The Cat Megapack

by Gary Lovisi

  When the sun came up she sought for cover. An adjoining block still stood with little change, and the Royal Analostan retired to that. She knew some of its trails; but once there, was unpleasantly surprised to find the place swarming with Cats that, like herself, were driven from their old grounds, and when the garbage-cans came out there were several Slummers at each. It meant a famine in the land, and Pussy, after standing it a few days, was reduced to seeking her other home on Fifth Avenue. She got there to find it shut up and deserted. She waited about for a day; had an unpleasant experience with a big man in a blue coat, and next night returned to the crowded slum.

  September and October wore away. Many of the Cats died of starvation or were too weak to escape their natural enemies. But Kitty, young and strong, still lived.

  Great changes had come over the ruined blocks. Though silent on the night when she first saw them, they were crowded with noisy workmen all day. A tall building, well advanced on her arrival, was completed at the end of October, and Slum Kitty, driven by hunger, went sneaking up to a pail that a negro had set outside. The pail, unfortunately, was not for garbage; it was a new thing in that region: a scrubbing-pail. A sad disappointment, but it had a sense of comfort—there were traces of a familiar touch on the handle. While she was studying it, the negro elevator-boy came out again. In spite of his blue clothes, his odorous person confirmed the good impression of the handle. Kitty had retreated across the street. He gazed at her.

  “Sho ef dat don’t look like de Royal Ankalostan! Hyar, Pussy, Pussy, Pu-s-s-s-s-y! Co-o-o-o-m-e, Pu-u-s-s-sy, hyar! I ’spec’s she’s sho hungry.”

  Hungry! She hadn’t had a real meal for months. The negro went into the building and reappeared with a portion of his own lunch.

  “Hyar, Pussy, Puss, Puss, Puss!” It seemed very good, but Pussy had her doubts of the man. At length he laid the meat on the pavement, and went back to the door. Slum Kitty came forward very warily; sniffed at the meat, seized it, and fled like a little Tigress to eat her prize in peace.

  HER LIFE, PART FOUR

  XI.

  This was the beginning of a new era. Pussy came to the door of the building now whenever pinched by hunger, and the good feeling for the negro grew. She had never understood that man before. He had always seemed hostile. Now he was her friend, the only one she had.

  One week she had a streak of luck. Seven good meals on seven successive days; and right on the top of the last meal she found a juicy dead Rat, the genuine thing, a perfect windfall. She had never killed a full-grown Rat in all her lives, but seized the prize and ran off to hide it for future use. She was crossing the street in front of the new building when an old enemy appeared—the Wharf Dog—and Kitty retreated, naturally enough, to the door where she had a friend. Just as she neared it, he opened the door for a well-dressed man to come out, and both saw the Cat with her prize.

  “Hello! Look at that for a Cat!”

  “Yes, sah,” answered the negro. “Dat’s ma Cat, sah; she’s a terror on Rats, sah! hez ’em about cleaned up, sah; dat’s why she’s so thin.”

  “Well, don’t let her starve,” said the man with the air of the landlord. “Can’t you feed her?

  “De liver meat-man comes reg’lar, sah; quatah dollar a week, sah,” said the negro, fully realizing that he was entitled to the extra fifteen cents for “the idea.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll stand it.”

  XII.

  “M-e-a-t! M-e-a-t!” is heard the magnetic, cat-conjuring cry of the old liver-man, as his barrow is pushed up the glorified Scrimper’s Alley, and Cats come crowding, as of yore, to receive their due.

  There are Cats black, white, yellow, and gray to be remembered, and, above all, there are owners to be remembered. As the barrow rounds the corner near the new building it makes a newly scheduled stop.

  “Hyar, you, get out o’ the road, you common trash,” cries the liver-man, and he waves his wand to make way for the little gray Cat with blue eyes and white nose. She receives an unusually large portion, for Sam is wisely dividing the returns evenly; and Slum Kitty retreats with her ‘daily’ into shelter of the great building, to which she is regularly attached. She has entered into her fourth life with prospects of happiness never before dreamed of. Everything was against her at first; now everything seems to be coming her way. It is very doubtful that her mind was broadened by travel, but she knew what she wanted and she got it. She has achieved her long-time great ambition by catching, not a Sparrow, but two of them, while they were clinched in mortal combat in the gutter.

  There is no reason to suppose that she ever caught another Rat; but the negro secures a dead one when he can, for purposes of exhibition, lest her pension be imperiled. The dead one is left in the hall till the proprietor comes; then it is apologetically swept away. “Well, drat dat Cat, sah; dat Royal Ankalostan blood, sah, is terrors on Rats.”

  She has had several broods since. The negro thinks the Yellow Tom is the father of some of them, and no doubt the negro is right.

  He has sold her a number of times with a perfectly clear conscience, knowing quite well that it is only a question of a few days before the Royal Analostan comes back again. Doubtless he is saving the money for some honorable ambition. She has learned to tolerate the elevator, and even to ride up and down on it. The negro stoutly maintains that once, when she heard the meat-man, while she was on the top floor, she managed to press the button that called the elevator to take her down. She is sleek and beautiful again. She is not only one of the four hundred that form the inner circle about the liver-barrow, but she is recognized as the star pensioner among them. The liver-man is positively respectful. Not even the cream-and-chicken fed Cat of the pawn-broker’s wife has such a position as the Royal Analostan. But in spite of her prosperity, her social position, her royal name and fake pedigree, the greatest pleasure of her life is to slip out and go a-slumming in the gloaming, for now, as in her previous lives, she is at heart, and likely to be, nothing but a dirty little Slum Cat.

  MY FATHER, THE CAT, by Henry Slesar

  My mother was a lovely, delicate woman from the coast of Brittany, who was miserable sleeping on less than three mattresses, and who, it is said, was once injured by a falling leaf in her garden. My grandfather, a descendant of the French nobility whose family had ridden the tumbrils of the Revolution, tended her fragile body and spirit with the same loving care given rare, brief-blooming flowers. You may imagine from this his attitude concerning marriage. He lived in terror of the vulgar, heavy-handed man who would one day win my mother’s heart, and at last, this persistent dread killed him. His concern was unnecessary, however, for my mother chose a suitor who was as free of mundane brutality as a husband could be. Her choice was Dauphin, a remarkable white cat which strayed onto the estate shortly after his death.

  Dauphin was an unusually large Angora, and his ability to speak in cultured French, English, and Italian was sufficient to cause my mother to adopt him as a household pet. It did not take long for her to realize that Dauphin deserved a higher status, and he became her friend, protector, and confidante. He never spoke of his origin, nor where he had acquired the classical education which made him such an entertaining companion. After two years, it was easy for my mother, an unworldly woman at best, to forget the dissimilarity in their species. In fact, she was convinced that Dauphin was an enchanted prince, and Dauphin, in consideration of her illusions, never dissuaded her. At last, they were married by an understanding clergyman of the locale, who solemnly filled in the marriage application with the name of M. Edwarde Dauphin.

  I, Étienne Dauphin, am their son.

  To be candid, I am a handsome youth, not unlike my mother in the delicacy of my features. My father’s heritage is evident in my large, feline eyes, and in my slight body and quick movements. My mother’s death, when I was four, left me in the charge of my father and his coterie of loyal servants, and I could not have wished for a finer upbringing. It is to my father’s patient tutoring that I
owe whatever graces I now possess. It was my father, the cat, whose gentle paws guided me to the treasure houses of literature, art, and music, whose whiskers bristled with pleasure at a goose well cooked, at a meal well served, at a wine well chosen. How many happy hours we shared! He knew more of life and the humanities, my father, the cat, than any human I have met in all my twenty-three years.

  Until the age of eighteen, my education was his personal challenge. Then, it was his desire to send me into the world outside the gates. He chose for me a university in America, for he was deeply fond of what he called “that great raw country,” where he believed my feline qualities might be tempered by the aggressiveness of the rough-coated barking dogs I would be sure to meet.

  I must confess to a certain amount of unhappiness in my early American years, torn as I was from the comforts of the estate and the wisdom of my father, the cat. But I became adapted, and even upon my graduation from the university, sought and held employment in a metropolitan art museum. It was there I met Joanna, the young woman I intended to make my bride.

  Joanna was a product of the great American southwest, the daughter of a cattle-raiser. There was a blooming vitality in her face and her body, a lustiness born of open skies and desert. Her hair was not the gold of antiquity; it was new gold, freshly mined from the black rock. Her eyes were not like old-world diamonds; their sparkle was that of sunlight on a cascading river. Her figure was bold, an open declaration of her sex.

  She was, perhaps, an unusual choice for the son of fairy-like mother and an Angora cat. But from the first meeting of our eyes, I knew that I would someday bring Joanna to my father’s estate to present her as my fiancée.

  I approached that occasion with understandable trepidation. My father had been explicit in his advice before I departed for America, but on no point had he been more emphatic than secrecy concerning himself. He assured me that revelation of my paternity would bring ridicule and unhappiness upon me. The advice was sound, of course, and not even Joanna knew that our journey’s end would bring us to the estate of a large, cultured, and conversing cat. I had deliberately fostered the impression that I was orphaned, believing that the proper place for revealing the truth was the atmosphere of my father’s home in France. I was certain that Joanna would accept her father-in-law without distress. Indeed, hadn’t nearly a score of human servants remained devoted to their feline master for almost a generation?

  We had agreed to be wed on the first of June, and on May the fourth, emplaned in New York for Paris. We were met at Orly Field by François, my father’s solemn manservant, who had been delegated not so much as escort as he was chaperone, my father having retained much of the old world proprieties. It was a long trip by automobile to our estate in Brittany, and I must admit to a brooding silence throughout the drive which frankly puzzled Joanna.

  However, when the great stone fortress that was our home came within view, my fears and doubts were quickly dispelled. Joanna, like so many Americans, was thrilled at the aura of venerability and royal custom surrounding the estate. François placed her in charge of Madame Jolinet, who clapped her plump old hands with delight at the sight of her fresh blonde beauty, and chattered and clucked like a mother hen as she led Joanna to her room on the second floor. As for myself, I had one immediate wish: to see my father, the cat.

  He greeted me in the library, where he had been anxiously awaiting our arrival, curled up in his favorite chair by the fireside, a wide-mouthed goblet of cognac by his side. As I entered the room, he lifted a paw formally, but then his reserve was dissolved by the emotion of our reunion, and he licked my face in unashamed joy.

  François refreshed his glass, and poured another for me, and we toasted each other’s well-being.

  “To you, mon purr,” I said, using the affectionate name of my childhood memory.

  “To Joanna,” my father said. He smacked his lips over the cognac, and wiped his whiskers gravely. “And where is this paragon?”

  “With Madame Jolinet. She will be down shortly.”

  “And you have told her everything?”

  I blushed. “No, mon purr, I have not. I thought it best to wait until we were home. She is a wonderful woman,” I added impulsively. “She will not be—”

  “Horrified?” my father said. “What makes you so certain, my son?”

  “Because she is a woman of great heart,” I said stoutly. “She was educated at a fine college for women in Eastern America. Her ancestors were rugged people, given to legend and folklore. She is a warm, human person—”

  “Human,” my father sighed, and his tail swished. “You are expecting too much of your beloved, Étienne. Even a woman of the finest character may be dismayed in this situation.”

  “But my mother—”

  “Your mother was an exception, a changeling of the Fairies. You must not look for your mother’s soul in Joanna’s eyes.” He jumped from his chair, and came towards me, resting his paw upon my knee. “I am glad you have not spoken of me, Étienne. Now you must keep your silence forever.”

  I was shocked. I reached down and touched my father’s silky fur, saddened by the look of his age in his gray, gold-flecked eyes, and by the tinge of yellow in his white coat.

  “No, mon purr,” I said. “Joanna must know the truth. Joanna must know how proud I am to be the son of Edwarde Dauphin.”

  “Then you will lose her.”

  “Never! That cannot happen!”

  My father walked stiffly to the fireplace, staring into the gray ashes. “Ring for François,” he said. “Let him build the fire. I am cold, Étienne.”

  I walked to the cord and pulled it. My father turned to me and said: “You must wait, my son. At dinner this evening, perhaps. Do not speak of me until then.”

  “Very well, father.”

  When I left the library, I encountered Joanna at the head of the stairway, and she spoke to me excitedly.

  “Oh, Étienne! What a beautiful old house. I know I will love it! May we see the rest?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “You look troubled. Is something wrong?”

  “No, no. I was thinking how lovely you are.”

  We embraced, and her warm full body against mine confirmed my conviction that we should never be parted. She put her arm in mine, and we strolled through the great rooms of the house. She was ecstatic at their size and elegance, exclaiming over the carpeting, the gnarled furniture, the ancient silver and pewter, the gallery of family paintings. When she came upon an early portrait of my mother, her eyes misted.

  “She was lovely,” Joanna said. “Like a princess! And what of your father? Is there no portrait of him?”

  “No,” I said hurriedly. “No portrait.” I had spoken my first lie to Joanna, for there was a painting, half-completed, which my mother had begun in the last year of her life. It was a whispering little watercolor, and Joanna discovered it to my consternation.

  “What a magnificent cat!” she said. “Was it a pet?”

  “It is Dauphin,” I said nervously.

  She laughed. “He has your eyes, Étienne.”

  “Joanna, I must tell you something—”

  “And this ferocious gentleman with the moustaches? Who is he?”

  “My grandfather. Joanna, you must listen—”

  François, who had been following our inspection tour at shadow’s-length, interrupted. I suspected that his timing was no mere coincidence.

  “We will be serving dinner at seven-thirty,” he said. “If the lady would care to dress—”

  “Of course,” Joanna said. “Will you excuse me, Étienne?”

  I bowed to her, and she was gone.

  At fifteen minutes to the appointed dining time, I was ready, and hastened below to talk once more with my father. He was in the dining room, instructing the servants as to the placement of the silver and accessories. My father was proud of the excellence of his table, and took all his meals in the splendid manner. His appreciation of food and wine was unsurpass
ed in my experience, and it had always been the greatest of pleasures for me to watch him at table, stalking across the damask and dipping delicately into the silver dishes prepared for him. He pretended to be too busy with his dinner preparations to engage me in conversation, but I insisted.

  “I must talk to you,” I said. “We must decide together how to do this.”

  “It will not be easy,” he answered with a twinkle. “Consider Joanna’s view. A cat as large and as old as myself is cause enough for comment. A cat that speaks is alarming. A cat that dines at table with the household is shocking. And a cat whom you must introduce as your—”

  “Stop it!” I cried. “Joanna must know the truth. You must help me reveal it to her.”

  “Then you will not heed my advice?”

  “In all things but this. Our marriage can never be happy unless she accepts you for what you are.”

  “And if there is no marriage?”

  I would not admit to this possibility. Joanna was mine; nothing could alter that. The look of pain and bewilderment in my eyes must have been evident to my father, for he touched my arm gently with his paw and said:

  “I will help you, Étienne. You must give me your trust.”

  “Always!”

  “Then come to dinner with Joanna and explain nothing. Wait for me to appear.”

  I grasped his paw and raised it to my lips. “Thank you, father!”

  He turned to François, and snapped: “You have my instructions?”

  “Yes, sir,” the servant replied.

  “Then all is ready. I shall return to my room now, Étienne. You may bring your fiancée to dine.”

  I hastened up the stairway, and found Joanna ready, strikingly beautiful in shimmering white satin. Together, we descended the grand staircase and entered the room.

  Her eyes shone at the magnificence of the service set upon the table, at the soldiery array of fine wines, some of them already poured into their proper glasses for my father’s enjoyment: Haut-Médoc, from St. Estèphe, authentic Chablis, Épernay Champagne, and an American import from the Napa Valley of which he was fond. I waited expectantly for his appearance as we sipped our aperitif, while Joanna chatted about innocuous matters, with no idea of the tormented state I was in.