“Well, my dear aunt, I am so pleased to get back alive and well; but tell me, how is the blackamoor?”
“Oh, your blackamoor,” cried his aunt, laughing. “She is not far away, nor Miss Morgan either; and she is the dearest, sweetest child on earth. Here she comes!”
Yes, there she came. And never had I seen her look more lovely, more gentle, and good.
Children! A marriage took place sometime after this, and Beebee became the wife of Colonel Edgar Clarkson.
“What!” cried Warlock. “Our master that is now?”
“Yes,” said Shireen, nodding.
“And,” said Tabby, “Beebee is our mistress?”
“None other.”
“Oh, how delightful! How charming!”
“Tse, tse, tse!” said Dick, the starling, and off he flew to Lizzie, who, with her brother Tom, was reclining on the lawn, making gowan garlands (the gowan is the mountain daisy) to hang around their favorites’ necks.
Dick alighted on Lizzie’s head, and at once began to go through the motions of bathing and splashing in the sheen of her bonnie hair.
But Dick’s departure seems the signal for the breaking up of the party. For lo! shades of evening have begun to fall.
“And in the painted oriel of the West,
Whose panes the sunken sun incardines,
Like a fair lady at her casement, shines
The Evening Star, the star of love and rest.”
So “good-nights” are said, and hands are shaken, then slowly homewards to his bungalow, by the pathway under the lindens, swings honest Ben and his cockatoo; while the shadows deepen beneath the trees, and the blackbird trills his last sweet song.
Behind him walks Cracker—a garland of gowans around his neck—all the way to the bungalow gate. Here he stops a moment to receive Ben’s friendly farewell pat, then gives his droll old stump of a tail a shake, and trots slowly home alone.
CAT ON A HOT TAR ROOF, by Gary Lovisi
I knew it was a bad idea from the beginning and tried to tell her. You see, I had a bad feeling when my mistress went away. She left me and said, in her lilting Southern manner, “Honey, I’ll be right back real soon. Delilah, darlin’, don’t you worry about a thing. After all this nasty rain is over I’ll come home to you like it never happened.”
That was two days ago. I wonder where she is now. I’m getting nervous. The wind has stopped but the water is getting higher and it smells bad. There’s death in it. My fear and terror grow, but I am a feline and so take it all in stride.
After all, I am a prized, white, long-haired Persian, Queen of the Realm, dahling. My name is Delilah. My life wasn’t always so dire. Two years previously I had been the pampered pet of kindly old Mrs. Milligan. After her untimely demise at the hands of a crass murderer, whom by the way, I helped bring to justice—I decided life was just too hectic and sought retirement in warmer Southern climes. Here I would live a life of feline ease. I had happily discovered that the Gulf Coast was a noted center for delicious fresh seafood—my whiskers positively danced at the thrill. So I arranged to become the pet of an upscale professional in New Orleans, the gleaming pearl of the Gulf, and enjoyed my new life of feast and ease as the warm southerly breezes lulled me in gentle repose as is my luxurious feline nature.
That was all until Hurricane Katrina.
This morning I am parched and becoming dehydrated. All the other animals on the roof with me feel the same way. We are scared and wonder where our families have gone. There is no rescue in sight. Even for the humans. I see many human adults and children on the rooftop three houses down the street, trying to be brave, but we can see the fear in their eyes too. That thought causes us no end of nervousness and concern because we fear that if humans are in such danger, then what of us, the animals?
I now found myself stranded upon this flat, black tar roof with the heat of the New Orleans sun beating down upon me. And lucky to be here, let me tell you. There was no dry space anywhere. I didn’t even bother cleaning my once luxurious white hair, it had become embarrassingly dirty and matted, but I had no time for such trivialities. After all, all around me were stranded animals, many in worse condition than I. There was Scrapper, another young female with her three tiny kittens, sired by some unknown tom no doubt—the little tramp—born the night of the storm. Their eyes were barely open yet, but their hunger was amazing and Scrapper, without food and water, was going dry on precious mother’s milk for her babies. I hoped the little ones would not die before help arrived. In the corner of the roof, upon a wad of newspapers was an old tom from another neighborhood. He had found shelter here with us. He sits alone, injured, busy licking his wounds with the last bit of saliva his dry mouth could produce. Two white doves, perched on the ledge, look longingly at a smashed house where they had lived a life of ease in a gilded cage. Now the house is gone. A wet mangy squirrel sits perched on the roof edge and stares longingly at a far away tree, one of the few that had weathered the storm and still stands. It is a home that he has no way to reach because of the water. Then there are the two lab puppies huddled together, shaking in hunger and fear, all alone.
I look over at other rooftops and can see many humans. I show myself to them hoping they will come and rescue us, but they hardly notice.
Hey! Can’t you see me! I’m here and we need to be rescued, I cry, but soon I realize my fears had come true. It is beginning to look as if the humans have been forgotten by their own—and us animals, forgotten as well. It seems this terrible disaster is especially hard on the human children, the old and the ill. Many of them are crying or calling out for help that as yet had not come.
It was also hard on us, the animals. Us felines—we simply despise the water, you know—we are terrified of drowning. But the dogs—not my favorite of creatures as you might understand—do better in the water, at least they can swim, but they are so dumb. They depend too much on humans. They suffer so. Dogs can not understand what has become of their masters, or why they have been forsaken and left to fend for themselves. They are hungry and thirsty and there is no one to feed them. I hear a small beagle barking down the block. I can see that he is hanging out an upper floor window calling for his owner like us. His pleas evoke no response.
The worst I hear is the big dog from down the block whose furtive pleas pierce my ears. My noble feline heart nearly breaks to hear such fear in Mighty Rufus. His loud barks, once proud and defiant Great Dane warnings, now reduced to wails of terror. I watch him chained still, where his master usually sets him outside to get his airs, upon the porch. Only now the porch has become a prison and the waters have risen up the front yard, up the steps, across the porch, as they threaten to drown him. Mighty Rufus splashes in the brown murky water and continues to bark at it—as if his booming voice can stop the water like it has intimidated so many of his enemies. I know he is cold and hungry. And while Rufus is surrounded by all the water any human or animal could want—there is not one drop safe to drink. Even the dumb dogs know that.
The odor of the water is really bad now. Growing worse. It is dark and dirty and vile, and no animals want to go near it—much less drink it. Even the humans notice it, with their weak sense of smell. How much worse it is to us animals whose delicate senses detect the decay and death that now make up this poison brew?
The humans on a nearby roof desperately shout to humans on Mr. Jones’ roof down the street. They ask for food and water, but the others have none. They need medicine—one of the women is diabetic, one of the men has a heart problem—but Mr. Jones just shakes his head sadly, helplessly.
So many of my brother and sister felines, and most of these poor dumb canines hardly understand what is happening at all. We are scared, now on our own, left to fend for ourselves, we pray for rescue.
The situation is becoming more dire as days pass. I see humans still on the roofs all around us and they are screaming for someone to please help them. Some of the animals with me have long since resigned themselves to their fate. T
hey lay together, silent and weak. The hot tar of the roof burns my delicate footpads as I walk across it, vainly looking for some sign of rescue, the tar almost melted from the hot sun. We are—human and animal alike—slowly being cooked alive up here. It is only a matter of time before the heat, or the lack of food and water, will finish us.
Wait! Now I see helicopters flying quickly overhead. Hello! Come down here and save us! But they just pass us by. Were they going to come to our part of the city? Come back! Don’t leave us here, please.…
Just then a Coast Guard helicopter picked up the humans on a nearby roof. They are crying and screaming in joy, and we are happy for them. We cry too, hopeful for our own rescue.
I strut along the ledge in plain sight. Can’t you see me! We need help!
The last human taken off the roof of the house is good Mr. Johnston. I hear him shouting above the noise from the helicopter blades to his rescuer, pointing to the roof where I am strutting back and forth. Finally someone noticed! I preened myself with joy.
“You have to send someone to pick up the animals on that roof on the next house. They’re my neighbor’s pets,” Johnston said, while his rescuer quickly wraps him in belts and hooks him in for lifting.
“Can’t do it,” is the sharp reply, then more softly, “There are just too many people who need to be rescued now.”
“You can’t just leave them!”
“We can’t take them, Mister. We have thousands of people to save. Look, we’re all animal lovers, I’ve got a dog myself, but we have our orders. The animals aren’t a priority right now.”
My joy melts away.
The rescuer quickly jerks down hard on the line and the helicopter wench lifts up Johnston and him together. My heart sinks when the helicopter hovers for a moment over our heads and then quickly flies away from us. In a moment it is gone.
We are alone then, still stranded, still hungry, but now apparently deserted as well. My only solace is that few if any of the animals with me understand what has transpired, most have since given up hope. However, I am not one of them. I know help will come. It must come!
You see, dahling, I know my humans.
Scrapper says I’m crazy, that they didn’t come when she had her first litter last summer—instead a human chased her away with a broom. She barely escaped with her life.
Somehow we survived another night. I used to love warm summer nights, not now. It’s calm, cool breezes, shattered by cries for help. I can hear the water stalking us, moving higher. The only joy I feel now is the hope daybreak brings. Hope that is fading fast.…
But wait, I see something—it’s a boat, it says HSPCA on the side. I hope they see us. Over here! We are over here! Wake up everybody, look, they have come for us—my humans have come for us!
Now, I have never been much of a cat food cat, dahling, tuna and chicken are my kind of dinner, but the food the volunteers brought me was the best tasting chow this fussy feline has ever eaten! And the water, oh the water.… Things are definitely looking up now.
Still, my noble feline heart is filled with sadness for the humans and animals that didn’t make it through what Katrina had wrought—but if not for these brave volunteers we would surely have perished too.
They’ve taken me to a large building, the Houston SPCA. I have a small but comfortable and clean cage located in the animal rescue area—feline section, of course. Hannah, my caregiver was a little rough during my bath, she scrubbed me so hard I swear I saw stars brighter than the fireworks at Mardi Gras, but thanks to her I feel like my old self again.
From here I can see young Scrapper and her three kittens being fed and well cared for by dedicated volunteers. Animal lovers, dahling—is there no more noble aspiration for a human? I think not. As I watch, her owners, a family of four, have come to take her with them.
Did I tell you about Mighty Rufus? The Great Dane, has been rescued too! Volunteers rowed a boat to his porch and cut the chains that bound him neck deep in the filthy water. Then they gave him food and water. He is dry now and much improved. I heard the rescuers say that a local boy was going to adopt him tomorrow. Rufus still barks. And quite loudly. Dogs, after all, will be dogs!
I sit in my cage, solitary and waiting, remembering all the suffering, and the human toll in lives from Katrina. This is a monumental tragedy. Images and scenes will forever haunt our nation and each of the survivors. Those humans and animals left behind—stranded, saved, and some forever lost—each will remember this tragic time of terror, suffering, incredible bravery, and hope for the rest of our lives.
Now it is dark and quiet in the great hall and I sit alone and wonder about my mistress. Where is she? Has she forsaken me? Did she make it to safety? So many questions and no answers for one tiny feline to deal with, but alas tomorrow’s another day and I am more than ready for my first good sleep in days.
I am roused from that sleep when one of the volunteers comes to my cage. She gently picks me up and takes me out in her gloved hands. Then I see her! My mistress! I see the happy face of my mistress, tears streaming down her cheeks, and she takes me in her loving arms and hugs me to her with the warmth of true love.
“Delilah! Oh you beautiful, beautiful cat, I missed you so much! Mommy missed you, you little darlin’ and now I have you back again!”
I purr delightfully, life is going to get considerably better from now on. And believe me, the next time she goes away, I’m going with her!
And that, dahling, is the story of what happened to one glorious Persian long-haired feline, who after Hurricane Katrina, ended up being just one more cat on a hot tar roof.
* * * *
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Delilah the cat first appeared in the short story, “Mrs. Milligan’s Cat,” which was reprinted in The Cat Megapack (Wildside Press, 2013).
CATS AND CANDY, by Mark Twain
When I was fourteen I was living with my parents, who were very poor—and correspondently honest. We had a youth living with us by the name of Jim Wolfe. He was an excellent fellow, seventeen years old, and very diffident. He and I slept together—virtuously; and one bitter winter’s night a cousin Mary—she’s married now and gone—gave what they call a candy-pulling in those days in the West, and they took the saucers of hot candy outside of the house into the snow, under a sort of old bower that came from the eaves—it was a sort of an ell then, all covered with vines—to cool this hot candy in the snow, and they were all sitting there. In the mean time we were gone to bed. We were not invited to attend this party; we were too young.
The young ladies and gentlemen were assembled there, and Jim and I were in bed. There was about four inches of snow on the roof of this ell, and our windows looked out on it; and it was frozen hard. A couple of tomcats—it is possible one might have been of the opposite sex—were assembled on the chimney in the middle of this ell, and they were growling at a fearful rate, and switching their tails about and going on, and we couldn’t sleep at all.
Finally Jim said, “For two cents I’d go out and snake them cats off that chimney.” So I said, “Of course you would.” He said, “Well, I would; I have a mighty good notion to do it.” Says I, “Of course you have; certainly you have, you have a great notion to do it.” I hoped he might try it, but I was afraid he wouldn’t.
Finally I did get his ambition up, and he raised the window and climbed out on the icy roof, with nothing on but his socks and a very short shirt. He went climbing along on all fours on the roof toward the chimney where the cats were. In the meantime these young ladies and gentlemen were enjoying themselves down under the eaves, and when Jim got almost to that chimney he made a pass at the cats, and his heels flew up and he shot down and crashed through those vines, and lit in the midst of the ladies and gentlemen, and sat down in those hot saucers of candy.
There was a stampede, of course, and he came upstairs dropping pieces of chinaware and candy all the way up, and when he got up there—now anybody in the world would have gone into profanity or something calculated
to relieve the mind, but he didn’t; he scraped the candy off his legs, nursed his blisters a little, and said, “I could have ketched them cats if I had had on a good ready.”
CRY FROM A FAR PLANET, by Tom Godwin
A smile of friendship is a baring of the teeth. So is a snarl of menace. It can be fatal to mistake the latter for the former.
Harm an alien being only under circumstances of self-defense.
TRUST NO ALIEN BEING UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
—From Exploration Ship’s Handbook.
He listened in the silence of the Exploration ship’s control room. He heard nothing but that was what bothered him; an ominous quiet when there should have been a multitude of sounds from the nearby village for the viewscreen’s audio-pickups to transmit. And it was more than six hours past the time when the native, Throon, should have come to sit with him outside the ship as they resumed the laborious attempt to learn each other’s language.
The viewscreen was black in the light of the control room, even though it was high noon outside. The dull red sun was always invisible through the world’s thick atmosphere and to human eyes full day was no more than a red-tinged darkness.
He switched on the ship’s outside floodlights and the viewscreen came to bright white life, showing the empty glades reaching away between groves of purple alien trees. He noticed, absently, that the trees seemed to have changed a little in color since his arrival.
The village was hidden from view by the outer trees but there should have been some activity in the broad area visible to him. There was none, not even along the distant segment of what should have been a busy road. The natives were up to something and he knew, from hard experience on other alien worlds, that it would be nothing good. It would be another misunderstanding of some kind and he didn’t know enough of their incomprehensible language to ask them what it was—
* * * *
Suddenly, as it always came, he felt someone or something standing close behind him and peering over his shoulder. He dropped his hand to the blaster he had taken to wearing at all times and whirled.
The Second Cat Megapack: Frisky Feline Tales, Old and New Page 46
