap on my rollerblades, humming to a nameless tune that's being synthesized by my over-active brain as I eat, and open the front door.

As I turn around and lock it, waving my tail in rhythm to the tune that I'm humming, I get the jeebies. You know, that feeling you get when you know that someone's looking at you, but can't see them. I call it the jeebies.

Normally I pay the jeebies no mind, but these jeebies are of a breed that does not like to be ignored, and as I turn around, I see a black car slowly rolling past my street. Its front windows are (illegally in my State) tinted, and it's impossible to tell who's driving, but for some reason, me turning and looking does not phase whomever is in the driver's seat. They just keep rolling by as if nothing was happening. I assume that they just dropped something and may simply be bending down to pick it up without stopping first. It's really rather careless, I suppose, but on such a lonely street there's really not much danger. I shrug and strap on my rollerblades.

By the time I'm done, that car is long gone, and I glide out over the curb and shove off, wincing now and then at the pain in my leg, but other than that, I don't bother paying attention to it.

_____

I'd like to think that I'm a very down-to-earth cat, and that I know what's up. But nothing could have prepared me for the kind of schoolyear I'd be having. Not by a long shot.