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

by Damien Broderick

  The pig in his pen possessed for her the most horrid fascination. Again and again would she steal out and place herself where she could see that dreadful, strange, pink, fat creature inside his own quarters. She would fix her round eyes widely upon him in blended fear and admiration. If the pig uttered the characteristic grunt of his race, the Pretty Lady at first ran swiftly away; but afterward she used to turn and gaze anxiously at us, as if to say:—

  “Do you hear that? Isn’t this a truly horrible creature?” and in other ways evince the same sort of surprise that a professor in the Peabody Museum might, were the skeleton of the megatherium suddenly to accost him after the manner peculiar to its kind.

  It was funnier, even, to see Mr. McGinty on the morning after his arrival at the farm, as he sallied forth and made acquaintance with other of God’s creatures than humans and cats, and the natural enemy of his kind, the dog. In his suburban home he had caught rats and captured on the sly many an English sparrow. When he first investigated his new quarters on the farm, he discovered a beautiful flock of very large birds led by one of truly gorgeous plumage.

  “Ah!” thought Mr. McGinty, “this is a great and glorious country, where I can have such birds as these for the catching. Tame, too. I’ll have one for breakfast.”

  So he crouched down, tiger-like, and crept carefully along to a convenient distance and was preparing to spring, when the large and gorgeous bird looked up from his worm and remarked:—

  “Cut-cut-cut, ca-dah-cut!” and, taking his wives, withdrew toward the barn.

  Mr. McGinty drew back amazed. “This is a queer bird,” he seemed to say; “saucy, too. However, I’ll soon have him,” and he crept more carefully than before up to springing distance, when again this most gorgeous bird drew up and exclaimed, with a note of annoyance:—

  “Cut-cut-cut, ca-dah-cut! What ails that old cat, anyway?” And again he led his various wives barnward.

  Mr. McGinty drew up with a surprised air, and apparently made a cursory study of the leading anatomical features of this strange bird; but he did not like to give up, and soon crouched and prepared for another onslaught. This time Mr. Chanticleer allowed the cat to come up close to his flock, when he turned and remarked in the most amicable manner, “Cut-cut-cut-cut!” which interpreted seemed to mean: “Come now; that’s all right. You’re evidently new here; but you’d better take my advice and not fool with me.”

  Anyhow, with this, down went McGinty’s hope of a bird breakfast “to the bottom of the sea,” and he gave up the hunt. He soon made friends, however, with every animal on the place, and so endeared himself to the owners that he lived out his days there with a hundred acres and more as his own happy hunting-ground.

  Not so, the Pretty Lady. I went away on a short visit after a few weeks, leaving her behind. From the moment of my disappearance she was uneasy and unhappy. On the fifth day she disappeared. When I returned and found her not, I am not ashamed to say that I hunted and called her everywhere, nor even that I shed a few tears when days rolled into weeks and she did not appear, as I realized that she might be starving, or have suffered tortures from some larger animal.

  There are many remarkable stories of cats who find their way home across almost impossible roads and enormous distances. There is a saying, believed by many people, “You can’t lose a cat,” which can be proved by hundreds of remarkable returns. But the Pretty Lady had absolutely no sense of locality. She had always lived indoors and had never been allowed to roam the neighborhood. It was five weeks before we found trace of her, and then only by accident. My sister was passing a field of grain, and caught a glimpse of a small creature which she at first thought to be a woodchuck. She turned and looked at it, and called “Pussy, pussy,” when with a heart-breaking little cry of utter delight and surprise, our beloved cat came toward her. From the first, the wide expanse of the country had confused her; she had evidently “lost her bearings” and was probably all the time within fifteen minutes’ walk of the farmhouse.

  When found, she was only a shadow of herself, and for the first and only time in her life we could count her ribs. She was wild with delight, and clung to my sister’s arms as though fearing to lose her; and in all the fuss that was made over her return, no human being could have showed more affection, or more satisfaction at finding her old friends again.

  That she really was lost, and had no sense of locality to guide her home, was proven by her conduct after she returned to her Boston home. I had preceded my sister, and was at the theatre on the evening when she arrived with the Pretty Lady. The latter was carried into the kitchen, taken from her basket, and fed. Then, instead of going around the house and settling herself in her old home, she went into the front hall which she had left four months before, and seated herself on the spot where she always watched and waited when I was out. When I came home at eleven, I saw through the screen door her “that was lost and is found.” She had been waiting to welcome me for three mortal hours.

  I wish those people who believe cats have no affection for people could have seen her then. She would not leave me for an instant, and manifested her love in every possible way; and when I retired for the night, she curled up on my pillow and purred herself contentedly to sleep, only rising when I did. After breakfast that first morning after her return, she asked to be let out of the back door, and made me understand that I must go with her. I did so, and she explored every part of the back yard, entreating me in the same way she called her kittens to keep close by her. She investigated our own premises thoroughly and then crept carefully under the fences on either side into the neighbor’s precincts where she had formerly visited in friendly fashion; then she came timidly back, all the time keeping watch that she did not lose me. Having finished her tour of inspection, she went in and led me on an investigating trip all through the house, smelling of every corner and baseboard, and insisting that every closet door should be opened, so that she might smell each closet through in the same way. When this was done, she settled herself in one of her old nooks for a nap and allowed me to leave.

  But never again did she go out of sight of the house. For more than a year she would not go even into a neighbor’s yard, and when she finally decided that it might be safe to crawl under the fences on to other territory, she invariably turned about to sit facing the house, as though living up to a firm determination never to lose sight of it again. This practice she kept up until at the close of her last mortal sickness, when she crawled into a dark place under a neighboring barn and said goodby to earthly fears and worries forever.

  Requiescat in pace, my Pretty Lady. I wish all your sex had your gentle dignity, and grace, and beauty, to say nothing of your faithfulness and affection. Like Mother Michel’s “Monmouth,” it may be said of you:

  “She was merely a cat,

  But her Sublime Virtues place her on a level with

  The Most Celebrated Mortals,

  and

  In Ancient Egypt

  Altars would have been Erected to her

  Memory.”

  THE BOYS, by Kathryn Ptacek

  Sarah knew something was wrong the minute she woke. The cats weren’t snuggled against her. She peeked at the clock radio. 7:30. She’d overslept, and for a moment she struggled with panic. She was late for work.

  Wait. It was Saturday. Still, she’d overslept. And that in itself was curious because The Boys, as she called them, never let her sleep late. If she tried to hunker down under the covers for a few minutes longer, she was invariably disturbed by Lovejoy pawing at her. If Lovejoy couldn’t budge her, then in trotted Archie who would proceed to walk up and down on top of Sarah. And when all else had failed Lord Peter would start chewing on Sarah’s hair.

  That always rousted her. Funny, though, Lord Peter never chewed on Brian’s hair. Brian. She looked over at the other side of the bed. He was up already. That was odd. Normally she rose long before he did, and would have her morning walk, shower and breakfast out of the way by the time her husba
nd dragged downstairs.

  For years she’d tried to get him up at the same time as she did, but nothing worked, and after a while she’d given it up. She was doomed to a life of solitary breakfast-eating.

  Except for The Boys who always kept her company while she munched on an English muffin. They stuck close to her all the time. Actually, the cats had been Brian’s idea; as a child Sarah had never had a pet—her mother had run off when Sarah was young, and after that her father had traveled a lot, and Sarah had been passed from relative to relative.

  When she and Brian married, he’d insisted they get cats. From the first, though, it was apparent the cats—all rescued from the local animal shelter—preferred Sarah to Brian.

  Brian had smiled when the tiny fuzzballs jumped into Sarah’s lap, but as time wore on, Sarah noticed his smile grew strained. The cats went to Sarah and meowed for food; they arranged themselves in front of her to get a daily grooming; and in the morning they woke her up, not him. Brian had tried to keep the cats out of the bedroom, but that hadn’t lasted long. Lovejoy would sit on the other side of the door and try to dig his way in, or he would throw himself against the door, trying to make it budge. Finally, Brian relented and kept the door open.

  Brian. “Hon?”

  Lovejoy answered with a squeak.

  Sarah threw back the covers, pulled her jeans and a tee-shirt on as she padded out into the hallway. She paused at the top of the stairs and listened.

  Nothing. Not a sound from below—except the hum of the refrigerator. Brian always had the TV or radio going; he said he hated a silent house; he’d grown up in a house with lots of kids and noise, something neither she nor the cats could appreciate. This was her parents’ house—she and Brian had just moved in, a few months after the death of her father—and she could never remember a time when there was much noise. Only the ticking of the grandfather clock when it still worked.

  The three cats trailed after her as she headed downstairs. She checked the living room—not that Brian ever sat there. When they were first married he’d insisted on buying her expensive furniture, far fancier than anything she’d ever grown up with, then proceeded to throw covers over it—“to keep it good for company,” he had insisted, and then later “to keep the cats off.” The company, though, had never materialized for one reason or another—mostly Brian didn’t like her friends.

  She walked through the dining room, then stopped in the kitchen, the only sounds the faint drip of a faucet and meows and squeaks and rumbling purrs of The Boys as they threaded around her ankles. She glanced out the window at the driveway—Brian’s car was gone. Funny. He never went anywhere on Saturday mornings. Maybe he’d gone into town.

  She shrugged. Who knew what he was doing? She had to feed the cats, but first she’d start her own breakfast. As she dropped the English muffin into the toaster, though, she was unable to shake the feeling of unease she’d had since waking. As she waited for the muffin to pop up, she wandered around the first floor.

  The door to the closet under the stairs stood ajar, and she started to close it. She yanked the chain to turn the light on. Brian’s good camelhair coat was gone, and so were the suitcases.

  Two steps at a time, she raced to the bedroom and flung open the drawers to his dresser. Empty. In the closet her clothes hung neatly on the right side, his side was bare.

  Heart pounding, she ran into the bathroom. Razor, toiletries, prescription bottles—all gone. Weakly she sat on the edge of the tub, her arms resting on her legs. Something inside her seemed to tighten; she could barely breath. She forced herself to relax…and face the truth.

  Brian had left her.

  Just as her mother had left her and her father.

  No! She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. She wasn’t sad, wasn’t…anything. Just numb.

  Meow! Lord Peter butted her leg, sat down on her foot, and stared up at her with his harlequin face. He purred, the low rumble filling the small room.

  “You won’t leave me, will you,” she whispered, and it wasn’t quite a question.

  He opened his mouth in the silent meow and continued staring, as if trying to hypnotize her to do his bidding—which would be to feed him and his pals.

  Sarah laughed, somewhat shakily, and stood up. The tightness in her chest remained. She gazed at herself in the mirror; she didn’t look all that bad. Not bad enough to drive her husband away, she told herself.

  “Just a minute, Lord Peter.” She washed her face, brushed her teeth, ran a comb through her short dark hair. Better. Still not enough to drive someone away.

  Or maybe she was deluding herself.

  “C’mon.”

  Downstairs she found her English muffin popped up and cool by now. She shrugged. However, The Boys had to eat. As she dumped dry food into the three ceramic bowls, some of the kibble bounced onto the floor. Archie made short work of the errant food, then tackled the bits in his bowl. She opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the porch. Birds splashed in the birdbath, somewhere in the distance she heard a lawnmower…the sun was shining and it was a perfect summer’s day. It was all so normal.

  Except that it wasn’t.

  Something soft brushed her foot and she realize that Archie had ventured out onto the porch. “No, you don’t.” She scooted him back inside and closed the door before the others tried escaping. The Boys were inside cats, something she had insisted on when they’d brought the little guys home. For their own safety, she’d insisted, although now she realized she was simply afraid it would be one more thing to run off and leave her.

  “Sarah, you’re so pathetic,” she told herself with disgust. The cats meowed, not in agreement, but for her attention. They wanted more food. “You just ate!” But they didn’t care, and kept up their chorus.

  She sighed and nibbled at the cold muffin. She couldn’t be bothered even to spread jam on it. She wandered into the living room and stared out the windows, willing Brian’s car to come up the road and turn into the driveway. Minutes passed, and all she saw was Mr. Peterson’s old Buick creep by. He saw her and waved; she remained motionless.

  She checked the bookshelves—there were gaps from volumes Brian had taken with him. She didn’t know what was missing, at least right now. Several paintings were gone, as well as some collectibles.

  “How could Brian have done all this and I didn’t know?” she said aloud. Lord Peter meowed once as he sprawled in a patch of sunlight and washed a back leg. Archie and Lovejoy curled up together, purring. “I didn’t have any hint. Nothing! How long was he planning this? How could he sneak out of the house with all this stuff and I didn’t hear?”

  Maybe she didn’t want to hear. Maybe she really had been aware that something was going on, but maybe she just refused to believe it.

  No.

  She had been sound asleep. Possibly, she told herself for reassurance, he had been sneaking stuff out ahead of time. She wouldn’t notice if a shirt here and there went missing. He’d probably finished packing up that morning while she slept, then gone downstairs and taken the paintings, and then left.

  Left the house. Left her. Without a note.

  She moaned and put a hand to her chest where it felt so tight. “What am I going to do, Lord Peter?” She looked down at the cat, his green eyes closed. He opened them when he heard his name. He always looked like he was about to say something to her, Sarah thought. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. “What am I going to do?”

  The long hours of the day stretched out in front of her. All today and then tomorrow, and Monday she would go back to work, and then what? What would she say when someone asked how Brian was? What would she say if they suggested drinks after work? What would she say? What would she do?

  Do. She had to do something. Clean. That’s it. She’d always been the type to start cleaning house the minute she got upset or anxious or whatever. She didn’t like housework; in fact, she hated it, but it kept her mind occupied. And she needed that right now.

 
; “I’m going to scrub this place from top to bottom,” she announced to her feline audience. “Or from bottom to top, as the case may be.”

  She found her sneakers and slipped them on, grabbed a broom, dustpan, the heavy duty flashlight, and a plastic garbage bag, and opened the basement door. She turned on the light, then pulled the door shut. Cobwebs festooned everything, and she thought she heard a rustle in one corner.

  “Yuck!” This should keep her occupied all day…perhaps even through Sunday night. Where to start, though?

  The not-quite-finished basement was split into three rooms. The first was the largest, with the second just beyond it, and then at the end of the house sat the littlest room, the only one with a door. Barrels and crates stood in the shadows, while old furniture leaned against the walls. She hadn’t been down here really except to peek quickly at it when they first moved in.

  The door squeaked open, and for a wild heart-fluttering moment, she thought it was Brian. The even pad-pad-pad of little feet told her a cat was joining her. Lovejoy. He was the one always opening doors not fully shut. Sometimes even when the doors seem locked, Lovejoy got them open.

  He stopped on the last step and surveyed the basement, as if to say, what a mess.

  “You’re right,” Sarah said. “It is a mess. This is going to keep me busy for hours! For days!” Archie and Lord Peter soon joined their pal and watched her as she knocked cobwebs out of corners and started sweeping the cement floor. Clouds of dust billowed upward, and within minutes all of them were sneezing. She opened a window, and fresh air poured through the screen.

  She’d have to get rid of the worst dust, then bring down a vacuum—no, she’d rent one of those special heavy duty ones—and then maybe she’d even mop the floor.