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  For Bailey Dane Bataille and Cullen Bauer-Trottier.

  The wide, wide world is waiting.

  —M. D. B.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks, as always, to Rubin Pfeffer of RPContent, agent extraordinaire!

  And to my editor, Kristin Ostby, who saw this little cat home.

  Little cat,

  searching.

  Little calico cat

  searching for a place,

  a special place

  to be her very own.

  What she would do with a special place

  once she found it,

  she wasn’t sure.

  Perhaps she would just curl up for a good nap.

  But if she didn’t know

  what her special place was for,

  she knew exactly

  what it would be like.

  Hidden away,

  snug,

  dark,

  quiet . . .

  very, very quiet.

  The little cat,

  whose name was Patches,

  by the way,

  had checked

  every possible spot

  in her

  entire

  house,

  looking for her special place.

  Corners,

  closets,

  cupboards.

  Even the dusty space

  behind the refrigerator

  and the floor beneath the kitchen table

  next to the chipped blue bowl

  that held her kibble . . .

  and occasionally a touch of tuna.

  Nothing

  was quite right.

  Not the pillow

  where she slept

  next to her girl’s sweet breathing.

  Too open.

  Not the basement

  where her man pounded nails

  and whirled saws.

  Too noisy.

  Not the studio

  where her woman

  slathered paint.

  Too smelly!

  And so,

  on the day our story begins,

  Patches sat just inside the window

  at the front of her house,

  gazing out

  at the wide wide world

  and longing.

  She licked a paw

  and ran it over her ginger ear.

  She washed her black ear next.

  But just as she was starting on

  her pretty white face,

  something caught her eye.

  Something golden.

  Something

  f

  a

  l

  l

  i

  n

  g.

  The golden leaf

  wafted

  this way

  and that

  as though it meant

  to go anywhere

  but

  down.

  “Come catch me!

  I dare you!”

  it seemed to say.

  The white tip of Patches’s patchy tail

  twitched

  and her eyes—

  as golden as the leaf—

  blazed.

  “I want . . .

  I want . . .

  I want . . . ,”

  she chirred.

  And her wanting grew more fierce

  with each saying of it.

  So fierce that,

  without thinking what she was doing,

  she sprang

  at the window screen

  that stood between her

  and

  the

  falling

  leaf

  and all the rest of the wide world.

  To her astonishment

  the screen gave way.

  And Patches found herself standing

  among the red berry bushes

  that grew

  around the base

  of the house.

  All this happened so fast

  that the leaf

  still floated in the air.

  It twirled,

  dipped,

  drifted toward the grass,

  and then . . .

  just as Patches crouched,

  ready to leap again,

  another breeze tossed the leaf high.

  She pounced and

  missed.

  The chase was on!

  Across the lawn,

  along the sidewalk,

  down

  the

  middle

  of

  the

  street,

  Patches followed.

  (Lucky there were no cars coming.)

  She tiptoed

  through more grass—

  ew-w-w! prickly!—

  then crossed a second street.

  Still,

  the

  leaf

  called.

  (Or perhaps

  by this time

  she followed a different leaf,

  still gold,

  still calling.)

  Just when Patches

  got close enough

  to pounce,

  another gust came along,

  and the golden leaf

  up

  and

  sailed up

  and disappeared

  of

  peak a

  the red

  over roof.

  The little cat slowed,

  stopped,

  sat.

  She licked her nose.

  (In case you didn’t know,

  that’s what cats do

  when they’re upset.)

  She wrapped her tail

  around her haunches

  and peered

  over one shoulder.

  Then the other.

  But she could no longer

  see the leaf

  anywhere.

  For that matter,

  she could no longer

  see her house

  anywhere

  either.

  She was alone

  under the blue bowl of the sky.

  Now,

  you might think a small cat,

  a small house cat,

  who has been petted and cuddled

  and fed from a chipped blue bowl

  her entire life,

  would be frightened

  to find herself alone

  out in the BIG world.

  But Patches hadn’t forgotten

  the important search she was on.

  She looked around and thought,

  Look at all this space!

  There must be hundreds

  of special places out here.

  Thousands.

  Each one more hidden away,

  snug,

  dark,

  quiet,

  than the one before.

  What luck

  that the golden leaf had called her!

  What luck

  that the screen had released her!

  What luck

  that the whole blue-and-gold world

  lay stretched out before her!

  What excellent luck!

  Some cats

  are born to adventure.

  They prowl their towns

  night and
day,

  exploring shrubs,

  alleys,

  the Dumpster

  behind the butcher’s shop.

  They catch a mouse or two

  and scatter

  flock

  a of

  sparrows.

  Then they have

  a howling fight

  and,

  pleased with themselves—

  and perhaps a bit bloody—

  they pad on home

  to ask

  politely

  for a bit of cream.

  As you already know,

  Patches was not

  one of those cats.

  The closest

  she had ever come to adventure

  was the time,

  this past summer,

  when Thomas,

  the orange tabby

  who lived next door,

  slipped through a gap

  in the screen door

  for a visit.

  They had played

  chase over the sofa,

  roll across the rug,

  hug under the table

  the whole afternoon.

  But the instant

  Patches’s family arrived home

  and found Thomas visiting—

  too soon,

  too soon—

  he had slipped away

  through the same gap

  that had let him in.

  (Sadly,

  the next day,

  when Patches

  checked out the screen door

  herself,

  she found it

  sealed up

  tight.

  So Thomas never returned.)

  But Patches’s time with Thomas,

  though certainly an adventure,

  had taught her

  little about the world.

  The truth was,

  she knew as much

  about living outside

  on her own

  as you and I would know

  about living

  on the moon.

  Still . . .

  she swiped a paw across her whiskers—

  a cat must always make sure

  her whiskers

  are clean

  and in good order

  before she takes on

  any serious endeavor—

  then she rose,

  and,

  holding her tail

  straight

  as

  a

  p

  o

  k

  e

  r,

  she moved on.

  If she went back home,

  her family would,

  no doubt,

  fix the loose window screen

  just as they had fixed the door.

  So if there was ever a time

  to find

  her special place,

  it was now.

  A dog

  barked in the distance.

  Patches had never met a dog.

  Not nose to nose,

  anyway.

  She’d seen lots of them

  trotting by her watching window

  on leashes.

  They seemed

  such foolishly obedient

  creatures.

  Still,

  it might be interesting

  to meet a dog.

  At least it would be someone

  to talk to.

  Humans were so little use

  when it came

  to talking.

  Or perhaps

  it would be best to say

  they were of so little use

  when it came

  to listening.

  Mostly they did

  all the talking

  themselves,

  as though

  a perfectly intelligent cat

  had nothing to say.

  And who knew?

  Dogs might not be as foolish

  as they looked.

  This one might even know

  about special places.

  No harm in asking,

  anyway.

  Patches set off

  in the direction

  of the noise.

  Gus was the meanest dog in town.

  Everyone said so.

  He lived

  in the green yard

  belonging to a small tan house

  on the corner

  of Birch and Larpenter Streets.

  The post office,

  the Piggly Wiggly,

  and Joe’s Gas and Grill

  sat on the other three corners,

  which made Birch and Larpenter

  a very busy intersection.

  And that made Gus

  a very busy dog.

  All day

  he up down

  ran and

  his chain-link fence,

  barking at every car

  that passed by.

  He barked at every bicycle,

  too.

  In fact,

  he barked at every cat

  and dog

  and person

  who ran

  or walked

  or tried to sneak past.

  Sometimes he even barked

  at the birds

  in the trees

  just to show them

  who was boss.

  He curled his lips

  to show his long yellow teeth

  and growled

  and snarled

  and yelled.

  “Go!

  “Get out of here!

  Go! Go! Go!”

  Not that humans heard

  “Go! Go! Go!”

  They heard only

  “Bark! Bark! Bark!”

  But you and I know

  what Gus was really saying.

  Gus was enormous,

  but he wasn’t exactly handsome.

  He had long legs

  and a skinny tail

  and ears that hung down

  like limp

  w

  a

  s

  h

  r

  a

  g

  s.

  He had a head

  about the size

  and the shape

  of a shoe box.

  He was gray,

  the color of the ashes

  left behind in your fireplace

  after the cheerful fire

  has grown cold.

  And his coat was coarse

  and wiry,

  not the least bit soft

  to the touch.

  Gus wasn’t an orphan.

  He had a man,

  a woman,

  a boy

  inside the tan house.

  Actually,

  he had once lived

  inside the tan house

  himself.

  He’d spent his puppyhood

  there,

  cheerfully knocking over vases,

  putting his paws

  on the shoulders

  of visiting grandmothers,

  and gulping

  every bit of food

  he could get

  his mouth

  around.

  And what Gus could manage

  to fit into his enormous mouth

  was truly amazing.

  Once

  he rested his chin

  on the dining room table

  and ate

  a huge steak,

  three baked potatoes,

  a green salad,

  and an ear of corn

  without pausing

  to take

  a breath.

  (It was when he stopped

  to spit out the cob

  that he got caught.)

  And it didn’t help

  that when one of his humans said,

  “Sit!”

  Gus got a look in his eye

  tha
t said,

  Who, me?

  or that when they said,

  “Stay!”

  he galloped away

  and

  ran

  all around

  the

  house.

  Then

  there was that other problem.

  I don’t like to mention it,

  but the truth was . . .

  Gus smelled.

  And when I say he smelled,

  you will understand

  he did not smell

  like roses

  or like baking bread

  or like any of the many scents

  we all welcome

  when we walk

  into a house.

  He smelled—

  no doubt about it!—

  like dog,

  a large

  and rather dirty

  dog.

  And yes,

  I hear your question.

  “Hadn’t anyone ever thought

  of giving the poor thing

  a bath?”

  If only the problem

  could be solved

  so easily.

  You see,

  the man,

  the woman,

  and the boy

  had tried,

  more than once,

  to bathe Gus.

  But Gus was so big

  and the tub so small

  and the water so wet that . . .

  well,

  let me explain it this way.

  Imagine the damage

  an enormous dog

  might do

  galloping

  merrily

  through a small house.

  Then consider

  what an enormous, wet, muddy, soapy dog

  might accomplish

  careening

  through the same small space.

  So perhaps

  when you consider all Gus’s faults

  you’ll understand

  why the man finally declared

  that Gus must

  never,

  ever,

  ever

  come inside the house

  again.

  You might think the man hardhearted—

  the boy did—

  but even the woman agreed.

  “Some dogs are not meant

  for inside,”

  she said.

  Which was why Gus

  lived in the green yard

  and spent his days

  running along the chain-link fence

  shouting, “Go! Go! Go!”

  It was also why

  he’d turned

  sad

  and angry . . .

  and,

  let’s face it,

  rather mean.

  Gus didn’t mind

  that the town thought he was mean.

  In fact,

  he had grown rather proud

  of his fierce reputation.

  Proud of the way

  a dash at the fence

  with his bark blaring

  could make folks decide,

  quite suddenly,

  to cross the street

  (pretending

  as they hurried away

  that across the street

  was where they had meant to go

  all along).

  And so,

  when Gus saw

  a small calico cat

  marching toward him

  with her tail high,

  as though she owned the whole town,

  he took his job