The Third Cat Story Megapack: 25 Frisky Feline Tales, Old and New

by Damien Broderick

  The angels seized her wheelchair like a queen’s palanquin and lifted it, walking purposefully toward a dark door she hadn’t noticed before. Beyond, she sensed wrenching cold darkness and smelled foul dead things. She cried out, “No, please!” But they marched her toward the dark opening, and when she was at its threshold she saw to her horror that it opened into a wide shaft, going on forever downward, like a drop tower she had once seen in which lead shot was made.

  And she was to be that molten shot, falling forever, until her soul congealed into a ball of lead.

  “Make him mechanical wings, then!”

  “Still, wings,” said the slit-pupiled angel. But the six angels had paused.

  “A rotor, like a helicopter, then,” she said, and was surprised that she was weeping not for herself but for something innocent and free that had been sentenced to fall forever. For anything innocent, even her younger self. For all children learning for the first time of death. For the purple kitten. “How can a dumbshit cat know right from wrong?”

  “Helicopter,” said the slit-pupiled angel thoughtfully.

  And they set her wheelchair down gently at the very brink of hell’s portal.

  * * * *

  The big man didn’t come home that morning. Purple knew he was The Fireman, and somebody had mentioned that firemen were often out late and sometimes had accidents. He liked the big man and hoped he would come home soon. Maybe he would take out the metal stick and make the little red dot race up and down the floor and walls. It wasn’t as good as flying, but Purple liked it a lot.

  Purple woke to brightness and a breeze from an open window. The one called Bastael was standing in the air above the carpet in the bedroom. Purple blinked and stretched his claws.

  Bastael touched Purple’s fur, and Purple’s back tingled and went numb. He no longer felt the ever-present ache of the phantom wings.

  “This is a seed,” said Bastael.

  Purple felt a sharp pain, then a fullness, as if a warm hand pressed down on his back.

  Bastael said, “You must leap from a short height. You will feel the axle extend from your back. It will grow to a height equal to your tail. Then the rotors will pop out from the top. They will begin to turn. Take care you don’t catch your tail in them; they are soft and won’t sever your tail, but it will be painful and may damage the rotors.”

  And the angel opened the window and scooped Purple up. In one motion, he threw Purple toward the ceiling.

  And Purple felt the unfolding of a whip-strong stalk from between his shoulders, and from it like umbrella spokes, iridescent, translucent blades, and he purred and purred until they spun too fast for sight, whirring an answer to his purr, and he felt himself catch the air and, panicking, try to control his flight, and yes! yes! he was headed toward that window, and he would just make it, and he was through, out into the cold sunshine and the ground was below, and it was further and further as he rose and slipped this way and that like a dragonfly, like a giddy child on a swing, darting and soaring, spying a bird, a bluejay that swooped toward him, then frantically changed its mind and batted its wings to get away, but he was in pursuit, flying flying, flying faster, the earth way below, the houses and trailer like little boxes—

  And he was like no other creature that has ever been as he soared and darted and rejoiced in flight.

  And heaven forgot that his name was Joseph Patrick Michael Thomas Stephen Jesus-Marie Francis Antony Benedict Anselm John Daniel, because he was no longer of earth or of heaven, he was only Purple, an eternal creature of the air.

  * * * *

  Trevin climbed into the passenger’s seat of the Peterbilt cab.

  “We have to sell it, honey,” his mother called up to him, meaning the truck.

  He placed his toy helicopter carefully on the driver’s seat. “This is for Aunt Bambi.”

  “She’s not coming back, Trevin. She’s in heaven.”

  He spun the helicopter rotors with his fingers. “Maybe.”

  EBENEZER WHEEZER (c1972-1990), by Douglas Menville [Poem]

  Ebenezer Wheezer was a cat without a home;

  He was very, very old with a propensity to roam.

  Skinny as a scarecrow, with a pair of tattered ears,

  A scrawny, tabby tiger who had seen a lot of years.

  He had emphysema and asthma too, I guess,

  For every time he took a breath he sounded in distress.

  One time we took him to the vet

  To see what could be done:

  The doctor shook his head and said, “This cat has run

  His course. He should have died a dozen years ago!”

  But Wheezer merely winked an eye—he knew it wasn’t so.

  When Wheeze got home he gummed a bit

  Of his favorite brand of food,

  Bathed a bit, then ambled out to fight some younger dude

  Who dared trespass upon the turf that was the Wheezer’s own;

  The Wheezer chased him down the block—

  You should have heard him moan!

  Victorious, the Wheeze returned to resume his bath undaunted,

  Secure in knowing that on his street he was loved and wanted.

  For everyone believed that Wheeze was just their very own;

  They didn’t realize that he was merely there on loan.

  Then one day the weight of years

  Became too much to bear;

  He said goodbye, then wandered off,

  His old tail in the air.

  We don’t see him anymore, but his memory lives on;

  We will not forget him just because he’s gone.

  For he came to teach us something

  That we really need to know:

  Don’t ever scorn another if he seems old or slow;

  ’Cause he may have a lot of love to share—you never know.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This poem is about a real cat who lived with us for several years and made an unforgettable impression on everyone who met him. He was the oldest and most individual cat I’ve ever known. This poem is dedicated to his memory.

  CONCERNING THE “PRETTY LADY,” by Helen M. Winslow

  She was such a Pretty Lady, and gentle withal; so quiet and eminently ladylike in her behavior, and yet dignified and haughtily reserved as a duchess. Still it is better, under certain circumstances, to be a cat than to be a duchess. And no duchess of the realm ever had more faithful retainers or half so abject subjects.

  Do not tell me that cats never love people; that only places have real hold upon their affections. The Pretty Lady was contented wherever I, her most humble slave, went with her. She migrated with me from boarding-house to sea-shore cottage; then to regular housekeeping; up to the mountains for a summer, and back home, a long day’s journey on the railway; and her attitude was always “Wheresoever thou goest I will go, and thy people shall be my people.”

  I have known, and loved, and studied many cats, but my knowledge of her alone would convince me that cats love people—in their dignified, reserved way, and when they feel that their love is not wasted; that they reason, and that they seldom act from impulse.

  I do not remember that I was born with an inordinate fondness for cats; or that I cried for them as an infant. I do not know, even, that my childhood was marked by an overweening pride in them; this, perhaps, was because my cruel parents established a decree, rigid and unbending as the laws of the Medes and Persians, that we must never have more than one cat at a time. Although this very law may argue that predilection, at an early age, for harboring everything feline which came in my way, which has since become at once a source of comfort and distraction.

  After a succession of feline dynasties, the kings and queens of which were handsome, ugly, sleek, forlorn, black, white, deaf, spotted, and otherwise marked, I remember fastening my affections securely upon one kitten who grew up to be the ugliest, gauntest, and dingiest specimen I ever have seen. In the days of his kittenhood I christened him “Tassie” after his mo
ther; but as time sped on, and the name hardly comported with masculine dignity, this was changed to Tacitus, as more befitting his sex. He had a habit of dodging in and out of the front door, which was heavy, and which sometimes swung together before he was well out of it. As a consequence, a caudal appendage with two broken joints was one of his distinguishing features. Besides a broken tail, he had ears which bore the marks of many a hard-fought battle, and an expression which for general “lone and lorn”-ness would have discouraged even Mrs. Gummidge. But I loved him, and judging from the disconsolate and long-continued wailing with which he rilled the house whenever I was away, my affection was not unrequited.

  But my real thraldom did not begin until I took the Pretty Lady’s mother. We had not been a week in our first house before a handsomely striped tabby, with eyes like beautiful emeralds, who had been the pet and pride of the next-door neighbor for five years, came over and domiciled herself. In due course of time she proudly presented us with five kittens. Educated in the belief that one cat was all that was compatible with respectability, I had four immediately disposed of, keeping the prettiest one, which grew up into the beautiful, fascinating, and seductive Maltese “Pretty Lady,” with white trimmings to her coat. The mother of Pretty Lady used to catch two mice at a time, and bringing them in together, lay one at my feet and say as plainly as cat language can say, “There, you eat that one, and I’ll eat this,” and then seem much surprised and disgusted that I had not devoured mine when she had finished her meal.

  We were occupying a furnished house for the summer, however, and as we were to board through the winter, I took only the kitten back to town, thinking the mother would return to her former home, just over the fence. But no. For two weeks she refused all food and would not once enter the other house. Then I went out for her, and hearing my voice she came in and sat down before me, literally scolding me for a quarter of an hour. I shall be laughed at, but actual tears stood in her lovely green eyes and ran down her aristocratic nose, attesting her grief and accusing me, louder than her wailing, of perfidy.

  I could not keep her. She would not return to her old home. I finally compromised by carrying her in a covered basket a mile and a half and bestowing her upon a friend who loves cats nearly as well as I. But although she was petted, and praised, and fed on the choicest of delicacies, she would not be resigned. After six weeks of mourning, she disappeared, and never was heard of more. Whether she sought a new and more constant mistress, or whether, in her grief at my shameless abandonment of her, she went to some lonely pier and threw herself off the dock, will never be known. But her reproachful gaze and tearful emerald eyes haunted me all winter. Many a restless night did I have to reproach myself for abandoning a creature who so truly loved me; and in many a dream did she return to heap shame and ignominy upon my repentant head.

  This experience determined me to cherish her daughter, whom, rather, I cherished as her son, until there were three little new-born kittens, which in a moment of ignorance I “disposed of” at once. Naturally, the young mother fell exceedingly ill. In the most pathetic way she dragged herself after me, moaning and beseeching for help. Finally, I succumbed, went to a neighbor’s where several superfluous kittens had arrived the night before, and begged one. It was a little black fellow, cold and half dead; but the Pretty Lady was beside herself with joy when I bestowed it upon her. For two days she would not leave the box where I established their headquarters, and for months she refused to wean it, or to look upon it as less than absolutely perfect. I may say that the Pretty Lady lived to be nine years old, and had, during that brief period, no less than ninety-three kittens, besides two adopted ones; but never did she bestow upon any of her own offspring that wealth of pride and affection which was showered upon black Bobbie.

  When the first child of her adoption was two weeks old, I was ill one morning, and did not appear at breakfast. It had always been her custom to wait for my coming down in the morning, evidently considering it a not unimportant part of her duty to see me well launched for the day. Usually she sat at the head of the stairs and waited patiently until she heard me moving about. Sometimes she came in and sat on a chair at the head of my bed, or gently touched my face with her nose or paw. Although she knew she was at liberty to sleep in my room, she seldom did so, except when she had an infant on her hands. At first she invariably kept him in a lower drawer of my bureau. When he was large enough, she removed him to the foot of the bed, where for a week or two her maternal solicitude and sociable habits of nocturnal conversation with her progeny interfered seriously with my night’s rest. If my friends used to notice a wild and haggard appearance of unrest about me at certain periods of the year, the reason stands here confessed.

  I was ill when black Bobbie was two weeks old. The Pretty Lady waited until breakfast was over, and as I did not appear, came up and jumped on the bed, where she manifested some curiosity as to my lack of active interest in the world’s affairs.

  “Now, pussy,” I said, putting out my hand and stroking her back, “I’m sick this morning. When you were sick, I went and got you a kitten. Can’t you get me one?”

  This was all. My sister came in then and spoke to me, and the Pretty Lady left us at once; but in less than two minutes she came back with her cherished kitten in her mouth. Depositing him in my neck, she stood and looked at me, as much as to say:—

  “There, you can take him awhile. He cured me and I won’t be selfish; I will share him with you.”

  I was ill for three days, and all that time the kitten was kept with me. When his mother wanted him, she kept him on the foot of the bed, where she nursed, and lapped, and scrubbed him until it seemed as if she must wear even his stolid nerves completely out. But whenever she felt like going out she brought him up and tucked him away in the hollow of my neck, with a little guttural noise that, interpreted, meant:—

  “There, now you take care of him awhile. I’m all tired out. Don’t wake him up.”

  But when the infant had dropped soundly asleep, she invariably came back and demanded him; and not only demanded, but dragged him forth from his lair by the nape of the neck, shrieking and protesting, to the foot of the bed again, where he was obliged to go through another course of scrubbing and vigorous maternal attentions that actually kept his fur from growing as fast as the coats of less devotedly cared-for kittens grow.

  When I was well enough to leave my room, she transferred him to my lower bureau drawer, and then to a vantage-point behind an old lounge. But she never doubted, apparently, that it was the loan of that kitten that rescued me from an untimely grave.

  I have lost many an hour of much-needed sleep from my cat’s habit of coming upstairs at four A.M. and jumping suddenly upon the bed; perhaps landing on the pit of my stomach. Waking in that fashion, unsympathetic persons would have pardoned me if I had indulged in injudicious language, or had even thrown the cat violently from my otherwise peaceful couch. But conscience has not to upbraid me with any of these things. I flatter myself that I bear even this patiently; I remember to have often made sleepy but pleasant remarks to the faithful little friend whose affection for me and whose desire to behold my countenance was too great to permit her to wait till breakfast time.

  If I lay awake for hours afterward, perhaps getting nothing more than literal “catnaps,” I consoled myself with remembering how Richelieu, and Wellington, and Mohammed, and otherwise great as well as discriminating persons, loved cats; I remembered, with some stirrings of secret pride, that it is only the artistic nature, the truly aesthetic soul that appreciates poetry, and grace, and all refined beauty, who truly loves cats; and thus meditating with closed eyes, I courted slumber again, throughout the breaking dawn, while the cat purred in delight close at hand.

  The Pretty Lady was evidently of Angora or coon descent, as her fur was always longer and silkier than that of ordinary cats. She was fond of all the family. When we boarded in Boston, we kept her in a front room, two flights from the ground. Whenever any of us came
in the front door, she knew it. No human being could have told, sitting in a closed room in winter, two flights up, the identity of a person coming up the steps and opening the door. But the Pretty Lady, then only six months old, used to rouse from her nap in a big chair, or from the top of a folding bed, jump down, and be at the hall door ready to greet the incomer, before she was halfway up the stairs. The cat never got down for the wrong person, and she never neglected to meet any and every member of our family who might be entering. The irreverent scoffer may call it “instinct,” or talk about the “sense of smell.” I call it sagacity.

  One summer we all went up to the farm in northern Vermont, and decided to take her and her son, “Mr. McGinty,” with us. We put them both in a large market-basket and tied the cover securely. On the train Mr. McGinty manifested a desire to get out, and was allowed to do so, a stout cord having been secured to his collar first, and the other end tied to the car seat. He had a delightful journey, once used to the noise and motion of the train. He sat on our laps, curled up on the seat and took naps, or looked out of the windows with evident puzzlement at the way things had suddenly taken to flying; he even made friends with the passengers, and in general amused himself as any other traveler would on an all-day’s journey by rail, except that he did not risk his eyesight by reading newspapers. But the Pretty Lady had not traveled for some years, and did not enjoy the trip as well as formerly; on the contrary she curled herself into a round tight ball in one corner of the basket till the journey’s end was reached.

  Once at the farm she seemed contented as long as I remained with her. There was plenty of milk and cream, and she caught a great many mice. She was far too dainty to eat them, but she had an inherent pleasure in catching mice, just like her more plebeian sisters; and she enjoyed presenting them to Mr. McGinty or me, or some other worthy object of her solicitude.

  She was at first afraid of “the big outdoors.” The wide, wind-blown spaces, the broad, sunshiny sky, the silence and the roominess of it all, were quite different from her suburban experiences; and the farm animals, too, were in her opinion curiously dangerous objects. Big Dan, the horse, was truly a horrible creature; the rooster was a new and suspicious species of biped, and the bleating calves objects of her direst hatred.