Socks Read Free Page B

not rest. “Are you sure you know how to feed him?” she asked. Both parents spoke of the baby as “he,” as if he were a stranger whosename they had not caught.
    â€œNothing to it.” Mr. Bricker offered the bottle to his son. Greedy smacks came from the bundle. “Hey, look at him go!” said the proud new father.
    Socks took a chance. He leaped to the center of the couch, cautiously set one paw on Mr. Bricker’s knee, leaned forward, and sniffed a sweet, milky fragrance.
    â€œCareful, Socks,” warned Mr. Bricker. “You can look but don’t come too close.”
    Socks stared at the tiny wrinkled face with a mixture of fear, curiosity, and jealousy. He saw the baby open his eyes and raise one nightgown-covered fist as if he did not know it belonged to him. He saw the baby’s head wobble and his eyes cross. Socks began to understand that the creature was not a pet but a new kind of person, a person so small that he left room on the lap for a cat. Very well. They would share the lap, butthis concession did not mean he liked the new person. Socks felt that half a lap was better than none.
    Socks put a second paw on Mr. Bricker’s knee, and with his eyes half-closed he began to knead and to purr.
    â€œOuch.” Both of Mr. Bricker’s hands were occupied. “Take your claws out of my leg.”
    Socks found himself lifted by Mrs. Bricker and set on the floor without so much as a kind word. He resumed his washing to show his owners that he had business of his own to take care of. Let them attend to theirs; he would attend to his. He groomed his tail with long, hard rasps of his pink tongue. The baby’s smacking changed to fussing, another sound new to Socks. He hoisted his hind leg and went to work on his toes while he observed all that was going on. Beyond his hoisted leg he could see Mrs.Bricker leaning anxiously over her baby.
    â€œMaybe he needs to be burped,” she said.
    Mr. Bricker held up the bottle. “You’re right. He’s taken two ounces.” He set the bottle on the table at the end of the couch, raised the baby to his shoulder, and began to pat its back. Still the baby fussed. Mr. Bricker patted harder.
    Socks lowered his leg. There was plenty of room on the lap. No, better not risk reclaiming it so soon. He went on with his grooming, but he began to grow uneasy. He wanted the fretting to stop, the same way he always wanted the ringing of the telephone or the buzzing of the doorbell to be silenced.
    â€œTry rubbing instead of patting,” suggested the anxious mother. The father rubbed. The fussing became a wail. Mr. Bricker rubbed the tiny back, and Mrs. Bricker patted. Socks became so anxious to have the crying stop that he no longer couldpay attention to his washing.
    â€œMaybe we don’t pat the right way,” said the mother.
    â€œHow else can you pat?” The father was beginning to see that there was more to feeding a baby than he had realized.
    Socks took a chance and leaped up to fill the lap, which was going to waste.
    Mrs. Bricker promptly returned him to the floor. Socks was deeply hurt. Filled with sorrow and longing, he lay down on the carpet with his chin on his white forepaw and stared into the black and empty fireplace. He yearned to be held and stroked and reassured. He longed to have his master hold him and play with his tail, and Socks was most particular about allowing people to play with his tail. With a deep sigh, Socks closed his eyes, but he did not sleep. His ears, moving like tiny radar screens, picked up every sound.
    â€œWhat are we going to do?” Mrs. Bricker sounded almost tearful. “If we don’t get the air bubble up, his stomach will go on hurting, and he’s too little to hurt.”

    â€œFeeding a baby can’t be this hard.” The father no longer sounded confident. “The world is full of dumbbells who feed babies.How else do babies