The Five Lives of Our Cat Zook

by Joanne Rocklin

  “I thought this was a ghost tale,” Freddy says.

  “I’m getting to that,” I say.

  “One day, a tiny white kitten leaped into their parlor from an open window. She was as white as vanilla ice cream.”

  “A girl kitten?” asks Fred.

  “Shh. Why not?” I ask. “And please stop interrupting.” I pull on my story ear again and continue.

  “This white kitten, this shy, very quiet kitten had, yes, twenty-six toes. She also had a long, long tail, curled at the tip like a question mark. At the very tip of that tail was a teeny white spot that sparkled like a diamond in the afternoon sun. In fact, it was a diamond, or some kind of stone that sure looked like one. The very, very old woman and the very, very old man adopted that kitten and named her Jewel. They grew to love Jewel, even before they discovered the amazing thing about that diamond.”

  I pause dramatically. “The diamond had the power to fulfill wishes!”

  “Wow,” says Freddy.

  “One day, the very, very old man awoke with a sniffly cold, the kind that gets you sneezing and honking without stop.

  “‘Mew?’ mewed Jewel in her quiet, shy voice.

  “‘I wish I didn’t have this terrible cold!’ said the very, very old man, blowing his nose with a tissue. His other hand was petting Jewel, back and forth, back and forth, from her ears to her tail-tip. Then, a few hours later, his cold was gone!

  “Another time, the very, very old woman wished she’d remembered to buy butter at the market for her taffy. She was famous in the neighborhood for her taffy. When she got up from petting Jewel, there was a creamy yellow lump on a plate near the sink!

  “And one day, the very, very old man wished his favorite striped cap, the only one ever to keep his earlobes warm, wasn’t lost anymore. He happened to look up, and there it was, hanging with the soup pot from a kitchen hook!

  “Well, the very, very old man and the very, very old woman soon connected the dots. Every time they touched the diamond on Jewel’s tail, Jewel said, ‘Mew?’ in her quiet, shy voice. And that meant, ‘What is your wish?’

  “But the very, very old woman and the very, very old man weren’t greedy. They already had everything they’d ever wanted—for instance, each other, and also an adorable kitten. And they certainly didn’t want Jewel to think they loved her only for the diamond on her tail. So they only wished for improbable things, not impossible ones, which wasn’t within Jewel’s power to give, anyway. And all their improbable wishes came true.”

  “What’s ‘improbable’?” asks Freddy.

  “It means maybe it will happen or maybe it won’t, and it looks like it won’t. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.

  “Anyway, one sad day, something terrible befell them. The very, very old woman died, because—well, she was very, very old.

  “‘Woe is me!’ cried the very, very old man.

  “The very, very old man knew that he would die by and by for the same reason, and also because of his broken heart. He and his wife had known each other for ages and ages and were each other’s first and only true loves, and one couldn’t live without the other.

  “So the very, very old man began to make out his will. ‘Give all my cash to a cat rescue society,’ he wrote. ‘Eleven dollars and thirty cents, hidden in my underwear drawer.’”

  “Is that where our money is hidden?” Freddy asks.

  “Stop interrupting,” I say.

  “But unfortunately, the very, very old man died right smack in the middle of writing up his will. That’s because it took him much longer than necessary on account of all his rebuses.”

  I switch on the flashlight and reach for my rebus-making materials. I think for a while, write something, then think some more.

  “Hurry up,” says Fred.

  “It’s not easy,” I say. “I’m having the same problem the old man had, thinking of good ones for you to figure out.” I scribble something quickly. “OK, try these. The house goes to …”

  “B. RW hill. Bill,” reads Fred.

  “Right,” I say. “Bill the Butcher. The pots go to …”

  “B. RW hat. Bat,” reads Freddy.

  “Right. Bat the Baker. And all the furniture goes to …”

  “C. RW fan. Can. D.”

  “Yup. Candy the Candlestick Maker. And the next part is the most important.”

  “We heart our cat. We love our cat,” reads Fred. “Do not give her to—”

  “And just at that point, the very, very old man had died. He hadn’t had a chance to write ‘Dean the mean egg man.’ Dean the mean egg man had always snooped around their house whenever he delivered the eggs, asking way too many questions about Jewel’s diamond.

  “When all the townspeople gathered to read the will, Dean the mean egg man loudly insisted, ‘That cat will be happiest in my chicken coop, with hens for company and mice to chase!’

  “‘Good thinking,’ said the mayor.

  “Of course, Dean the mean egg man had figured out the wish-fulfilling powers of the diamond.

  “Poor Jewel. She spent her days with the mean egg man fulfilling improbable wishes, such as increased egg production whenever she sang to the hens. But one day, the mean egg man locked her up in the silo until she fulfilled some impossible ones: for instance, a golden egg or two. Fulfilling impossible wishes wasn’t within Jewel’s power to do. And that sad day, inside that silo, brokenhearted, Jewel died trying.

  “Just before he buried her in his front yard, the mean egg man snipped the diamond from Jewel’s tail. He glued that diamond to a silver pendant attached to a silver chain, which he planned to wear as a bracelet to match the silver earring in his ear. And of course he still planned to enjoy its improbable wish-fulfilling powers, such as increased egg production.”

  “I thought this was going to be a ghost story,” Fred complains again.

  “I’m getting to that. Do you think you can take it?”

  “Of course,” Freddy says. But he snuggles close to me.

  “That night, a noise awakened Dean the mean egg man. He sat up in bed.

  “‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  “There was only the silence of the dark, cold night.

  “‘Who’s there?’ he asked again, shivering. And by and by, the answer came.

  “‘EE-OW! EE-OWEY! I HAVE COME FOR WHAT IS MINE!’

  “‘What cat is that?’ the mean egg man asked. He opened his front door, and seeing no cat, went back to bed. ‘I must have been dreaming,’ he said.

  “But the howling continued. It was ‘EE-OW! EE-OWEY! EE-OW! EE-OWEY!’ all night long!

  “Dean the mean egg man didn’t sleep a wink that night. He even threw a shoe out the window, but that didn’t help. The howling went on and on.

  “The next night the noise continued, even louder now.

  “‘EE-OW! EE-OWEY! I HAVE COME FOR WHAT IS MINE!’

  “Dean the mean egg man covered his head with his pillow, but he could still hear the howling. There was no sleep for the mean egg man that night, either. He had to take a long nap the next day, and didn’t get to feed his chickens or clean out his coops, which decreased egg production quite a bit.

  “On the third night, the noise was louder still, almost like the sound of a terrible windstorm.

  “‘EE-OW! EE-OWEY! I HAVE COME FOR WHAT IS MINE!’

  “The mean egg man knew he couldn’t afford to lose another night’s sleep. He raced to the door and opened it. There was a big, white, see-through Ghost Cat, flashing ghostly teeth and ghostly claws, floating in and out of tree trunks, spinning on the roof, swooping around and around the courtyard, and finally landing on Dean the mean egg man’s doorstep.

  “‘EE-OW! EE-OWEY!’ she roared.

  “The terrified mean egg man finally remembered the diamond, which, as you know, was glued to the silver pendant on a bracelet around his wrist. He rubbed that diamond and yelled, ‘I wish you’d just shut up!’

  “But that was an impossible wish, because
no wishes are ever granted if you are rude about it.

  “‘SAY THE MAGIC WORD!’ howled the Ghost Cat.

  “‘What magic word?’ asked the mean egg man.

  “The Ghost Cat said, ‘I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT!’”

  “Everybody knows what it is,” Freddy says.

  Of course, the Magic Word has been pounded into our heads our whole lives.

  “Everybody but Dean the mean egg man,” I say.

  “The mean egg man tried all sorts of words and groups of words.

  “‘Abracadabra, shazam, pittooee, frazzlebug, wart of a hedgehog, iddy-biddy kidneys, red monkey guacamole!’

  “He tried all night long until he was hoarse, racking his brain to think of all the magic words he’d ever heard in his life. Nothing worked. The loud and annoying howling continued deep into the night.

  “‘Skedaddle faddle, lizard paddles, hocus pocus, toes on toastus, pokus in the ribus, fee-fi-fo-fum …’

  “On and on and on, hoarse and exhausted, until finally the Ghost Cat took pity on the mean egg man and gave him a hint.

  “‘COME ON! THE MAGIC WORD YOUR PARENTS USED TO MAKE YOU SAY!’

  “‘Thanks?’ asked the mean egg man. ‘How dee do? Excuse me? Ma’am? Sir? You’re welcome? Please pass the pickles? Please? Please! Oh, that magic word! OK, I wish you would please, please, please tell me how to make you go away!’

  “And Dean the mean egg man’s wish was granted. With a sharp claw, the Ghost Cat wrote the answer on a windowpane.”

  “The diamond from my …” reads Fred. “T. RW pail. Tail.”

  “Right. Being a Ghost Cat was no life at all, and the Ghost Cat couldn’t continue on to her next life without that missing diamond. So the message on the windowpane said, The diamond from my tail will end this tale.

  “‘Here!’ shouted Dean the mean egg man, hurling the bracelet with its diamond out the door. ‘And I wish I never see you again! Please.’

  “The frightened mean egg man (actually, no longer the egg man, since egg production was so small) sold his business and moved far away to live with his sister in Southern Rebusina. He tried to join a rock band. But hardly any rock band needed a tambourine player, which was the only instrument Mean Dean and his Tambourine knew how to play. He did get work every now and then, but mostly then.

  “The Ghost Cat was no longer the Ghost Cat or Jewel, but—”

  I paused.

  “To be continued!” said Freddy.

  “Right.”

  father figure is someone who kindly fills in if your father is absent or deceased. For instance, my classmate Carlos has Michael, a Big Brother from the Big Brothers Big Sisters program. Michael takes him to basketball games. He picks up Carlos after school, and they often go pig out on humongous banana splits at Fentons Creamery. I guess Michael’s more big brotherly than fatherly, now that I think of it.

  My mother has chosen my teacher, Mr. Fry, as my father figure, although she doesn’t call him that. She just said she thought it would be helpful for us to have some talks at recess every now and then. I know she wishes he’d tell me to stop wearing my dad’s Raiders sweatshirt every day. But we never talk about my sweatshirt. Mr. Fry usually lets me choose the topic.

  “Well,” says Mr. Fry today.

  There are quite a few long, pleasant silences during my talks with Mr. Fry. Mr. Fry is a shy man. (Name Theory: Fry RW shy.) Lately we’ve mostly been talking about cats.

  “Zook’s still at the vet, hooked up to fluids to flush out his toxins,” I say. “His kidneys aren’t working well enough to do the job.”

  Mr. Fry nods. “Well,” he says, getting his thoughts together. I study Mr. Fry’s cowlick while I’m waiting. It sticks out over his right ear. I figure he tries hard to tame it because it usually looks damp.

  “Well. Fluids will certainly help to flush out those toxins,” Mr. Fry says finally, nodding his head. “Don’t you worry.”

  I believe him because Mr. Fry himself has three cats.

  “My own cat had kidney trouble last year. He was given fluids and he’s fit as a fiddle now,” Mr. Fry says.

  I’m not sure I understand what “fit as a fiddle” means, but I suppose it means that you can get a tune out of it, if it’s a fiddle, and that you’re back to normal, if you’re a cat. Mr. Fry knows all about tunes, because he plays the cello in the Sailors’ Chamber Orchestra. He told us that fact on the first day of school, when he was introducing himself to us.

  “I love sailing and movies and mystery novels, and have recently taken up tennis. And I’m allergic to pickles,” said Mr. Fry.

  “Hoo-hoo, allergic to pickles!” a Rowdy called out from somewhere around Table 2. Our class is made up of Rowdies and Listeners. I’m in the latter group. Rowdies are a few sandwiches short of an all-day picnic, as my dad would have said.

  My gramma works in a school office. She knows which teachers keep a lid on things and why. Mr. Fry doesn’t know much about keeping lids on. That’s why Room 7 keeps boiling over, in Gramma Dee’s opinion.

  “You don’t begin the year trying to be pals with students. You start off firm, set some rules, and then loosen up a bit as the school year goes on,” Gramma Dee says.

  The Rowdies always talk to one another while he’s trying to teach. They throw pencils and rolled-up paper across the room. They mumble “Pass the pickles, please” under their breaths and laugh.

  Mr. Fry keeps telling everybody to “keep it down to a dull roar.”

  My gramma says there shouldn’t be any roar at all, dull or any other kind.

  “I think it’s because Mr. Fry is a cat owner and not a dog owner,” I say to Riya and Kiran on the way to pick up Freddy at preschool. Today was a pretty noisy day in Room 7.

  “What do you mean?” Riya asks.

  Most people would understand exactly what I mean, but Riya doesn’t know much about pets. Her parents won’t allow them. You have to take off your shoes when you go into their house, and since dogs don’t have any shoes to take off, just their big, dirty paws messing up the carpets, that’s the end of that.

  “Dog owners learn how to be the boss,” I explain. “You have to be the alpha with dogs. That means number one. A cat owner doesn’t have to learn how to be the boss of its cat. Cats are their own bosses. You can’t train a cat to listen to you.”

  “Just like the kids in the class are the bosses of Mr. Fry,” says Kiran. Kiran, a year older than us, had Mr. Fry the year before.

  “Right,” I say. Even Mr. Fry’s cowlick is the boss over him.

  Then Kiran says, “You know what? In my opinion, cats aren’t as likable as dogs.”

  What a thing to say, especially to someone whose beloved pet is in the hospital!

  “That’s not true!” I say, totally shocked. “Of course cats are just as likable as dogs.”

  Kiran himself wishes his parents would allow them to have a dog. He’s read many training books about them in preparation for the future pets he’ll have when he’s on his own. Every year he watches the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show on TV. He can reel off the top four smartest breeds (border collie, poodle, German shepherd, and golden retriever) and even tell you what to feed a dog with diarrhea (rice and cottage cheese). He also knows the difference between a domestic and a Persian breed of cat, and a thing or two about scratching posts. But when a person has too much book knowledge and not enough actual experience, their theories can be off base. Way, way off base.

  “Cats just don’t seem to have that much love or allegiance to their owners,” Kiran says.

  “Love or allegiance! They have loads of that!” I say. “Right this minute, this very minute, Zook is longing for our entire family.”

  “Well, you said a cat doesn’t obey its owners,” says Riya.

  “You don’t have to command a cat to love you!” I say hotly. “And Zook does love us!”

  We have reached Freddy’s school. Freddy’s face is pressed against the front window, just like Zook’s face always is
, waiting for us after school. Freddy’s school is called the Little Tots Playskool. That’s the way they spell it. Playskool. It seems weird that an educational establishment would use the wrong spelling on purpose, but there you go.

  We all go into the Playskool, and I put my initials on the sign-out sheet: O.A. I make the A have a fancy, mature, loopy cat tail, like this:

  I am very proud to have the responsibility of signing Freddy out.

  And then, walking home, I continue our discussion.

  I tell Riya and Kiran how my mom and I smuggled Zook into the hospital to visit my father, the story that’s been going around and around in my head these past few days.

  “Zook was in a wicker basket covered with a green-and-white cloth napkin with strawberries on it,” I say. “No animals were allowed into the hospital except special therapy dogs, and I don’t think there was such a thing as a therapy cat at Kaiser Permanente Medical Center. I had my hand resting on top of the napkin to keep Zook calm so he wouldn’t wriggle around. A nurse saw my mom and me and said, ‘That looks like a delicious picnic you’ve got there!’ and I said, ‘Sure is.’ Then we marched right in.”

  “I thought you said no one saw you go in,” Kiran says.

  I forgot I’d already told them the story. “Well, I left out that part last time,” I say.

  I add more details to this story every time I tell it. Every single time I think about it, actually.

  “So we went in, and my dad pulled off the napkin and laughed because he was expecting submarine sandwiches or tacos or something. He didn’t have much appetite then, anyway. He lifted Zook out. That wasn’t easy for my dad to do because he wasn’t as strong as he used to be, and Zook is big. But it was worth it, because Zook licked his face all over. Believe me, there was lots of love and allegiance in that bed! He snuggled up next to my dad under his blankets. Zook was purring so loud, like a car motor, or like a refrigerator when you leave the door open, so loud that we had to turn up the radio every time a nurse came into the room. He stayed with my dad for hours and hours.”