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DROP STITCH THAT SNITCH
Serial Knitters Book 1
BY R.A. MUTH

BLURB

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DROP STITCH THAT SNITCH
Serial Knitters Book 1
BY R.A. MUTH

Excerpt

I don’t know how long I’d been standing in the alley behind the shop when I heard it: a vicious, guttural hiss, followed by an equally nasty feline shriek.

The sound came from behind the dumpster. My librarian instincts, honed by decades of shushing teenagers and solving impossible research questions, kicked in. Problems I couldn’t solve were piling up at an alarming rate, but maybe I could handle this one.

I approached the dumpster and saw the drama unfolding. It was like a reality television show sponsored by National Geographic.

A mangy tabby and a scarred black tomcat had a small creature backed up against the building. It was a young raccoon, no bigger than an adolescent housecat. It looked like the same creature I’d seen before.

The raccoon was trying to make himself look big by arching its back, but the expression on its face was that of someone who was clearly terrified. One of its back legs was bent at an awkward angle, and I could see a dark, damp patch of fur on his side.

It was too late to save Sharon, but maybe I could save this small creature.

“Hey!” I shouted, my voice sharper than I expected. “Get out of here! Scat, you mangy old cats!”

I took a threatening step forward and clapped my hands loudly. The tabby shot off like a rocket. The black tom gave me a baleful yellow-eyed glare, hissed one last time for good measure, and then slunk into the shadows.

The alley fell silent again. I was alone with the raccoon. It relaxed its posture slightly, its dark, intelligent eyes watching me.

I took a slow, deliberate step closer. It didn’t react, but watched me as carefully as I approached.

“Well, look at you,” I murmured, my voice breaking slightly. “You’ve had a worse day than I have, and that’s saying something.”

I knelt down, the pavement warm beneath my knees. Closer inspection revealed that the raccoon kit was a handsome little fellow, with a perfectly defined mask and delicate, clever-looking paws. He shifted his weight, favoring his injured leg with a weak chuff of discomfort.

My already bruised and battered heart gave a painful lurch. There wasn’t anything I could do about my friend’s murder, but this small creature was hurt. Maybe I could fix that. At last, the chance to do something right.

***

“Come on,” I whispered. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

I carried him back to my car and placed him in the passenger seat. He curled up in a shivering ball as I drove back to my house and carried him inside to the cool kitchen.

His back leg was a mess. One of the cats had gotten a good bite in, leaving a nasty-looking puncture wound that was still oozing slightly. There was a smaller scratch on his side, but the leg was the main concern.

“All right, you just sit tight.” I went to the hall closet and pulled out the pet first-aid kit, a bottle of antiseptic wash, and a roll of sterile gauze. Back in the laundry room, I worked with quiet efficiency.

I focused on the wound while my mind worked. The raccoon flinched but didn’t fight me. He made a soft, whimpering sound that about broke my heart.

“I know, I know, it stings, but we’re almost done,” I cooed. I dabbed on some antibiotic ointment and wrapped his little leg loosely with a piece of gauze, securing it with medical tape. He lifted his head and sniffed my handiwork, then looked me square in the eye. I could have sworn his expression was one of gratitude.

I inspected the smaller scratch and decided it just needed a little ointment.

“Not my best work, but it’ll keep the flies off. Now, I bet you’re hungry. You stay right here while I fix you a snack. I’ll be right back to get you,” I promised and stepped through the door into the kitchen. I poured a small pile onto a saucer and set it on the kitchen floor, along with a little dish of water. Then I brought the raccoon off the laundry room counter and placed him in front of the offering on the kitchen floor.

He hobbled over to the food, his newly bandaged leg held stiffly to the side. He sniffed the kibble before eating it with a delicate crunching sound. I leaned against the doorframe, a wave of exhaustion washing over me.

For a few blessed seconds, my mind was blessedly, beautifully blank. I had done a good thing. I had saved a small, helpless creature. It was a tiny deposit of goodness in a day shrouded by death and suspicion and the weight of my own complicity in a tragedy I didn’t cause.

The raccoon finished the last piece of kibble and licked the saucer clean. Then he looked up at me.

“How was it?” I asked, my voice soft in the quiet of the kitchen.

He replied, his voice a clear, slightly raspy tenor, “That was quite delicious, for cat food, but I appreciate it all the same.”

About Author R.A. Muth…

Links to R.A..’s websites, blogs, books, #ad, etc.:

Amazon: https://amzn.to/450CGJK