by Paul Gallico
Mr. Peddie answered immediately and with equal good humor: “If ever God inveigled himself into error, it was when He let man imagine Him in his own image, but I rather think this was man’s rather than God’s idea, since it has been more flattering to the former.”
MacDhui barked like a hyena, flashing his strong white teeth through the red line of his full lips. He loved the running battle with Peddie which had been going on between them ever since he had moved from Glasgow to Inveranoch at his behest, and which they carried on almost whenever and wherever they encountered one another. “Oh ho,” he said, “then you admit that man has endowed God with a full set of his own faults and spends most of his praying time catering to them?”
The minister stroked the head of his little dog lovingly. “I suspect the real punishment for the sin in Eden,” he said, “was when he made us human, when he took away the divinity He had loaned us and made us kin and blood brothers with”—and here he nodded with his head toward the suffering pug dog—“these. You must admit the sentence contains an element of humor, something for which God is rarely given credit.”
For once Mr. MacDhui was caught without a retort, for with university cunning his friend had suddenly made use of some of his own best arguments.
“But you won’t even admit that relationship,” the minister continued, cheerful at having extricated himself from the position where MacDhui could lecture him, “whereas I love this little fellow foolishly and consider him as important as myself when it comes to indulgence. Tell me, Andrew, do you not at all come to love these suffering animals you treat? Does not your heart break when they look at you so helplessly and trustingly?”
MacDhui turned his aggressive beard upon the pastor and regarded him with mingled truculence and pity as he replied. “Hardly. Even if I am only a veterinarian, I am still a doctor. If every doctor permitted himself to become emotionally involved with each of his patients or relatives of his patients, he would not last long. I am not sentimental, nor can I abide this indulgent affection wasted upon useless animals.” And he thrust out his beard again.
The Reverend Peddie nodded his round, smooth face as though in understanding and agreement and quite suddenly attacked from another quarter. He asked, “Was there then nothing you could do as a doctor for that poor old woman’s dog—I mean Mrs. Laggan’s? The one you persuaded her to have put away, and I doubt not have done so by now.”
Mr. MacDhui turned as red as his hair and his eyes grew hard and angry. “Why, has she complained to you, or said anything?”
“Do you find that so strange then? No, she did not complain, but she could not conceal her desolation. I saw her eyes as she went out. She is now all alone in the world.”
MacDhui continued defiant. “You thought I was hard on her, did you? Well, and what if I could have kept the animal alive for another three weeks or a month, or even two? The end result would be the same. She would still be alone in the world. And besides I offered to procure her another dog. People are always wishing me to find homes for all sorts.”
“But it was that poor, wretched, wheezy dog she loved and whose presence and friendship gave her comfort—just as this little fellow here fills a part of my life. Don’t you believe in the power of love at all to make our tour of duty here a little more bearable—?”
MacDhui shrugged and did not reply. He had loved and wooed and would have devoted his life to the profession of medicine and it had been denied him. He had loved Anne MacLean his wife and she had been taken from him . . . Love was a snare and love was a danger. One was better off without it, if one could avoid it, which was not always possible, and he thought of Mary Ruadh and his love for her. Simpler perhaps to be a stick or a stone, or a tree and feel nothing.
Mr. Peddie was ruminating, with his brow knitted in a frown. “There must be a key, you know,” he said.
“Key to what?”
“Perhaps it IS love. The key to the relationship between man and the four-footed, the winged and the finned creatures who are his neighbors in woods, field, and stream and his brothers and sisters on earth—”
“Tosh!” snorted MacDhui. “We are all part of the gigantic cosmic accident that put us here. We all started even, you know. We developed the upright position and the thumb and they lost. Bad luck for them.”
Peddie regarded MacDhui keenly through his spectacles and said with a smile, “Ah, Angus—I did not know you had come so far already. To admit we were put here seems to me a weakening of your position you can ill afford. And who, may I ask, arranged this cosmic accident? For surely you are not so old-fashioned as to believe any longer that accidents just happen—”
“And if I ask you who, you will say God, of course.”
“Who but?”
“Antigod. The system is wretchedly run. I could conduct it better myself.” MacDhui reached up to a shelf and took down a small bottle of medicine. The pug dog emitted a gigantic belch, struggled to its feet, and sat up begging. The two men looked at one another and burst into roars of laughter.
4
I was checking a mousehole when Mary Ruadh came to take me away to go down to the quay in the town, in company with Hughie Stirling, to see the steamer arrive from Glasgow.
The interruption did not leave me in the best of humors, for I had put in a lot of time and work on that hole and felt that I was just about to achieve results.
It was the one by the larder, the important one. I had been treating it for days and it was a nuisance being dragged off. Mousehole watching to me was duty, and I always did it thoroughly and well. All of the other things I had to do for Mary Ruadh to keep her happy and contented, including submitting to being carried about by her everywhere she went, were her idea and not mine.
People are inclined to forget or overlook our primary purpose in a house—and out of purely selfish reasons, such as when they try to turn us into babies—and often, when made to live unnatural lives, we become spoiled and lazy. Even when every so often we bring them a mouse as a reminder and lay it at their feet, people are so conceited and stupid as to accept it as a personal gift, instead of realizing that we are calling attention to our reason for being there and paying up for board and lodging.
I suppose you think that checking a mousehole is easy and no work at all. Well, all I can say is YOU try it sometime. Get down on your hands and knees and remain in that position, concentrating and staring at one little hole in the wainscoting for hours at a time, while simultaneously pretending that you are not. Checking a mousehole isn’t just giving it a sniff and going away as a dog would do. On the contrary. If you are as conscientious and dutiful as I am, it is a full-time job, particularly if there are two or three or you suspect one of them of having two entrances.
It isn’t catching mice, mind you, that is the most necessary. Anyone can catch a mouse; it is no trick at all; it is putting them off and keeping them down that is important. You will hear sayings like, “The only good mouse is a dead mouse,” but that is only half of it. The only good mouse is the mouse that isn’t there at all. What you must do, if you are at all principled about your work, is to conduct a war of nerves on the creatures. This calls for time, energy, and a good deal of cleverness, which I wouldn’t begrudge if I wasn’t expected to do so many other things besides.
Just to give you an idea of what mousehole watching entails, after you have located and charted them and decided which ones are active and which extinct, you select one and go there, but, of course, never twice at the same time exactly. A mouse is no fool and soon learns to time you if you are regular. I find that hunch and instinct, or just plain feline know-how are the best things to guide you. You just KNOW at a certain moment; it comes over you as in a dream that THAT is the time to go there.
Well, first you take two or three sniffs and then settle down in front of it and stare for a while. If the mouse is in, he or she can’t get out, and if they are out they can’t get home. Either way it is worrying. And so for the first hour you just remain there st
aring. At the same time, when you get used to it you find that you can think about all sorts of other things, make plans, or wish, or remember who you were, or what happened to an ancestor thousands and thousands of generations ago, or perhaps think about what there is going to be for supper.
THEN, suddenly you close both eyes and pretend that you are asleep. Now, this is the most important and delicate part of the entire operation, for now you may rely only upon your ears and the receiving antennae at the ends of your whiskers. For this is when the mouse, if it is out, will try to get in, or try to get out if it is in, and just at the psychological moment when it thinks it has you, you open one eye.
I can promise you that the effect upon the mouse of finding itself suddenly stared at by that single eye of ours is absolutely tremendous. I am not sure what it is exactly, unless it is to be confronted with the evidence that you actually need only one eye to watch while the other one sleeps that is so upsetting to the mouse, but there it is. A few doses of that and it is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Its nervousness soon communicates itself to its family; they hold a consultation and decide to move away.
This is the manner in which any responsible member of our species handles the mouse problem in the household, but as you can see, it calls for technique, practice, and time; above all, time. I managed to keep the house reasonably clear in spite of all the other things I had to do, room and parcel inspection, washing, exchanging news with the neighbors, and looking after Mary Ruadh, for which of course I got no thanks or appreciation at all from Mr. MacDhui, and little more from Mrs. McKenzie, from whom I had to listen to such complaints as, “Och, ye lazy Thomasina. The mice have been at the larder again. Do ye then no’ ken a moosie when ye see yin?” which was supposed to be very cutting and sarcastic, but of course rolled right off my back.
So there I was, just settled down to put the cap on three solid days of nerve war, when Hughie Stirling came whistling outside the house, and the next thing I knew, Mary Ruadh in a blue pinafore with blue socks and blue shoes was picking me up and carrying me off through the town down to the quay. I had never been there before at steamboat time.
Hughie Stirling was the laird’s son. He was almost ten, but already tall for his age. He lived in the manor, whose grounds reached almost to the back of our house, and he was a great friend to Mary Ruadh.
You can have boys, for my part. I find them nasty, dirty, cruel in the main, and unkind and heartless to boot, selfish little beasts, but I must admit that Hughie Stirling was different. He managed to keep himself clean and had a kind of noble look about him, with a lean face, dark, wavy hair, and light blue eyes, the farseeing kind.
Mary Ruadh tagged after him whenever she could, or he would let her, which was quite often, for he seemed to like to look after her. Most boys of that age will have no part of little girls at any price, but a few, like Hughie, seem to like having them about, particularly if they have no sisters, watching over them, picking them up, brushing them off and wiping away their tears when they fall or hurt themselves, and seeing to it that their noses were blown when it was necessary. Like Mary Ruadh, Hughie was an only child and so he liked to borrow her occasionally, and of course I went along over Mary Ruadh’s arm, for she would not go without me. Hughie never seemed to mind this and appeared to understand it and not think it curious. Perhaps he appreciated my worth. I am not surprised to find this attitude in one of the aristocracy.
If I could live my own life, that is to say, if I were not “house,” I should move to the water front and spend the days sitting on the jetties in the sun, sniffing the tar in the ropes with which the boats are made fast, and when the fishermen’s skiffs came in, I would strut along the granite flagstones of the quay, with my tail aquivering in the air, and go down to greet them and see what they had brought in from the sea.
Next to lavender, I think the smells I like best are those of the sea, boats and heaps of old oilskins, sweaters, gear and tackle and rubber boots piled up in the boathouse, and the beautiful odor of fish; fish and seaweed, crab and lobster and the green sea scum that fastens to the gray-stone landing steps. And there is a wonderful odor by the sea in the very early morning, too, when the sun has not yet pierced through the mists and everything is soggy with damp and dew and salt.
And so once I was there with the children in the square by the quay where the statue to Rob Roy stands, I was not too ill-pleased, for there were many interesting and exciting things going on, except that when the steamer came in and blew its whistle it frightened me so that I fell off Mary Ruadh’s shoulder and hurt myself.
That wants a bit of explaining, I know, for we always fall on our feet, particularly when we have time to turn over, but this all happened so quickly that I didn’t.
The steamer was all white with a narrow black funnel, and how was I to know that the funnel was going to make a horrible noise? I was quite fascinated watching the ship come puffing up to the edge of the stone jetty, with bells clanging and orders being shouted, and much white froth of water all about it as it went first forward, then backward, then even sideways, and suddenly, without warning, the loudest and most frightful shriek burst from the top of the stack and I fell over backward.
Well, I suppose I could have saved myself, but it would have meant digging in my claws into Mary Ruadh’s neck, for I had been lying across her shoulders. If it had been anyone else, I should not have hesitated to anchor my claws, you may believe me. But it all happened so quickly, the awful noise that seemed to split my ears open, and then there was a bump and I was lying on my side, hurting.
Mary Ruadh picked me up at once and rubbed it, and so did Hughie Stirling, and they made a fuss over me, though Hughie laughed and said, “The old whistle frightened her,” and then to me, “You’ll have to get used to that, Thomasina, if you’re going to be a seagoing cat.” It seems that he and Mary Ruadh were planning a trip around the world in a yacht he was going to have when he grew up and, of course, she had said she wouldn’t go without me.
The rubbing made it feel better; Mary Ruadh cradled me in her arms and held me tight, and the next time it hooted I wasn’t nearly so frightened and almost forgot the pain in the excitement of watching the mail sacks being tossed onto the pier, followed by the luggage of the visitors, which was covered with the most interesting-looking labels, after which the visitors themselves came ashore down a wooden gangway that had been run onto the side of the ship from the quay.
Many of them had children by the hand and that, of course, interested Mary Ruadh and Hughie and Geordie McNabb, who had joined us. Geordie is eight and a Wolf Cub and he goes all over by himself and sees everything. There were a half dozen or so dogs on a leash that came ashore, and a cat basket; overhead the gulls wheeled and screamed; taxicab drivers honked their horns and shouted at the people and all in all, except for my tumble, it was a most satisfactory landing. And Geordie had some interesting news.
He told Hughie and Mary Ruadh, “There’s gypsies and tinkers come to Dunmore Field at the foot of the glen, across the river. Lots and lots of them with wagons and cages and caravans and things. They’re camped beside the woods on Tarbet Road. Mr. MacQuarrie, the constable, went out to have a word with them.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Hughie Stirling, “that’s exciting! I wish I had been there. What happened?”
Geordie McNabb drew in a deep breath and his eyes became quite as round as his head because of the importance of answering the question put to him by the laird’s son. I could see that.
He replied, “Constable MacQuarrie said as long as they behaved themselves and didn’t give any trouble they could stay there.”
Hughie nodded his head. “And what did they say?”
“Oh, there was a big man there and he had on a big leather belt and it had nails in it. And he put his hands in his belt and laughed at Mr. MacQuarrie.”
Hughie said: “It’s no’ clever to laugh at Mr. MacQuarrie.”
Geordie continued: “Another man, a little one wearin
g a waistcoat and a hat came up and he pushed the man with the belt away and said that they were grateful and would not give any trouble, but would just try to earn a few honest pennies. Then Mr. MacQuarrie asked what they meant to do with the animals in the cages.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Hughie, even more interested, and by now so was Mary Ruadh, and so was I. “What animals, in what cages?”
Geordie reflected before he replied, “Well, they had a bear and an eagle and a mountain lion and some monkeys and dogs and an elephant and horses, and—”
“Poooh!” remonstrated Hughie, “gypsies never have elephants.”
Geordie looked as though he was sorry he had said it. “Well, maybe they didn’t really have an elephant, but they DID have a bear and an eagle and a mountain lion and monkeys and they said they were going to let people look at them for a shilling.”
“I say,” Hughie burst out with enthusiasm, “if I can wheedle a couple of shillings out of Mummy, we must go—”
Geordie had not yet finished his account. He continued, “Mr. MacQuarrie said he supposed that was all right as long as they did not ill-treat the animals, or give a performance.”
Mary Ruadh asked, “What’s a performance?”
Hughie replied, “Standing on their heads and doing tricks, I suppose. I’ll bet they’re going to when the police aren’t looking.”
Geordie concluded: “The man with the belt started to laugh again, but the other gypsy with the hat and the waistcoat went over and pushed him with his shoulder and Mr. MacQuarrie went away. I tried to look under the cover of one of the wagons to see what the animals were like, but a big boy came and chased me. He had a whip.”
All this Mary Ruadh recounted to her father that night, during the time he gave her her evening bath and he listened to every word she said as though she were as grown-up as he, which I must say, astonished me, for grownups have a way of talking to children—yes, and to us too—that is most patronizing, irritating and humiliating. But Mr. MacDhui just nodded and grumbled and grunted seriously, as he listened, all the time soaping the back of her neck and ears with the washrag. “Well, little pink frog,” he said finally, “just see that you keep well away from those gypsies whatever they mean to do, for they were always a filthy thieving folk and you cannot tell me they have reformed their ways in the last generation just because the police are content to condone their presence, eh?”