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He keeps trying to get down.

If you squeeze him to hang on, he just tries harder.

You have to keep juggling him, like, gently.

I sweat along back, with the sun in my eyes, and people in cars on the parkway pointing me out to their children as a local curiosity.

One place the bulrushes and marsh grass beside the road grow up higher than your head.

What a place for a kids' hideout, I think.

Almost the next step, I hear kids' voices, whispering and shushing each other.

Their voices follow along beside me, but inside the curtain of rushes, where I can't see them.

I hear one say, "Lookit the sissy with the pussy!" Another answers, "Let's dump 'em in the river!"

I try to walk faster, but I figure if I run they'll chase me for sure.

I walk along, juggling Cat, trying to pretend I don't notice them.

I see a drawbridge up ahead, and I sure hope there's a cop or watchman on it.

The kids break out of the rushes behind me, and there's no use pretending anymore.

I flash a look over my shoulder.

They all yell, "Ya-n-h-h-h!" like a bunch of wild Indians, but they're about fifty feet back.

I grab Cat hard about the only place you can grab a cat, around one upper forearm, and I really run.

The kids let out another war whoop.

It's uphill to the bridge.

Cat gets his free forepaw into action, raking my chest and arm, with his claws out.

Then he hisses and bites, and I nearly drop him.

I'm panting so hard I can't hardly breathe anyway.

A cop saunters out on my approach to the bridge, his billy dangling from his wrist.

Whew—am I glad! I flop on the grass and ease up on Cat and start soothing him down.

The kids fade off into the tall grass as soon as they see the cop.

A stone arches up toward me, but it falls short.