The Canary Colored Cat

...

“That’s the canary-colored cat.”

“Canary-colored? What type of color is that?”

She briskly rubbed the cat’s fur with rubber-gloved fingertips. It purred in relaxed bliss, eyes semi-closed, contentedly unaware in its air-sealed container of the lethal pathogens flooding its system. “This color,” she said, rustling the yellow-orange fur. “Canary.”

Douglas finished up the hourly readings, briefly examining the clipboard stream of data for trends and patterns that would give him some clue if they were anywhere near what could be seen as success. “Canary is a bird,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t describe any cat with any word that has avian connotations.”

His assistant, absorbed with the cat, continued to rub its belly until it nipped at the rubber gloves. Though de-clawed, the creature still had its sharp two fangs, and though they couldn’t penetrate the five-millimeter thick polyestercine gloves. Still, who would want to take any chances? “And why’s that, Doctor Blakely?”

Douglas glanced up and smiled. “Because cats eat canaries, Julie.” He moved next to her, hovering above the Plexiglas container, evaluating the cat in its confines. It lay in a ball in the corner, eyes half-slits, tail curled about itself. A pair of plastic bowls – some nonfat milk and some vittles – lay half-eaten next to it, and a litter box sat on the other side of the cage. He watched as she pet the cat one last time, ending with a scratch under the collar. The silver medallion flipped over, revealing the cat’s identity: TL1125.

Julie retrieved her arms from the gloves, walked over to the console, keyed two switches. The case silently slid back against the wall and into a bank of some twenty-five similarly-sized cages, all containing animals they were using in their quest for immortality.

“How’s she progressing?” she asked, coming over to the table where Douglas was finishing his checklist. “Anything to write home about?”

“Well, there are a few surprises. This new strain we’re working with, it should have killed our little friend last week. The gestation period is a little over seven days – ”

“And she’s been infected on the second of May.”

“Exactly. So, that’s the good news. She’s still alive. There is bad news, however.”

“Let me guess.” Julie tugged at a tooth with a finger. She imagined the cat in her mind’s eye, studying its bearing. Fatter, more sedate, yet lack of appetite, slightly bleeding gums, mucus around the nose. “White blood count still way too high. She’s still going to lose the battle.”

Douglas reclined back in his chair, arms behind his head. “Maybe yes, maybe no.”

“But you wouldn’t take those odds.”

“I’m not by nature a betting man.”

“But if you were?”

He thought a moment. For three long years he had been conducting experiments, honing the serum, fighting the virus. Long ago had he internalized this fight. He was closing in on it, but it was taking way too long. Too long for his own personal objectives, and much too long for his superiors’. They were getting very impatient over the fact that he still had nothing to give them, nothing substantive for their sixty million-dollar investment.

After a short pause, he said, “No.”

She looked at her watch. “Damn! It’s almost four. I have to run.” She hung her lab coat in the closet and headed for the exit.

Douglas did the same. ‘”I’ll walk you to your car.”

“A gentleman and a scholar.”

He smiled. “And an officer.”

They strolled up the blue corridor to the first check point, displayed IDs, then took the green corridor past the lockers and the main security station. A double set of five-inch-thick vault doors rolled back revealing a white fluorescent corridor. The two doctors paused as the doors sealed them in. Two lasers ran across their bodies. A moment later a klaxon sounded briefly, and a green light appeared over the far locks. They were clean.

Outside the second set of locks they passed another checkpoint. Had they been going in, they would have had to submit to retina scans and facial telemetry biometric security measures. Douglas acknowledged the soldiers with a friendly wave, and escorted Julie up the escalator to the main level, street level.

“How’s Jack?” he asked her as they exited the compounds front doors and stood in the bright, late-afternoon sun, eyes slowly adjusting from the cave-light lighting of the labs.

Julie paused while she searched her bag for her keys. She brushed an errant strand of hair from her eyes. “He’s fine. It’s the Middle East . . .”

Douglas put a hand on her arm, in part to stop her, in part to comfort. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I was only asking . . . ” God, this is awkward, he thought, embarrassed. “He’s in our prayers,” he finished meekly. “If you ever need anything . . . ”

She smiled. “Thanks, Doctor Blakely.” She headed off towards her Sebring convertible.

Douglas started toward his car, then turned around on the spur of the moment. “Hey! It’s Friday! What’re we celebrating tonight?”

Julie kept walking in the direction of her car but spun around and stretched out her arms. “We’re toasting the canary colored cat!”

Douglas raised an imaginary glass. “Salud!”

“Salud!” she echoed.

...