by Betsy Byars
The sun on the floor is warm as I stretch my satisfied stretch and extend each paw one by one. My escape was magnificent. I roll gently to the other side and again I close my eyes …
Suddenly, I am back in the forest. My predator is gone. I jump nimbly from the branch to the ground and pause to sniff the forest air. I listen with my keen ears to the forest sounds. The wind blows the trees. The water in a nearby brook bubbles. But wait! There is a crackle in the brush over to the right behind the oak tree. A small noise. There it is again. Now a crinkle and a crackle. Only the keenest feline ears would have picked it out. I crouch and wait. My body tenses. I shift from side to side and wait.
Crinkle. Crackle. The noise draws closer … .
Crinkle. Crackle. I think it is my old nemesis the chipmunk. Yes! I see him now nosing in the dry leaves. My muscles tighten, but I remain as still as a statue, waiting for the perfect moment. Waiting … waiting … .
Crinkle. Crackle.
POUNCE!
I wake up, startled, but greatly satisfied by my day’s activities. The sun is fading now from the floor by the window, and I roll over and with a little difficulty stand up. I blink a few times and smile, remembering my adventures. Then I hear the sound of food dropping into my bowl. Even old ears can make out this pleasant sound. Even old legs can trot toward the kitchen for dinner.
CHAPTER 10
Pirate Cat, Treasure Hunter
The Caribbean, 1717
Read by Tiger
“Yo-ho! Yo-ho! A pirate’s life for meeeeeeeeee.”
Yes indeed, mate. The day I set foot on Captain Blackbeard’s ship, I knew a pirate’s life was for me.
I don’t look much like a pirate. I don’t wear an eye patch—both my eyes are quite fine. And I don’t have a peg leg. But I’m a pirate nonetheless.
It happened by accident. I was on the docks when a big catch arrived. I found a fishtail and I slipped inside a crate to have a little privacy while I finished it off. The crate was loaded onto a ship and I set sail with Blackbeard.
For as long as I’ve been with them, Blackbeard and his men have searched for the treasure of a man named Hollingsworth. They want it bad. It’s hidden on an island somewhere in the Caribbean and we have sailed to and fro looking for that treasure.
One day Blackbeard yelled, “Gather around, men.”
It was seldom Blackbeard called us all together, so I was curious. I jumped onto the railing beside him. He stroked my back as he spoke.
“I’ve new information that the Hollingsworth treasure is at Gorda Island. We set sail immediately.”
With that the men erupted in cheers.
The wind was steady and strong and the sails filled to capacity. We cut through the water with graceful speed.
Several hours later the lookout yelled, “There she stands.”
I leaped to the railing and got my first look at Gorda Island. Gorda means big, and big it was.
“Where do we drop anchor, Captain?” one of the crew asked.
“North by the caves.”
We pulled close and set anchor. The men lowered the rowboats into the beautiful blue waters.
“Bring Coral,” Blackbeard called.
He named me Coral because I am orange and white like the coral in the sea, except for a small patch of black fur on my chin and on my tail. I think I look a little like Blackbeard.
“That cat doesn’t like rowboats,” One Arm said.
“Coral goes where I go.”
One Arm was right. I don’t like the rowboats. They are small and tippy. I started for the ladder to hide below deck. But, whoosh, One Arm grabbed me up.
“I don’t like rowboats,” I cried.
“Nice kitty,” he said.
“I don’t like rowboats.”
“Nice kitty.”
“I said I don’t like roooooooooooo—”
One Arm tossed me into the rowboat. One Arm does not like kitties.
I sat on the seat next to Blackbeard. The breeze was light and the waves mild as could be. The water was a deeper blue than usual. We glided into a sandy piece of land and the men began searching.
When I stepped into the first damp cave, I smelled mice. I headed in search of my own treasure.
“Where’s the cat off to?” One Arm asked.
“She’s helping us look,” the second mate, Crazy Jack, answered.
The men laughed.
I caught a few mice as I wandered through caves, bigger mice than on our ship. From time to time I heard the men’s voices. I was sneaking up on one mouse when I noticed a tiny beam of light streaming from a crevice. I squeezed through and entered a cave that shone like the sun on the brightest of days. As my eyes adjusted I realized that the cave was filled with treasure: gold and jewels and more.
I could hear the men in another cave nearby.
“There is no treasure here,” Blackbeard was saying.
“Back to the ship,” One Arm yelled. “We’ll search the south side of Gorda.”
“Blackbeard, where ye going?” Crazy Jack asked.
“I’m looking for Coral!”
“Time be a-wastin’,” Crazy Jack said. “We should find that treasure. We’re close. I can feel it.”
“We don’t leave without Coral,” Blackbeard said.
“Your old black heart has a soft spot for kitty,” Crazy Jack mumbled.
“Another word from you and I’ll tear you apart, you dark-hearted mate,” Blackbeard said.
I was glad Blackbeard wanted to find me. I knew he would like this shiny treasure. I leaped onto the back of a tall jewel-studded throne and called loudly, “Meeeeeeow.”
“Silence,” Blackbeard yelled. “I hear her.”
“Meeeeeeow.”
“She’s up ahead.”
“Aaaargh,” said Crazy Jack. “Ye’re wastin’ time.”
“Meeeeeeow.”
I heard them squeezing through crevices, getting closer.
“Meeeeeeow.”
“This way,” One Arm yelled.
They squeezed through the final opening and into the gold-filled room.
“Blow me away!” One Arm said.
“Coral found the treasure,” Blackbeard said and laughed his big hearty laugh.
Crazy Jack gave me a little bow. “Well now, I be beggin’ your pardon, Miss Kitty.”
I stood tall and proud on the back of my jewel-studded throne. Blackbeard scratched my neck.
“Load up, gentlemen,” Blackbeard said.
The mates were merry at supper that night.
One Arm yelled, “Here’s to the treasure of Gorda!”
“To the treasure of Gorda!” the mates shouted.
Blackbeard lifted his glass. “And to Coral who found it.”
“Yo-ho! Yo-ho! A pirate’s life for meeeeeeeeee.”
CHAPTER 11
Georgio’s Recipes for Outdoor Cuisine
When I was young I prowled at night with Mama. I ate what she ate. If she ate stale bread from a Dumpster, I did too. If she ate dead raccoon from the road, I did too. Then one night Mama taught me what fine dining was all about, and now I have recipes of my own.
FRESH FISH FILET
Find a nice pond. The water must be still. Lean over and let a small drop of spit fall on the water. At least one fish will be dumb enough to go for it. I always leave the bones for the ants. Ants will eat anything.
ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT EGG BUFFET
If you are lucky enough to see a turtle laying eggs, lie down and wait. When she gets through, uncover the eggs and stuff yourself. Trust me. They won’t be nearly as good a week later.
BIRD-TO-GO
Find a bird feeder. Wait in an inconspicuous place. Lazy birds won’t go to the trouble of pecking seeds out of the little holes, and will go for those spilled on the ground. You can usually take your pick. Bird-to-Go is strictly a take-out order. If you dine in, the owners of the bird feeder may see you and ruin your perfectly delicious meal.
WHACK-A-MOLEY
&nb
sp; Whack a mole before he goes in his hole and you’ll have whack-a-moley.
JUNIOR RODENT BURGER
Unless you are very hungry, give rats a pass. Wait for a mouse. Some novice mousers make the mistake of taking the mouse inside, expecting people to praise their hunting skills. Do not do this. People will yell, throw you out, and keep the mouse themselves.
ONE-BITE DELIGHTS (WITH THANKS TO MAMA)
During our prowls one night, Mama and I turned onto a well-lit street. She stiffened. I knew she was on to something. She darted forward. The air was full of flying things.
Then Mama did something I’d never seen before. She jumped in the air, grabbed one, and put it in her mouth.
“Go, Georgio!” Mama said after she landed. She was always a cat of few words.
I went. My first jump got me nothing. But I saw one on the ground. I pounced and ate.
The taste was tangy; the body crisp. It was my first cricket. I loved it. As we made our way home I decided to share my fine dining experience with the world.
You may not be lucky enough to catch crickets at midnight, but you may find one in your own backyard. Pounce and eat. When the tangy tartness floods your being, remember to thank Mama and me.
Bon appétit!
CHAPTER 12
Sarge’s One Wish
One night in the barn, we played a game called If I Had One Wish.
The cow wished that people would be able to make sense of her moos. This was not my problem. My meows were very expressive.
The horse wished his tail was long enough to brush flies from his face. This was not my problem. No fly would dare to land on my face.
The rooster atop the barn door wished that dawn would hurry up and get here because he was about to burst with cock-a-doodle-dos. This was my problem. I wanted morning to hurry up so I could get out of this barn and go back in the house, where I belonged.
For years and years I was family. It started when I was a kitten. I was a gift for Major. Major was a boy in bed with casts on his legs. I understood it was up to me to get Major well, and I did.
Major grew up and was gone a lot. I still slept in his bed while he was away. When he came home, he would put his hand on my head and it was just like old times.
Then last week, Major arrived with a woman and a bundle in his arms. Mom and Dad pressed around, making clucking noises. This bundle was the most interesting thing Major had ever brought home.
I could smell milk, and I was beginning to worry that it was a new cat when I got a glimpse. It was a tiny, tiny person. I knew right away it was a newborn. I knew that Major was the father, and the woman that smelled like milk was the mother.
I didn’t get a chance to check out the bundle until everyone was at supper. I went into the bedroom and jumped up on the bed. It was a tiny living creature. I was just smelling its breath when Major rushed into the room.
“I thought I heard you,” Major said. He didn’t seem mad, but the woman behind him yelled, “Bad, bad cat!”
She grabbed me and flung me into Major’s arms. “Get that cat out of here.”
“It’s just Sarge,” Major said.
“Out! Either that cat goes or we do.”
“I’ll handle this,” Dad said. He carried me to the kitchen, opened the door, walked to the barn, put me inside, and closed the door.
I’d often been in the barn to chat with the cow or to chase the rooster, but this was different. The door was shut.
Next day Dad came in to milk the cow, but the door stayed shut. I meowed at him and he said, “Sorry, Sarge. I got my orders.” I stayed in the barn.
Then one morning, when I had almost given up hope, the barn door opened. It was Major. He put his hand on my head. “You can come out now. We’re leaving. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
I watched their car disappear, and then Mom held the door open for me. “Welcome home, Sarge.”
As I lapped up my milk in the kitchen, I thought about that one-wish game. Maybe there’s something to it. Maybe people will make sense of the cow’s moos. Maybe the horse’s tail will grow longer and the rooster’s nights shorter. Or maybe not.
All I know is I got my one wish. I am back in the house, where I belong. I am family again.
CHAPTER 13
Meow! Till Next Year!
The cats were up and meowing with excitement. Some were leaping into the air.
“More diaries,” they cried. “More! More!”
Ebenezer held up his paws for silence. “Of course there will be more, but not tonight.”
“Awww,” the calico cried. “I don’t have to be home until morning.”
“Me neither,” cried another cat.
Ebenezer lifted his paws again. “Order! We have a special guest.”
Suddenly a hush fell over the crowd as an old cat stood and made her way to the stage.
“It’s Sage,” someone whispered.
“The Sage? I didn’t even know she was still alive.”
More whispers were heard.
“She’s a legend.”
“I heard she was on her fifth life.”
“I heard she was on a ship called Titanic.”
Ebenezer helped her to the podium.
“My good friend Ebenezer, may I say a word to our friends?”
Ebenezer bowed. “It would be an honor.”
“Story!” a voice called from the back. “Story!” another requested.
“My dear friends, I’m not here to tell my story tonight, although in a way my story has been told.” She gestured to all the cats in the crowd.
“Stories from our ancestors about wisdom in ancient Egypt, bravery from the pirate cat in the Caribbean, and adventure from the Gypsy cat are really stories about all of us.”
Meows of agreement arose.
“We’ve seen ourselves in the dreams and weaknesses and humorous looks presented by thoughtful friends.”
More meows of agreement.
“Who hasn’t had encounters with dogs?”—she paused until the cries of agreement lessened—“or who hasn’t experienced doubt about the strangeness of the human world, like Christmas trees and babies?” Murmurs filled the room.
“When we hear the stories of others it reminds us of our own story. We celebrate our catness in tales of hunting and adventure and romance.”
A few cats coughed in the back, then silence.
“Never forget our motto, MEOW, Memories Expressed in Our Writing. Our writing, my friends, those are the important words—our writing as members of MEOW. It is up to us not only to write our own diaries, but to encourage others to write as well. You might be surprised to learn there are cats who haven’t even heard of a diary. It is up to us to teach them and to become better writers ourselves. I don’t think I am being overly optimistic here when I say, not only can we become better writers, we can become the best writers in the history of the world.”
There was a rustle of pride and agreement.
“And may I say one more thing, Ebenezer?”
“Yes,” the audience cried, not waiting for Ebenezer.
“As I sat here this evening I had a vision. A year from now you will be back. You will bring more diaries and friends with diaries. And there will be cats from all over the world. But most of all, there will be stories, wonderful stories. If I had one wish like Sarge, it would be that I will be here with you to hear them. Thank you.”
As Sage left the podium there was a stillness in the room. Then, from the back, from one lone kitten came the sound of a contented rumble, a purr. The rumble grew as the cats settled into a peaceful satisfaction. The rumble carried out into the night air. The alleys and streets once quiet were filled with the sound of contentment. Dogs stopped in their places, ears cocked, puzzled by the sound. Mice looked up in fear and scurried for cover, unsure of the strangeness of the sound.
When the purring died down and Sage was gone, Ebenezer turned to the crowd. “That is an appropriate ending to our meeting. We will adjourn with the reciting
of our motto. And this time we will recite it with new meaning. All together now.”
“MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!”
The cats looked at one another with new understanding and commitment.
Some cats left, others gathered in small groups to discuss the diaries. On through the night, stories were told, diaries were planned, and at last goodbyes were said. As the cats disappeared into the night their tails were high. Their pride swelled. They were going to be the best writers in the world.
With esteemed regard for Sasha Black and Ed Stripe
—E. B.
Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
Text copyright © 2010 by Betsy Byars, Betsy Duffey, Laurie Myers Illustrations copyright © 2010 by Erik Brooks
All rights reserved.
Henry Holt and Company, LLC
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Designed by Véronique Lefèvre Sweet
eISBN 9781429963756
First eBook Edition : August 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Byars, Betsy.
Cat diaries : secret writings of the MEOW Society / Betsy Byars, Betsy Duffey,
and Laurie Myers ; illustrated by Erik Brooks.—1st ed.