RITA and Wayne Tong strolled through partial darkness. Moonlight and sporadic streetlights showed the way. Rather than jackhammers, traffic noise and human chatter as on Hong Kong Island, they heard croaking toads and rustling bamboo leaves.
"Serenity calms me," Wayne murmured.
Rita sniffed at the air like a bloodhound. "Hush!" She raised a hand, signaling for silence. They stopped, listened and heard mainly the toads.
"My imagination probably plays tricks," Rita said.
A few more paces brought the Tongs within easier earshot of sounds alien to the peaceful setting, the din of a life-and-death struggle.
"Definitely, I heard something," Rita said.
Faint meows conveyed extreme anxiety.
"Over there.”
Rita jogged, and Wayne hustled in pursuit.
When the feline distress calls lapsed, the humans halted again. Initially, the nearest streetlight revealed nothing unusual.
Rita approached a rubbish bin. Wails emerged. A gyrating shadow dangled over the edge.
"A huge snake," Rita said.
Frantically searching the ground, Wayne spotted a fallen tree branch about three feet long. He hefted this makeshift weapon. A 20-degree bend halfway down made for awkward swinging. At the tip, leaves fluttered.
Near the bin’s dislodged lid, Rita located a rounded broomstick. Boldly intervening, she prodded fearlessly at the draped serpent.
For a few seconds, the snake ignored the unwelcome distraction.
"Poke him hard and often," said Wayne, wielding his own weapon.
A prehensile tail circled Rita’s broomstick, nearly wrenching it away. Apprehensively, she adjusted her grip.
The snake's head hovered above the bin. Peering at the creature proved hypnotic, and Wayne became strangely entranced. The python shimmied along the stick in Rita's hands while twisting toward the larger human.
"Wayne, smarten up." Rita shattered the trance. With a violent ripping motion, she tore her broomstick away from the snake's grasp.
Sidestepping the advancing head, Wayne resumed pounding at the serpent's body.
TO the python, the situation stretched credibility. Most humans fearfully avoided large serpents. Never before did two-legged creatures dare to tamper with its meal plans.
Wayne raised the leafy stick high before bashing fiercely at the creature’s head. The snake flinched and flexed.
Again hoisting the stick, Wayne delivered a second crushing hit. Leaves flew. A third strike followed.
Rita attacked similarly with the broomstick.
For the snake, the conditions and ambience to enjoy a pleasant meal vanished. Intent on battle, the serpent fully emerged from the bin and dropped gracefully over the side onto the ground.
SNATCHING a first look at the snake's entire length shocked Wayne, but not enough to retreat. He and Rita rained blows onto the scaly predator.
The snake slithered toward Wayne, who retaliated with the hardest swing yet, thumping the creature between its eyes. Oozing adrenaline gave him strongman-like clout.
Switching tactics, the snake moved toward Rita. She stepped back, still wielding the broomstick. From behind, Wayne delivered another bash to the predator's head.
The python reared, hissing emphatically, maybe in protest that two-against-one constituted an unfair fight. Then it slithered away, vanishing among bushes.
Hesitating at the edge of the footpath, the stick-waving Tongs studied the spot where the snake disappeared. Immediate danger had passed, yet their minds still flapped in fright.
ONCE the python withdrew, the kittens turned eerily quiet. Wayne wondered if that meant no survivors.
Rita stared into the bin’s dingy heart. "Something’s moving." She hopped in excitement.
"Small cats?"
"Tiny." Rita leaned far over the edge, reaching.
"I’ll hold your legs." Wayne bounded to help.
"Here’s someone, squirming in my hand," Rita said.
"Lift him out."
Rita's arm rose, revealing a miniature shadow, no longer screaming, but far from relaxed.
Releasing Rita's legs, Wayne shed his suit jacket and spread it on the ground. He accepted Pause and placed him on the tailored cloth.
"I see more." Rita's voice resonated from inside the receptacle.
"How many?"
"Several."
Three times more, she stretched to the max and plucked tiny felines from amid the uneaten rice, rotting vegetables and used papers. Each newcomer joined Pause on Wayne's jacket, which smelled better than the rubbish.
Night masked the kittens' features. Yet mesmerized by this homeless brood, Wayne forgot to help balance his wife. As he overlapped the jacket's edges and sleeves around its precious contents, Rita crashed headfirst into the debris.
A torrent of foul language shook the bin's walls.
Wayne bounced to his feet and peered inside. "Honey, are you hurt?"
"Idiot," Rita yelled. Her hand emerged and smacked his face. "Pull me clear of here.”
Wayne extended an arm, which Rita grabbed. He lifted as she strained. Slowly, she emerged from that odorous place.
The bin wobbled, but Wayne steadied it as Rita leaped to the ground. She brushed at her clothes and pulled stringy vegetable bits from her hair. With his index finger, Wayne flicked a corn kernel off the tip of her nose.
Rita nodded toward the jacket. Its wool-mix palpitated from motion inside. "How do they look?"
"In the darkness, I can’t tell," Wayne said. Gingerly, he lifted the garment, embracing its squirming passengers, and the Tongs hastened home.
The preceding text comes from the novel Dog-Gone Cat Case (Jay Scott Kanes, Cairns Media, 222 pages, 2005) inspired by daily life among the animals and people of Lamma Island, a short ferry ride from Hong Kong’s urban chaos.
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