“What’s wrong with you women? You want all kinds of labor-saving gadgets, and then you gripe about having nothing to do. Why don’t you bake some bread or something instead of buying everything ready-made, if you’re so bored?”
“Stop pacing up and down—or else take those clumsy boots off. You’re ruining the floor.”
“Try scrubbing clothes with a washboard, if you’re so bored.”
“I’m a pianist, not a laundress. You seem to forget that I gave up a career to marry you. One of these days I’m going to start giving lessons—”
“And let people think I can’t support a . . . a sick wife?”
“If you’d stop pacing the floor and listen—”
“And have a lot of dirty farmers’ kids tramping through the house? Over my dead body!”
“Look out! You almost stepped on his paw!”
“Fool cat!”
Dakh Won soon learned to keep out of sight on weekends. Most of the time he stayed outdoors. He liked high places, and the path that ran along the edge of the ravine was a balcony overlooking Dakh Won’s universe. At the bottom of the rocky slope there was a gurgling stream with woods beyond it and mysterious noises in the underbrush.
Dakh Won could sit on the ravine trail for hours, entertaining his senses. He watched a leaf being tickled by the breeze, smelled wild cherries and the toasted aroma of earth warmed by the sun, tasted bitter grass and the sourness of insects that he caught with his paw, heard the whispers of the soil as a root reached down for moisture.
His ear was also tuned to sounds from the house—the loud and jarring voices, the slamming doors, the stamping of the cruel boots. High-laced, thick-soled, blunt-toed, they made him feel like a small and vulnerable creature.
When the weekend was over, he again felt safe. As if he knew he was needed, he stayed close, sitting on the piano bench while fingers danced on the keys and a foot tapped the pedal. The shoes were tied with leather tassles that bounced with every move.
Afternoons he followed the bobbing tassels down the ravine trail. The path was a narrow aisle of well-trodden clay, bordered on one side by wild cherry bushes and on the other by clumps of grass that drooped over the edge of the ravine. The tassled shoes always walked haltingly down the ravine trail, stopping to rest at a rustic bench before continuing to the wire fence at the end. There was a gate there, and another house beyond, but the tasseled shoes never went farther than the fence.
One day following the afternoon walk, the big round table in the kitchen was set with a single plate and a single cup and saucer, and Dakh Won sat on a chair to watch morsels of food passing from plate to fork to mouth.
“You’re good company, Dakh Won. You’re my best friend.”
He squeezed his eyes.
“You’re a big, strong, brave, intelligent cat.”
Dakh Won licked a paw and passed it modestly over his seal brown mask.
“Would you like a little taste of crabmeat?”
With guttural assent Dakh Won sprang to the tabletop.
“Oh, dear! Cats aren’t supposed to jump on the dinner table.”
Dakh Won sat primly, keeping a respectable distance from the cream pitcher.
“But it’s all right when we’re alone—just you and me. We won’t tell anyone.”
For the rest of the week, meals were companionable events, but when Friday night came, Dakh Won sensed a change in the system.
There was a brown tablecloth with brass candlesticks and two plates instead of one. Alone in the kitchen he surveyed the table setting. The spot he usually occupied was cluttered with dinnerware, but there was plenty of room between the candlesticks. He hopped up lightly, stepped daintily among the china and glassware, and arranged himself as a dusky centerpiece on the brown tablecloth.
At that moment there were ominous sounds outdoors. A car had pulled into the yard, crunching on the gravel, and the heavy boots that Dakh Won feared were stamping on the back porch. He made himself into a small motionless bundle. Bruising boots could not reach him on the table.
The back door opened and banged shut, making a little flapping noise at the impact.
“Hey, Hilda! Hilda! Where the devil are you? What’s happened to this door?”
“Here I am. I was upstairs, dressing.”
“Why? Who’s coming?”
“Nobody. I thought it would be nice to—”
“What the devil have you done to the back door?”
“That’s a cat-hatch. I had it installed so Dakh Won can go in and out. It’s hinged, you see—”
“A cat-hatch! You’ve ruined a perfectly good door! Who made it? Who cut the thing?”
“A very nice man from the farm down the road. It didn’t cost anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“How did you meet this man? Why didn’t it cost anything?”
“Well, I was taking my walk along the ravine—the way the doctor said I should—and the farmer was mending the fence around his property, so we started talking. Dakh Won was with me, and the man said we ought to have a cat-hatch. So he came over with a box of tools—”
“And you had this man in the house when you were alone?”
“Jack, the man is seventy years old. He has thirteen grandchildren. One of his grandsons wants to study piano, and I’m going to teach that boy whether you like it or not.”
“How old is he?”
“What does that matter?”
“I want to know what goes on here when I’m away.”
“Don’t be silly, Jack.”
“You’re not interested in me, so I figure you’ve got something else going.”
“That’s insulting—and crude!”
“You don’t appreciate a real man. You should’ve married one of those long-haired musicians.”
“Jack, you make me tired. Are you going to change clothes, or ruin the floor with those stupid boots?”
“That’s a laugh. You cut a hole in the door and give me hell for scratching the floor!”
As the voices grew louder, Dakh Won became more and more uncomfortable. He shifted his position nervously.
“Hilda! He’s on the table! . . . Scram! Beat it!”
A rough hand swept Dakh Won to the floor, and a ruthless boot thudded into his middle, lifting him into the air.
“Jack! Don’t you dare kick that cat!”
“I’m not having no lousy cat on my table!”
Dakh Won scudded through the cat-hatch and across the porch, pausing long enough to lick his quivering body before heading for the ravine. In the weeds alongside the trail he hunched himself into a pensive bundle and listened to the buzzing of evening insects.
Soon he heard the car drive away with more than the usual noise, and then he saw the shoe with bobbing tassels limping down the path.
“Dakh Won! Where are you? . . . Poor cat! Are you hurt?”
Strong hands lifted Dakh Won and smoothed his fur. He let himself be hugged tightly, and he flicked an ear when a drop of moisture fell on it.
“I don’t know what to do, Dakh Won. I just don’t know what to do. I can’t go on like this.”
The evil boots stayed away all weekend, and the next, and the next, but strange feet started walking into the house. The visitors came through the gate at the end of the ravine trail, bringing pleasant voices and laughter and small treats for Dakh Won, and they were careful where they walked.
One night, after an evening of music, the visitors went back down the trail, and Dakh Won stretched full length in the middle of the living room rug. Suddenly he raised his head. There was a meancing sound in the darkness outdoors—the familiar rumble of heavy boots on the back porch. They stamped their way uncertainly into the house.
“Jack! . . . So you decided to come back! Where have you been?”
“Whazzit matter?”
“You’ve been drinking again.”
“I been drinkin’ an’ thinkin’ an’ drinkin’ an’—”
Dakh Won heard somet
hing crash in the kitchen.
“You’re dead drunk! You can’t even sit on a chair.”
“I wanna find the cat. Where’s Stinker? I wanna drown ’im.”
“Jack, you’d better leave.”
There was another crash, and Dakh Won streaked through the house—a brown blur passing through the kitchen and out the cat-hatch. Under the back steps he hunched and listened to the anger of the voices.
“I’m warning you, Jack. Don’t give me any trouble. Go away from here.”
“You tryin’ to throw me outa my own house?”
“I’m all through with you. That’s final.”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“I’m filing for divorce.”
“Whoopee! Now I can have some fun.”
“You’ve been having plenty of fun, as you call it. I know all about that camp trailer you live in. I know what goes on when you’re away on a job—you and your tramps!”
“Go on—getta divorce. Nobody wants you. Nobody wants a—wants a cripple!”
“You and your drunken driving made me a cripple! And you’re going to pay—and pay—and pay.”
“You witch!”
“You won’t have a dollar left for tramps—not when the court gets through with you!”
“You crippled, ugly witch! I’ll smash your fingers!”
“Don’t you touch me!”
“I’ll kill you—”
“Stop it! . . . STOP . . .”
Dakh Won heard the screams and the scuffling feet. Then he saw the tassled shoes limping hurriedly from the house into the night. They headed for the ravine faster than he’d ever seen them go.
Bounding after them he heard sobs and moans as the feet hobbled unevenly along the trail toward the gate. The clay path was white in the moonlight, winding between the dark cherry bushes and the blackness of the ravine.
Back in the house there were crashing noises and a bellowing voice. Then Dakh Won saw the brutal boots staggering across the yard toward the white ribbon of pathway.
Ahead of him, the tassled shoes hurried on in panic, and behind him the boots were coming. The cat’s ears went back, and his sleek tail became a bushy plume. He stopped in the path and arched his back.
Then unaccountably, with a sudden languor, Dakh Won sprawled on the path and lay there, motionless. Where he happened to stretch his dark body there was a streak of shadow across the moonlit path, cast by a wild cherry bush, and in this puddle of darkness Dakh Won was an invisible mound of dark brown fur.
The boots lumbered closer, the voice roaring. “I’ll get you, you witch! I’ll kill you!”
Dakh Won closed his eyes. The feet bore down, and the boots tumbled over him, plunging deep into his unprotected side. With a snarl of pain he sprang to his feet—just as the evil boots sailed over him and disappeared. There was a rumbling of loose rocks in the ravine and then only the splash of the rushing stream down below as the cat licked his wounded side.
Only Dakh Won knows the true reason for his action that night on the ravine trail. It is not a cat’s nature to be vengeful—or heroic—but Dakh Won is a Siamese, and when people talk about the fatal accident in the ravine, his sapphire eyes are full of secrets.
East Side Story
(The following interview with Mrs. P.G.R. was taped at the Country Residence for Women in December 1985, for the Oral History Project of Gattville Community College.)
Yes, of course I shall be happy to give you my recollections of the 1920s. What interests you in particular, my dear?
What was it like to be a woman in the twenties?
Oh, it was glorious! We had recently gained the right to vote, you know. We bobbed our hair and bobbed our skirts up above the knee and burned our petticoats. They called us flappers. My parents were shocked because I danced the wicked Charleston and smoked cigarettes in long holders and tried to look flat chested. Some of us went to Paris and really kicked up our heels. Those were the days!
Best of all, we were free to choose glamorous careers—not just schoolteaching and stenography. We felt gloriously in the swim, don’t you know.
What careers did you consider glamorous?
Advertising . . . journalism . . . merchandising . . . publishing, and so forth. I trained as a commercial artist, and I shall never forget my first job with an advertising agency. It was across the street from Cat Canyon. Do you know about the Palace Theater scandal? No, of course you don’t. You are too young.
What was Cat Canyon?
An enormous hole in the ground, filled with stray cats! At first the newspapers called it a civic disgrace and a monument to corruption. It all started when they tore down the Palace Theater. But first let me ring for tea . . . . Hello, Marie? May we have a pot of tea and some cookies brought up to 105? Two teacups, please. I have a guest. Thank you, Marie.
Now what was I about to say? Ah, yes, the Palace Theater. It looked like a Greek temple and had been there forever and was famous for its acoustics. All the great names had appeared there—Caruso, Mrs. Barrymore, the divine Sarah—all of those.
Where was it located?
Right downtown, on the East Side. The freeway cuts through there now. In the twenties downtown was exciting and civilized and clean and safe. It was a crime to tear down the Palace Theater, but some real estate speculators wanted to build a huge twenty-two-story office building.
Didn’t anyone try to stop them?
A few persons wrote irate letters to the newspapers, but there were no demonstrations or campaigns such as we have today. Militant demonstrations were reserved for woman suffrage, the labor movement, and Prohibition.
So they tore down the theater and excavated a whole city block on the East Side for the new skyscraper. They had just started constructing the foundation when the city put a stop to the work. Not only was the concrete substandard, but the engineering concept was found to be faulty! Also, one of the principals in the scheme embezzled a lot of money, and there were criminal trials, exposes of political graft, lawsuits, and a suicide. It dragged through the courts and across the front pages of the newspapers for years. Meanwhile, they put a fence around the excavation—and then a strange thing happened. All the wild cats and stray cats of the city discovered that big hole filled with chunks of concrete—just as they discovered the cemeteries in Paris and the ruins in Rome. Have you been to Europe, my dear? You should go while you are young.
What was the public reaction to this invasion?
Why, people started wandering over to the East Side to watch the scores of cats cavorting in the excavation, and it became a genuine tourist attraction. That’s when one of the local columnists named it Cat Canyon, and the city built a special viewing fence.
What is a viewing fence?
This one was just a wooden fence with three horizontal rails, but the top rail was a wide shelf, so sightseers could lean on it comfortably. It was also a handy place to set a lunch-box and thermos, and persons working in the vicinity spent their lunch hours there.
The commercial buildings around the Canyon were four or five stories high, with no elevators! There were little hotels, nice restaurants, dress shops, art galleries, millinery shops. No doubt you have never seen a millinery shop, my dear, but in those days they were more important than filling stations. We all wore hats, but not many of us had automobiles.
The advertising agency was upstairs above an art gallery, overlooking Cat Canyon, and on my first day at work I could hardly wait for lunchtime so I could take my sketch pad to the viewing fence.
The excavation was deep but cluttered with concrete posts and slabs and ledges, with weeds growing in the cracks. All kinds of cats were jumping around like mountain goats and chasing each other and nibbling the weeds and washing themselves in the sun.
There was one fluffy white cat who was different. She was young, I could tell, but she didn’t frolic with the other kittens. She sat on an elevated ledge in the sun—very calm and aloof, like a princess on a throne.
I was standi
ng at the fence, sketching her, when a young man walked over and looked at my drawings. “You’re very good,” he said. “Are you from one of the art galleries?”
“No,” I told him. “I’ve just started to work at the advertising agency. I adore this fence. It’s such a clever idea.”
“Thank you,” he said. “My firm designed it. I’m an architect.” He was a nice young man, and I thought architects were terribly glamorous. He was taking snapshots of the Canyon with one of those little box cameras that sold for a dollar. And for your information, my dear, they took better pictures than some of today’s complicated contrivances.
The young man said: “I never get tired of looking at the abstract architecture of this excavation—the planes and angles and massing and elevations and depressions. It’s like a miniature medieval city—two cities, really, with a battlefield in between.”
He told me how the cats on one side of the hole never mingled with those on the other side, except at night. When the moon was in a certain phase, the two tribes met on the concrete slab in the middle and engaged in horrendous battles.
The cats on the other side were rather drab—mostly gray—but on our side there were orange, black, calico, gray-and-white, all kinds of mixtures. The architect—his name was Paul—called them the Grays and the Motleys.
He said: “If you come here often enough, you can figure out who is the king of each principality, and which cats are his warriors. The king of the Motleys is that fierce-looking black-and-white tomcat.”
Then I said: “That little white one sitting on a ledge is a princess. She never does anything common—like chasing butterflies or wrestling with the other kittens. She just sits on her throne and thinks beautiful thoughts. Whenever she steps down, she walks slowly in a regal way.”
And now, my dear, here comes our tea . . . . Thank you, Marie . . . . I hope the cookies are chocolate-chip . . . . Yes, they are! We didn’t have this delicacy in the twenties.
What did the cats do for food?
Food? Oh, they climbed out of the Canyon and begged at the back doors of the restaurants. I’m sure they caught rodents in the alleys and explored garbage pails. And, of course, they shared the lunches of visitors at the viewing fence. I saw cats gobbling doughnuts, grapes, olives, peanut butter sandwiches, hard-cooked eggs—everything anyone would offer them.
The Cat Who Had 14 Tales Page 6