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

by Damien Broderick

  “This is true,” answered the Ogre very briskly, “and to convince you, you shall see me now become a lion.”

  Puss was so sadly terrified at the sight of a lion so near him, that he immediately got into the gutter, not without abundance of trouble and danger, because of his boots, which were ill-suited for walking upon the tiles. A little while after, when Puss saw that the Ogre had resumed his natural form, he came down, and owned he had been very much frightened.

  “I have been moreover informed,” said the Cat, “but I know not how to believe it, that you have also the power to take on you the shape of the smallest animals; for example, to change yourself into a rat or a mouse; but I must own to you, I take this to be impossible.”

  “Impossible?” cried the Ogre, “you shall see that presently,” and at the same time changed into a mouse, and began to run about the floor.

  Puss no sooner perceived this, but he fell upon him, and ate him up.

  Meanwhile the King, who saw, as he passed, this fine castle of the Ogre’s, had a mind to go into it. Puss, who heard the noise of his Majesty’s coach running over the drawbridge, ran out and said to the King:

  “Your Majesty is welcome to this castle of my lord Marquis of Carabas.”

  “What! My lord Marquis?” cried the King, “and does this castle also belong to you? There can be nothing finer than this court, and all the stately buildings which surround it; let us go into it, if you please.”

  The Marquis gave his hand to the Princess, and followed the King, who went up first. They passed into a spacious hall, where they found a magnificent collation which the Ogre had prepared for his friends, who were that very day to visit him, but dared not to enter knowing the King was there. His Majesty was perfectly charmed with the good qualities of my lord Marquis of Carabas, as was his daughter who was fallen violently in love with him; and seeing the vast estate he possessed, said to him, after having drank five or six glasses:

  “It will be owing to yourself only, my lord Marquis, if you are not my son-in-law.”

  The Marquis making several low bows, accepted the honor which his Majesty conferred upon him, and forthwith, that very same day, married the Princess.

  Puss became a great lord, and never ran after mice any more, but only for his diversion.

  SECOND VERSION, by Dinah Maria Mulock

  A Miller, dying, divided all his property between his three children. This was a very simple matter, as he had nothing to leave but his mill, his ass, and his cat; so he made no will, and called in no lawyer, who would, probably, have taken a large slice out of these poor possessions. The eldest son took the mill, the second the ass, while the third was obliged to content himself with the cat, at which he grumbled very much. “My brothers,” said he, “by putting their property together, may gain an honest livelihood, but there is nothing left for me except to die of hunger; unless, indeed, I were to kill my cat and eat him, and make a coat out of his skin, which would be very scanty clothing.”

  The cat, who heard the young man talking to himself, sat up on his four paws, and looking at him with a grave and wise air, said, “Master, I think you had better not kill me; I shall be much more useful to you alive.”

  “How so?” asked his master.

  “You have but to give me a sack, and a pair of boots such as gentlemen wear when they go shooting, and you will find you are not so ill off as you suppose.”

  Now, though the young miller did not much depend upon the cat’s words, still he thought it rather surprising that a cat should speak at all. And he had before now seen him show so much adroitness and cleverness in catching rats and mice, that it seemed advisable to trust him a little farther, especially as, poor young fellow! He had nobody else to trust.

  When the cat got his boots, he drew them on with a grand air, and slinging his sack over his shoulder, and drawing the cords of it round his neck, he marched bravely to a rabbit-warren hard by, with which he was well acquainted. Then, putting some bran and lettuces into his bag, and stretching himself out beside it as if he were dead, he waited till some fine fat young rabbit, ignorant of the wickedness and deceit of the world, should peer into the sack to eat the food that was inside. This happened very shortly, for there are plenty of foolish young rabbits in every warren; and when one of them, who really was a splendid fat fellow, put his head inside, Master Puss drew the cords immediately, and took him and killed him without mercy. Then, very proud of his prey, he marched direct up to the palace, and begged to speak with the king. He was desired to ascend to the apartments of his majesty, where, making a low bow, he said,

  “Sire, here is a magnificent rabbit, killed in the warren which belongs to my lord the Marquis of Carabas, and which he has desired me to offer humbly to your majesty.”

  “Tell your master,” replied the king, politely, “that I accept his present, and am very much obliged to him.”

  Another time, Puss went and hid himself and his sack in a wheat-field, and there caught two splendid fat partridges in the same manner as he had done the rabbit. When he presented them to the king, with a similar message as before, his majesty was so pleased that he ordered the cat to be taken down into the kitchen and given something to eat and drink; where, while enjoying himself, the faithful animal did not cease to talk in the most cunning way of the large preserves and abundant game which belonged to my lord the Marquis of Carabas.

  One day, hearing that the king was intending to take a drive along the river-side with his daughter, the most beautiful princess in the world, Puss said to his master, “Sir, if you would only follow my advice, your fortune is made.”

  “Be it so,” said the miller’s son, who was growing very disconsolate, and cared little what he did: “Say your say, cat.”

  “It is but little,” replied Puss, looking wise, as cats can. “You have only to go and bathe in the river, at a place which I shall show you, and leave all the rest to me. Only remember that you are no longer yourself, but my lord the Marquis of Carabas.”

  “Just so,” said the miller’s son; “it’s all the same to me;” but he did as the cat told him.

  While he was bathing, the king and all the court passed by, and were startled to hear loud cries of “Help, help! My lord the Marquis of Carabas is drowning.” The king put his head out of the carriage, and saw nobody but the cat, who had, at different times, brought him so many presents of game; however, he ordered his guards to fly quickly to the succor of my lord the Marquis of Carabas. While they were pulling the unfortunate marquis out of the water, the cat came up, bowing, to the side of the king’s carriage, and told a long and pitiful story about some thieves, who, while his master was bathing, had come and carried away all his clothes, so that it would be impossible for him to appear before his majesty and the illustrious princess.

  “Oh, we will soon remedy that,” answered the king, kindly; and immediately ordered one of the first officers of the household to ride back to the palace with all speed, and bring back the most elegant supply of clothes for the young gentleman, who kept in the background until they arrived. Then, being handsome and well-made, his new clothes became him so well, that he looked as if he had been a marquis all his days, and advanced with an air of respectful ease to offer his thanks to his majesty.

  The king received him courteously, and the princess admired him very much. Indeed, so charming did he appear to her, that she hinted to her father to invite him into the carriage with them, which, you may be sure, the young man did not refuse. The cat, delighted at the success of his scheme, went away as fast as he could, and ran so swiftly that he kept a long way ahead of the royal carriage. He went on and on, till he came to some peasants who were mowing in a meadow. “Good people,” said he, in a very firm voice, “the king is coming past here shortly, and if you do not say that the field you are mowing belongs to my lord the Marquis of Carabas, you shall all be chopped as small as mince-meat.”

  So when the king drove by, and asked whose meadow it was where there was such a sple
ndid crop of hay, the mowers all answered, trembling, that it belonged to my lord the Marquis of Carabas.

  “You have very fine land, Marquis,” said his majesty to the miller’s son; who bowed, and answered “that it was not a bad meadow, take it altogether.”

  Then the cat came to a wheat-field, where the reapers were reaping with all their might. He bounded in upon them: “The king is coming past today, and if you do not tell him that this wheat belongs to my lord the Marquis of Carabas, I will have you every one chopped as small as mincemeat.” The reapers, very much alarmed, did as they were bid, and the king congratulated the Marquis upon possessing such beautiful fields, laden with such an abundant harvest.

  They drove on—the cat always running before and saying the same thing to everybody he met, that they were to declare the whole country belonged to his master; so that even the king was astonished at the vast estate of my lord the Marquis of Carabas.

  But now the cat arrived at a great castle where dwelt an Ogre, to whom belonged all the land through which the royal equipage had been driving. He was a cruel tyrant, and his tenants and servants were terribly afraid of him, which accounted for their being so ready to say whatever they were told to say by the cat, who had taken pains to inform himself of all about the Ogre. So, putting on the boldest face he could assume, Puss marched up to the castle with his boots on, and asked to see the owner of it, saying that he was on his travels, but did not wish to pass so near the castle of such a noble gentleman without paying his respects to him. When the Ogre heard this message, he went to the door, received the cat as civilly as an Ogre can, and begged him to walk in and repose himself.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the cat; “but first I hope you will satisfy a traveler’s curiosity. I have heard in far countries of your many remarkable qualities, and especially how you have the power to change yourself into any sort of beast you choose—a lion for instance, or an elephant.”

  “That is quite true,” replied the Ogre; “and lest you should doubt it, I will immediately become a lion.”

  He did so; and the cat was so frightened that he sprang up to the roof of the castle and hid himself in the gutter—a proceeding rather inconvenient on account of his boots, which were not exactly fitted to walk with upon tiles. At length, perceiving that the Ogre had resumed his original form, he came down again stealthily, and confessed that he had been very much frightened.

  “But, sir,” said he, “it may be easy enough for such a big gentleman as you to change himself into a large animal: I do not suppose you can become a small one—a rat or mouse for instance. I have heard that you can; still, for my part, I consider it quite impossible.”

  “Impossible!” cried the other, indignantly. “You shall see!” and immediately the cat saw the Ogre no longer, but a little mouse running along on the floor.

  This was exactly what he wanted; and he did the very best a cat could do, and the most natural under the circumstances—he sprang upon the mouse and gobbled it up in a trice. So there was an end of the Ogre.

  By this time the king had arrived opposite the castle, and was seized with a strong desire to enter it. The cat, hearing the noise of the carriage-wheels, ran forward in a great hurry, and standing at the gate, said in a loud voice, “Welcome, sire, to the castle of my lord the Marquis of Carabas.”

  “What!” cried his majesty, very much surprised, “does the castle also belong to you? Truly, Marquis, you have kept your secret well up to the last minute. I have never seen anything finer than this courtyard and these battlements. Indeed, I have nothing like them in the whole of my dominions.”

  The Marquis, without speaking, offered his hand to the princess to assist her to descend, and, standing aside that the king might enter first—for he had already acquired all the manners of a court—followed his majesty to the great hall, where a magnificent collation was laid out, and where, without more delay, they all sat down to feast.

  Before the banquet was over, the king, charmed with the good qualities of the Marquis of Carabas—and likewise with his wine, of which he had drunk six or seven cups—said, bowing across the table at which the princess and the miller’s son were talking very confidentially together, “It rests with you, Marquis, whether you will not become my son-in-law.”

  “I shall be only too happy,” said the complaisant Marquis, and the princess’s cast-down eyes declared the same.

  So they were married the very next day, and took possession of the Ogre’s castle, and of everything that had belonged to him.

  As for the cat, he became at once a grand personage, and had never more any need to run after mice, except for his own diversion.

  NO HEAVEN WILL NOT EVER HEAVEN BE…, by A. R. Morlan

  There are no ordinary cats.

  —Colette

  Not too long ago, it wasn’t too uncommon for someone driving down Little Egypt way, where southern Illinois merges into Kentucky close to the Cumberland River, to see oh, maybe five-six Katz’s Chewing Tobacco barn advertisements within a three-or four-hour drive; in his prime, Hobart Gurney was a busy man. Now, if a person wants to see Gurney’s handiwork, they have to drive or fly out to New York City, or—if they’re lucky—catch one of the traveling exhibitions of his work. If the exhibitors can get insurance—after all, Gurney was sort of the Jackson Pollock of the barn-art world; he worked with what paints he had, with an eye toward getting the job done fast and getting his pay even quicker once he was finished, so those cut-out chunks of barn wall need to be babied like they were fashioned out of spun sugar and spider webs—and not just flaking paint on sometimes-rotting planks. Someone once told me that the surviving Katz’s barn signs had to be treated with the same sort of preservation methods as the relics unearthed from Egyptian tombs—now that would’ve tickled old Hobart Gurney’s fancy, as he might’ve put it.

  Oh, not so much the preservation part, but the Egyptian aspect of it all, for Gurney did far more than paint Katz’s Chewing Tobacco signs for a living (not to mention for a good part of his life, period); he lived for his “Katz’s cats”

  Died for them, too. But that’s another story…one you won’t read about in any of those books filled with photographs of Gurney’s barn signs, or hear about on those PBS or Arts & Entertainment specials on his life and work. But the story rivals any ever told about the cat-worshiping Egyptians…especially since Hobart knew his cats weren’t gods but loved them anyhow. And because they loved him back.…

  * * * *

  When I first met Hobart Gurney, I thought he was just another one of those old men you see in just about every small town in the rural heartland; you’ve seen them—old men of less than average height, wearing pants that are too big in the waist and too long in the leg, held up by suspenders or belts snugged up so tight they can hardly breathe, with spines like shallow C’s and shoulders pinched protectively around their collarbones, the kind of old men who wear too-clean baseball caps or maybe tam-o-shanters topped with fluffy pom-poms, and no matter how often they shave, they always seem to have an eighth-of-an-inch-long near-transparent stubble dusting their parchment cheeks. The kind who shuffle and pause near curbs, then stop and stand there, lost in thought, once they step off the curb. The kind of old man who’s all but invisible until he hawks phlegm on the sidewalk, not out of spite, but because men did that sort of thing without thinking years ago.

  I was adjusting the shutter speed on my camera when I heard him hawk and spit not two feet away from me—making that irritating noise that totally blows one’s concentration. And it was one of those days when the clouds kept moving in front of the sun every few seconds, totally changing the amount of available natural light hitting the side of the barn whose painted side I was trying to capture…without thinking, I looked back over my shoulder and grumped, “You mind? I’m trying to adjust my camera—”

  The old man just stood there, hands shoved past the wrists into his trouser pockets, a fine dark dribble of tobacco spittle still clinging to the side of his stubbled ch
in, staring mildly at me with hat-bill-shaded pale-blue eyes. After a few false fluttering starts of his chapped-lipped mouth, he said, “No self-respectin’ cat ever wants to be a model…you have to sorta sneak up on ’em, when they ain’t payin’ you no mind.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, turning my attention back to the six-foot-tall cat painted next to the neatly-lettered legend: KATZ’S CHEWING TOBACCO—IT’S THE KATZ’S MEOW. This Katz’s cat was one of the finest I’d seen yet—unlike other cat-logo signs, like the Chessie railroad cat, for instance, every Katz’s cat was different; different color, different pose, sometimes even more than one cat per barn sign. And this one was a masterpiece; a gray tiger, the kind of animal whose fur you knew would be soft to the touch, with each multihued hair tipped with just enough white to give the whole cat an aura-like sheen, and a softly-thick neck that told the world that this cat was an unneutered male, old enough to have sired a few litters of kittens but not old enough to be piss-mean or battle-scarred. A young male, maybe two- or three-years-old. And his eyes were gentle, too; trusting eyes, of hazy green touched with a hint of yellow along the oval pupils, over a grayish-pink nose and a mouth covering barely visible fang tips. He was resting on his side, so all four of his paw pads were visible, each one colored that between gray and pink color that’s a bit of each yet something not at all on the artist’s color wheel. And his ombré-ringed tail was curled up and over his hind feet, resting in a relaxed curl over his hind paws. But something in his sweet face told a person that this cat would jump right up into your arms if you only patted your chest and said “Come ’ere—”

  But…considering that this cat was mostly gray, and the barn behind him was weathering fast, I had to make sure the shutter speed was adjusted so, or I’d never capture this particular Katz’s cat. Not the way the clouds were rolling in fast and faster—

  “Don’t look like Fella wants his picture took today,” the tobacco-spitting old man said helpfully, as I missed yet another split-second-of-sun opportunity to capture the likeness of the reclining cat. That did it. Letting my camera flop down against my chest by the strap, I turned around and asked, “Do you own this barn? Am I supposed to pay you for taking a picture or what?”