I AM THE CAT

by William Stafford

  “The barn!” the woman cried.

  “Dick, the barn!” roared the man. “Quickly, you fool!”

  Other voices joined the cacophony. Neighbours from nearby Pauntley village had arrived to help or gawp at the display. Instructions and opinions added to the noise but I was more concerned about the increasing lack of breathable air in the barn. Below me, the smoke was like a carpet, a soft bed. I was sorely tempted to jump into it but I knew it was an illusion. I would plunge straight through it to the floor beneath. Would my feet be able to do their landing trick if I couldn’t gauge the distance I was to fall?

  Soot and smuts were rising on hot air. I’d just washed my fur as well. Marvellous.

  And then there was a roar of voices, a mixture of words, ‘No’ and ‘Go on’ and ‘Dick’, followed by a crash. The smoke below me parted to reveal a rolling figure that came to a stop, while flames licked around the hole he had made in the burning wall.

  “Puss!” the Boy called, his gaze darting around. He coughed and choked, holding his sleeve against his nose and mouth.

  I made a sound that went something like “raoaowr” and clung to the rafter, digging my claws into the wood.

  The Boy heard me. He dashed to the far wall and produced a ladder from the floor. He staggered under its weight as he carried it across the barn and positioned it against the rafter. He climbed up, cooing at me and calling me by that ridiculous epithet. Well, I wasn’t going to respond to “Puss”. I’d rather burn.

  Well, no I wouldn’t, actually. The hot and poisoned air was proving intolerable already. I forced my instincts down and didn’t shrink away or scratch the Boy’s hands to pieces when they cupped around my body. He tucked me into his shirt and cradling me with one hand, he made his way down the ladder, which was already at the mercy of the flames.

  Hunching over me, the Boy ran from the structure using the way he had come in. The assembled people cheered and then gasped as behind us, the structure collapsed in on itself, no longer recognisable as a barn. It was now a bonfire.

  People were patting the Boy on the back but whether this was a congratulatory gesture or a means to extinguish flames, I couldn’t stay. It was warm where I was in his shirt; a pleasant warmth unlike the searing heat of the conflagration. My head was filled with the sound of his heartbeat. I rubbed my cheeks against his skin and he wriggled.

  “You’re tickling!” he laughed and withdrew me from my sanctuary. He held me up and after a cursory inspection declared me to be fit as a fiddle. I was about to point out that was something of an insensitive remark, knowing as I do that violin strings are made of catgut (That the material doesn’t come from cats, but rather from other beasts such as sheep and cattle is beside the point!) when I reminded myself it was probably better not to respond as if I knew his, or any other, human language. I had to play the dumb animal. Now, you already know, in a spot of prescience awarded to you by the way this story started, that I turn out to be unable to hold my peace for long, but at that moment I decided to be as ordinary a cat as I could. I wrested myself from his grasp, dropped to the ground and licked my front paw.

  “Poor Puss,” said the Boy sounding soppier than I was comfortable with. I hoped he wouldn’t lean down and try to stroke me. I had to make myself presentable first.

  Yuck. Smoked fur.

  The Boy had other things to think about. The woman I’d seen before and a man like a hanging carcass of beef had approached and were shoving and poking the Boy as accompaniment to their castigations. How did this happen? They wanted to know. How could he let it happen? How could he be so ungrateful?

  They asked a lot of questions but did not seem at all interested in allowing him time to give answers. They seemed to think the fire and loss of their property was the Boy’s fault. Through carelessness or design he had brought this about and they seemed to think this was unsuitable recompense for bringing him up and feeding and clothing him and all the rest of it.

  They were probably annoyed their nomination for Parents of the Year had got lost in the post.

  The Boy hung his head, allowing himself to be buffeted by their blows. He seemed inured to this, knowing that protesting his innocence would be futile. Meanwhile, the neighbours finished dousing the flames, having formed a human chain to transport buckets of water from the local pond. They slunk away, murmuring goodnights and “don’t mention it”s when the ungrateful couple failed to recognise their efforts.

  I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the Boy. I could imagine his upbringing at the hands of these brutes, how they had exploited him, how they had abused him, and how lonely he must have been - must be.

  They were at the end of their tether, they announced, and I considered what a good idea tying them up would be. They had had enough and could take no more. They hoped he was satisfied now that he had finally destroyed their home and livelihood and he considered himself lucky they weren’t going to beat him with sticks as due and proper punishment.

  Instead, they were ‘letting him go’. He was on his own from this point on. He would have to shift for himself and they never wanted to see him again and good riddance.

  The man gave the Boy’s arm one last punch. The woman slapped the Boy’s face and spat. They stumped their way through the smouldering debris of their farmhouse, muttering something about going to her mother’s and the man opining he’d rather die first.

  The Boy waited until they had gone before he moved. Only then did he rub himself where they had bruised him. Only then did he wipe away the tears that had been welling for so long. He looked around at the destruction. There really was nothing left. Oh, you could probably stock a stall with charcoal and sell it to local artists but prudence told me not to give voice to this suggestion.

  He looked at me but I kept him in my peripheral vision.

  “I didn’t do it, Puss,” he said sadly.

  Stop bloody calling me Puss! I wanted to yell but I made no outward reaction. He dropped to his knees and - here it comes - he reached a hand down towards my head and began to scratch and stroke me.

  It felt amazing!

  From tickling the space between my ears (on top of my head, I mean, not inside it!) he went on to stroking the entire length of my backbone. I found myself arching my back, pressing my spine into his hand. It was wonderful.

  Again, that fuzzy image of the mother cat, her huge head over my little body, the hooks on her tongue raking through my fur...

  It was heavenly.

  I rubbed my head against his knees. A low growl emitted from deep within me. This startled me until I realised it was a purr. I was purring! The Boy cheered up when he heard this.

  “At least somebody still likes me,” he said.

  Well, I wouldn’t go that far, I thought. All right, so you did bring me milk and you did rescue me from a burning building but don’t go reading anything into that.

  But I didn’t want the stroking to stop. He stood up straight so I slalomed between his shins, rubbing myself against him.

  Now he was beginning to smell a little more like me, I might like him better.

  Enjoying yourself?

  The voice in my head was not my own. My eyes darted around and my body tensed.

  There he was, on an upturned and abandoned bucket. My brother, the Rat!

  He gave me an impudent wave. I tried to speak in his head as he had done, but I had lost that ability. Neither could I shout out what I thought of him out loud with the Boy in earshot. I had to make do with narrowing my eyes. It was unsatisfactory.

  So glad you survived to see the extent of my handiwork.

  He made an expansive gesture, taking in all the blackened remains of the farm. He nodded his pointed rodent head with pride.

  I’ve been busy, you see. Laying trails of sawdust. Knocking over lanterns. It all takes careful planning, you know.

/>   I gaped in horror. He was responsible for all this destruction! Well, of course he was.

  I squatted on my haunches, trembling, ready to pounce and knock that toothy grin off his face but the Boy got there first. He flung a stone at the bucket, knocking the Rat from his perch.

  “Horrid creature!” the Boy yelled. He stooped for another missile but the Rat was no longer there. “Never mind, Puss. He’s gone now.”

  He picked me up again and carried me away. The beat of his heart soothed away my anger at my arsonist brother and my eyes began to close. The purring recommenced.

  I decided I could get to like this human after all.

  ***

  The rest of the night was comparatively peaceful. We spent it in a tree - rather, I was in the tree, high on a limb; the Boy slept at ground level, sitting with his back against the trunk. I assume he slept. Perhaps his exhaustion got the better of his woes and gave him some rest. Or perhaps he had a fitful time of it, like I did.

  I spent the hours before sunrise crouched on that branch with my eyes narrowed to slits. Thoughts came and went as I dipped in and out of sleep but I kept my ears pricked in case of approaching danger - namely, my so-called brother.

  I knew exactly why he had done this.

  He was determined to make my - my exile as rough a time as possible. Rather than leave me to find my own way and live my life, he was hell-bent on making that life of mine as miserable and as difficult as possible. And so, because I had found shelter and someone to bring me milk he had destroyed an entire farm and lost this young man his home.

  Talk about overkill. But that’s my brother for you.

  The way I understand things is this. I am to live out my exile in this mortal form and experience life as mortals do. That I had been put into a cat had its advantages. I was a predator and so I was equipped with the means to attack and to defend myself. I could have been a mouse or a little bird - My stomach lurched at the thought of these creatures, these delicious creatures! And I realised I ought to perhaps eat something - and spent my life evading creatures like me. Also, a cat’s lifespan isn’t all that long. Long enough to teach me a lesson but it could have been worse. I could have been a giant tortoise.

  But what will happen when I finally shuffle off this mortal coil and shed this cat suit once and for all?

  Your guess is as good as mine. Not knowing what comes after the present state of being puts me on a par with every other mortal, I suppose. I’m not going to waste time speculating and postulating. There are more pressing matters to attend to. The matters of living and staying alive. To wit: the hunger that was warbling and wobbling in my belly.

  I could think of nothing else. I had to feed. There was nothing else for it.

  It was a new sensation for me and one that was becoming increasingly unpleasant as its insistence grew. But there was no bowl of food for me on a kitchen floor - there was no bloody kitchen floor, thanks to my brother.

  What to do, what to do?

  My eyes scanned the grass below for movement. Perhaps some fur-wrapped piece of meat would happen by.

  Everything - every blade of grass was perfectly still. I blamed the Boy. Perhaps the sound of his breathing or the stench of him was keeping breakfast at bay. I cursed myself for rubbing my scent all over him. A mouse nose would surely pick that up. If not, the bitter whiff of fire and ash would deter any passing potential prey.

  The tree was quiet too. Too quiet. The little birdies had obviously tweeted to each other there was danger in the branches. So there were no handy morsels nearby on which I could snack. I was going to have to go and hunt my breakfast. Such a chore! Those housecats with their bowls and kitchen floors don’t know they’re born.

  And that made me feel sad for them. Natural hunters aren’t meant to be catered to. But oh it would be nice, just this morning, just this once, to have things handed to me on a plate.

  A gurgle from my guts nudged me out of my wishful thinking. I walked effortlessly down the tree trunk, head downwards, leaping the last couple of feet to the grass.

  The Boy was gone!

  This surprised me. How had I not noticed? Perhaps at some point I had slept more soundly than I thought. I hadn’t seen him going.

  And, another surprise, I found I was more than a little disappointed by this disappearance. He had left me behind! I hadn’t seen that coming.

  I gave my left leg a lick to make myself feel better. Then I froze as movement on a nearby length of grass caught my attention. There was something fluttering around, making the grass bend and wave. It was hypnotic.

  Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, I hunkered down. My back end tensed and quivered as I chose my moment. I pounced, reaching upwards to paw the fluttering thing into my clutches.

  “Morning, Puss!” the Boy appeared. How had I not seen him return?

  The fluttering thing got away. I kept my face averted from the lad lest he read my expression.

  “Here!” he placed something on the ground behind me. The smell of it made me turn around. “It’s only a tiddler but it’s better than a butterfly.”

  He had brought me a fish, a tiny sliver of silver that glinted in the sunlight. Its dead eye faced the sky. I tried not to look into it as I approached and sniffed.

  “Go on,” the Boy urged softly. “Tuck in.”

  He had the good sense to step away and leave me to it. I pinned the fish to the ground, even though it was already dead, and tore off its head and chewed. My stomach rolled like an eager kitten, encouraging me to devour the thing at a faster pace. I forced myself to calm down as much as I could. I am a cat, I reminded my stomach, not some inelegant dog who would wolf this down without so much as tasting it. It was delicious!

  Would it have tasted better if I had caught it myself? Or was I enjoying it because it showed that the Boy had not left me, that he was going to look after me?

  That I was not alone?

  When I’d finished, when I’d consumed everything that was edible about that shining creature, I gave myself a good wash. The taste of the blood around my mouth was especially satisfying.

  It was only then that I noticed the Boy wasn’t eating. Perhaps he had already broken his fast, swallowing his catch while he stood in the stream. That’s how humans eat fish, isn’t it? When the chips are down.

  I don’t know what I’m talking about.

  I went over to the Boy who was sitting sadly against the tree trunk. I rubbed my head against his shin. If I don’t keep up with these demonstrations of gratitude he might not feed me again. Don’t you dare call this cupboard love! There is no cupboard. That went up with the kitchen, remember.

  He tickled the top of my head but his heart wasn’t in it. A glug-glug from his belly gave me pause. He had not eaten. He had taken the trouble to catch something for me but had had nothing himself.

  I was touched by this more than I was affected by the pleasure of his tickling.

  “Come on, Puss,” he said sadly. He got to his feet and gathered me into his shirt again. I liked it in there. The percussive heart beat was soothing (the blurred mother cat wafted across my mind again) and even the rumbling of his empty belly was comforting - like the sound of a distant thunderstorm too far away to trouble us.

  With my belly sated and the warmth of the Boy and the smells and sounds of him, I felt relaxed. I may have drowsed - in fact, I confess I did - as we walked - well, he did all the walking - down a hill and along a lane towards the sleepy village of Pauntley.

  What our business there was, I did not know. I was soon to find out and it didn’t make me happy.

  ***

  I awoke when we came to a stop. The Boy cleared his throat, gaining my attention and that of a male human who was almost the same shape as the barrels he was rolling across a cobblestone yard and up a plank onto the back of a waggon.
r />   “Good morning!” the Boy declared. This elicited a grunt from the barrel man. Clearly, this was going to be a one-sided interview.

  “Going to market?” the Boy tried another gambit to engage the fellow.

  “No,” snapped the man. “The moon.” He grunted again but this time it was because one of the barrels was proving obstinate.

  “Here,” the Boy said. He deposited me on the ground and hurried to assist. With the Boy’s help, the waggon was soon loaded. The man took out a filthy handkerchief and wiped his forehead and the back of his neck.

  “I can’t pay you,” said the man. “If you’ve come here with your hand out.”

  “I haven’t,” said the Boy, hiding his hands behind his back to support this statement. “But perhaps a chunk of bread, sir?”

  The man considered this as though it were a knotty mathematical puzzle. Then he called into the nearby doorway. “Matilde!”

  “What?!” came from a shrill and irritated voice within.

  “Bring the bread!”

  Presently, a small female appeared. She was as squat as her father, as though she had been brought up in a barrel and so her developing body had acquired its shape. Her hair was flat and matted and there was a general air of neglect and mustiness about her. Most repellent of all was the space between her nose and upper lip. It positively glistened in the morning sunlight with mucus. It kept catching the light and, consequently, my eye.

  I found I had an irresistible impulse to bat it away with my paw. I jumped up onto a nearby cask to afford myself a better look.

  The girl seemed oblivious of its presence but it was bugging the hell out of me. In fact, I became so fascinated by this dewdrop, I missed most of the negotiations between the Boy and the innkeeper (for that is what I had divined him to be).

  “What?” I gasped when I realised what was going on. I realised my error at once and dropped from the cask and hid. The three humans glanced around to see who had spoken. I froze - my rabbit trick again - until they shrugged and resumed their conversation - their disturbing conversation.