Nadia was a large, serious cat. She had thick grey fur, a broad flat nose, and paws like small cushions. She lived in a house with cold white tile floors, and she crossed them every night with great dignity. *Tick tick tick* went her claws. Slow. Deliberate. Dignified. But tonight, something was wrong.
Just before the lights went out, Nadia had heard it. A sharp *tick*. Then a long sliding *scrape*. Then nothing. She sat up in the basket. Her ears turned toward the kitchen like two small radar dishes. Not a mouse — she knew mice. Not the pipes — she knew pipes. This was something *new*. Nadia placed one paw on the top stair and listened. The house breathed around her.
The kitchen was dark and still. Nadia's whiskers were pushed forward — her best thinking position. She crossed to the centre of the floor and stopped. There, under her left paw, was a tiny wet smear. Cold. Slightly icy. She sniffed it carefully. Not water from the tap. Not a spill. This smear had *slid* here from somewhere.
She turned, following the smear's direction, and found it: the freezer door, open just a crack. Cold fog curled out in a thin ribbon, coiling along the floor like something alive. Nadia hooked one claw under the handle and pulled it open. *Tick tick tick.* She peered inside. The ice tray had tilted sideways. And there, on the kitchen floor just below — still slightly spinning — was a frozen juice pop. Orange.
She looked closer. Wedged against the tilted ice tray was a small rubber hockey puck. Black. Round. It belonged in the toy basket, not the freezer. Nadia's whiskers twitched. She looked at the floor. And there — leading away from the freezer in a wobbly line — were tiny damp pawprints. Much smaller than hers. *Tick tick tick.* She followed them. The prints curved around the counter, past the bin, and stopped behind the vegetable drawer, which was sitting open just a little — just wide enough for something small and very determined to squeeze behind. Nadia nudged it with her nose. And there was Pip. The family's tiny kitten was curled in a tight ball around the hockey puck, fast asleep. Frost on his whiskers. One paw still resting on the puck, mid-bat.
Nadia looked at him for a long moment. She looked at the frost on his whiskers. She looked at his paw still pressed to the puck. She blinked — one long, slow blink. Then she closed the freezer door with one deliberate paw. *Click.* She picked Pip up by the scruff, puck and all, and carried him back to the basket. She settled him under her chin. The puck rolled into the corner. Pip's frost-whiskers twitched once, then went still. Case closed. *Tick tick tick.*
