Nine slugs to the gut.

That’s what it took to bring her down. Nine slugs.

Them guys kept firin’ and she kept comin’. Had a fierce look in her eyes, she did. Wish you coulda seen their faces when she wouldn’t drop — talk about some real fraidy cats. I mean, these were tough tabbies and all, but man they were droppin’ enough bricks to fill a dozen litter boxes and still have enough left over to fertilize the rose bushes.

I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it before. Prolly never will again.

Her Christian name was Leia, but ‘round here they called her Lucky. Funny now, I guess — she weren’t so lucky that night. I s’pose fortune can’t shine on a gal twenty-four-seven, even a slinky one like her. Everybody’s got a number, and hers came square in a barrage of bullets.

Me? My name’s Maddy Four Paws. You can prolly figure out why they call me that — don’t take no brain scientist to hack that riddle. What gets me is why I’m the one they stuck with that silly name. Where I come from, we all got four feet on the dirt. None of my crew’s what you’d call the creative types, that’s fer sure.

But I digress.

Hits like this one ain’t uncommon ‘round here. Just the opposite. The East Side Mousers and the Friskies Gang have been Tommy gunnin’ each other for decades now, goin’ all the way back to when catnip was a federal no-no. They got rules though, and don’t nobody get scratched unless they was askin’ for it. But the ferals? Them’s the ones ya gotta watch out for. Ain’t nobody never gave two sprays ‘bout them, and I guess they’re just returnin’ the favor. They don’t cut no deals, they don’t make no friends and they ain’t loyal to nobody but themselves. I ain’t sayin’ them’s the ones who offed Lucky — but I ain’t sayin’ they ain’t, neither.

If fact, I ‘spose it don’t really matter what I say ‘bout nothin’ . Maybe it was nine slugs, maybe it was eight. Coulda been the first shot what done her in — who knows? Her name may not even be Lucky, Or Leia. And those rival gangs? I might’a just made ‘em all up.

Y’see, I’m what, in literary parlance, is known as an unreliable narrator.  Am I crazy? Is my memory shot? Or am I just a no good, filthy, rotten liar? Either way, ya can’t trust a word what comes outta my mouth.

Truth is, you’re prolly just lookin’ at a picture of a cat takin’ a nap on a bed.

But where’s the fun in that?