The Cat Megapack

by Gary Lovisi

  At eight o’clock, my father had not yet made his appearance, and I grew ever more distraught as François signaled for the serving of the bouillon au madère. Had he changed his mind? Would I be left to explain my status without his help? I hadn’t realized until this moment how difficult a task I had allotted for myself, and the fear of losing Joanna was terrible within me. The soup was flat and tasteless on my tongue, and the misery in my manner was too apparent for Joanna to miss.

  “What is it, Étienne?” she said. “You’ve been so morose all day. Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  “No, it’s nothing. It’s just—” I let the impulse take possession of my speech. “Joanna, there’s something I should tell you. About my mother, and my father—”

  “Ahem,” François said.

  He turned to the doorway, and our glances followed his.

  “Oh, Étienne!” Joanna cried, in a voice ringing with delight.

  It was my father, the cat, watching us with his gray, gold-flecked eyes. He approached the dining table, regarding Joanna with timidity and caution.

  “It’s the cat in the painting!” Joanna said. “You didn’t tell me he was here, Étienne. He’s beautiful!”

  “Joanna, this is—”

  “Dauphin! I would have known him anywhere. Here, Dauphin! Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

  Slowly, my father approached her outstretched hand, and allowed her to scratch the thick fur on the back of his neck.

  “Aren’t you the pretty little pussy! Aren’t you the sweetest little thing!”

  “Joanna!”

  She lifted my father by the haunches, and held him in her lap, stroking his fur and cooing the silly little words that women address to their pets. The sight pained and confused me, and I sought to find an opening word that would allow me to explain, yet hoping all the time that my father would himself provide the answer.

  Then my father spoke.

  “Meow,” he said.

  “Are you hungry?” Joanna asked solicitously. “Is the little pussy hungry?”

  “Meow,” my father said, and I believed my heart broke then and there. He leaped from her lap and padded across the room. I watched him through blurred eyes as he followed François to the corner, where the servant had placed a shallow bowl of milk. He lapped at it eagerly, until the last white drop was gone. Then he yawned and stretched, and trotted back to the doorway, with one fleeting glance in my direction that spoke articulately of what I must do next.

  “What a wonderful animal,” Joanna said.

  “Yes,” I answered. “He was my mother’s favorite.”

  THE BALLET OF THE CATS, by Sydney J. Bounds

  Clutching her satchel as if it were a rugby ball, Kitty Jones ran out through the school gates. Although it was a Friday afternoon and she was glad enough to get out of the classroom, she did not look forward to arriving home. What she wanted most in the world was to get away from her classmates.

  Their jibes followed her down the street. “Kitty’s got eyes like a cat.… Kitty stinks like cat pee.… Kitty is a cat!”

  She had no friends and was on the small side for her ten years, with pale-colored hair and eyes that slanted enough to give her a sly look. She was unhappy at school and not much better off at home.

  Kitty, an orphan with only the vaguest memory of her parents—both had been killed in a car crash—lived with her only relative. Uncle Edward, unfortunately, was a bachelor with a strong sense of duty but no feeling for young children. She sensed that he didn’t really want her around, even though she kept quiet and out of his hair as much as possible.

  So there was no rush to get home. Away from the school bullies, she relaxed and dawdled, window-shopping. Tadchester was a small town and only along the High Street were there any boutiques or record shops. The summer afternoon was still warm. There were cars parked at the meters and housewives swarmed in and out through the supermarket doors like bees at a hive.

  Something small and furry rubbed against her leg and miaowed pitifully. Kitty looked down and saw a tabby cat; less than half-grown, he was so thin he just had to be a stray. She stroked the disheveled fur and the cat purred with pleasure.

  She picked him up and he nestled down in her arms as if he belonged there—and that was when she heard some unpleasantly familiar voices.

  “Look, there’s two of them now.” Some of her classmates hurried past, sniggering and holding their noses in an exaggerated manner. “What a stink—like the animal house at the zoo!”

  Gripping the stray with one hand and her satchel with the other, Kitty ran all the way home. She was panting and close to tears when she fumbled her key into the door of an old-fashioned terrace house.

  The cat slid from her arms and went on a tour of inspection, sniffing in corners, till she opened the fridge and poured some milk into a saucer. The tabby lapped delicately, finished the milk and began to purr. Kitty looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Uncle Edward worked as a clerk and finished early on a Friday, so she began to lay the table for tea with the tabby following her about the kitchen.

  The front door opened and her uncle came in. A thin man with a face the color of chalk, he regularly complained of indigestion and survived on an assortment of pills. He paused when he saw the cat.

  “What’s that animal doing in h?”

  “He’s a stray, uncle—he was starving. Please may I keep him…please?”

  Uncle Edward said “No” automatically; it was his favorite word. “Certainly not—nasty dirty thing.”

  He caught up the stray by its scrawny neck and carried it into the bathroom. Kitty heard water running and her uncle swearing. When he returned he was nursing his hand and carrying a dead cat.

  “The brute scratched me,” he shouted. “Don’t ever bring any more animals home—I won’t have it.”

  Kitty burst into tears and ran out of the house and down the street. Blinded by tears, she couldn’t see where she was going and blundered into somebody.

  A pair of strong arms held her fast and she smelt an exciting perfume. A handkerchief wiped her eyes clear and she saw a slender neatly-dressed young woman with tawny hair and oddly long eyes.

  The young woman knelt on the pavement and held her close. “Now you just tell Leila what’s wrong, kitten.”

  For a moment Kitty felt panicky. An icy shiver of alarm set her trembling and she struggled to free herself. But there was a second young woman standing nearby, holding a handful of leaflets. And this one smiled warmly at her and Kitty relaxed.

  “Yeah, tell us about it,” she encouraged. The second woman had blue-black hair and coffee-colored skin and looked as if she might be a gypsy. “I’m Felicity—what’s your name?”

  “Kitty.”

  The two women looked at each other.

  “My cat. He killed my cat—I hate him. I love cats.”

  “I should think so too,” Leila murmured. “You’re one of us.”

  The scared feeling had passed and Kitty felt at home with her two new friends. She told them about the stray and Uncle Edward.

  “Well, we’ll have to see what we can do. We’re with a circus—an act with the big cats. Would you like to see it?”

  Felicity handed her one of the leaflets she was distributing and Kitty read:

  TRAVELING CIRCUS

  Saturday Only—Two Performances

  Don’t Miss

  “THE BALLET OF THE CATS”

  Free Menagerie

  “Yes, I’d like to very much,” she said. “But I know my uncle won’t allow it.”

  “Is that so?” Leila murmured, baring strong white teeth. “I think we must meet your uncle.”

  That was when Uncle Edward came hurrying along the street, looking for her. “There you are. Stop bothering people and come home at once.”

  The two girls pivoted smoothly around to inspect him, and Leila said, “She’s not bothering us. You must allow Kitty to come to our show.”

  “No,” Uncle Edward said automatically.r />
  Felicity opened her handbag and offered two tickets. “Free passes,” she said in a sultry voice. “For the evening show. You must both come—and come early to see the animals between shows.”

  “Oh, all right.” Belatedly, Uncle Edward seemed to realize that both young women were strikingly attractive with long legs and taut white shirts, and that they were smiling encouragingly at him.

  “If it’s free we might as well,” he said grudgingly. Then adding “Thank you,” he gripped Kitty’s arm and led her home.

  That night, over-excited, Kitty Jones had trouble getting to sleep. She tossed and turned, half-awake and feverish, disturbed by a dream that turned to nightmare.

  Leila and Felicity were dancing with her, their movements fluid and supple and somehow feline. Then, like a transformation scene she had once seen on the box, they changed…their heads became giant masks with whiskers…the masks were lifelike they seemed to have the heads of huge and savage cats. And they stalked her, snarling, terrifying.

  By morning, she had forgotten the dream and hurried through her shopping. After lunch, Uncle Edward shaved carefully and changed into his best suit. The sun shone as they walked through the town to the common behind the cemetery. People were streaming back from the first show, loud in their praise, and Kitty began to hop and skip.

  “Don’t run,” Uncle Edward said curtly. “Behave like a properly brought up young lady.”

  She saw the big top in the distance and heard a blare of fairground music and the hungry roaring of the cats.

  She tugged at her uncle’s hand. “Oh, hurry, please—they’re feeding the animals.”

  Behind the circus tent was a large cage on wheels and the overpowering smell of a lion-house. Three young women were feeding the big cats.

  Leila paused and said, “Why, hello kitten.” She introduced the other two; a dark-skinned beauty named Tabitha; and Katrina, a younger girl with eyes like amber. Inside the cage, the animals paced up and down, tails swinging sensuously from side to side.

  “Where’s Felicity?” Kitty asked.

  “You’ll see her later,” Tabitha answered, casually pushing a large chunk of raw meat between the bars on a long stick. A black panther snatched greedily at it.

  “And this must be your uncle.” Katrina showed her teeth in a smile as cruel as that of the big cats. Kitty shivered but Uncle Edward didn’t seem to notice, his gaze busy with the girls’ figures. In the cage, the panther was tearing at the meat.

  “They like it raw and they like a lot,” Tabitha said, and laughed.

  The cats were full grown, beautiful and sinister as they snarled at the watching people. Leila leaned against the bars and absently scratched one behind its ears.

  “I’d like to join a circus when I grow up,” Kitty said with a sigh.

  “And so you shall,” Katrina promised. “You’d better take your seats for the show now.”

  Kitty and her uncle had seats close to the ring with a clear view of everything. She laughed at the clowns, admired the skill of the jugglers and bareback riders, and thrilled to the acrobats on the high wire.

  The high spot of the show seemed to come very quickly. The ringmaster announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, our next act is positively unique. No other circus anywhere in the world has anything like it… The Ballet of the Cats!”

  To a long drum-roll, men wheeled the big cage into the ring. The cats—a tiger, a lioness and a black panther—sat on pedestals, tails twitching, yawning.

  Three young women in leopard skins ran into the ring with the careless freedom of gypsies. The ringmaster opened the door of the cage and they stepped quickly inside; he bolted the door and they were alone with the cats.

  Music played quietly, the lights dimmed except for a bright spot focused on the cage. The audience sighed and held its breath.

  Kitty sat spellbound as the girls began to dance. Slim and graceful, their movements were catlike as they bounded between and around the pedestals. Their ballet was as precise as soldiers on a drill square.

  Uncle Edward, seated beside her, grumbled: “There’s nothing to it—just feed the animals drugged meat. You can see they’re half asleep.”

  But Kitty noticed he didn’t take his eyes off the girls in their brief costumes. She recognized two of the dancers: Leila and Tabitha. Where was Felicity? she wondered.

  Then a gong sounded and the big cats sprang down from their pedestals and raced around the cage. The girls danced between them and it looked as though the animals were joining in the ballet.

  The music sounded louder and faster. The dancers whirled and the cats leapt in the air till it was hard to tell cats from girls—it seemed they might be interchangeable. Kitty forgot to breathe and even Uncle Edward stopped complaining.

  The climax came too quickly for the human eye to follow. Girls and cats formed a kaleidoscope of sun-tanned skin mixed with spotted coats, shapely curves with the power of wild beasts. They spiraled and interwove complex patterns in a pantomime that was swift and supple and dangerous.

  When the show ended, Kitty sulked. She’d enjoyed seeing the cats and the girls—even if they were a bit weird—and wished she were one of them. But now it was time to go home with no cat for company and no friends at school. Just Uncle Edward. She gave a long sigh of boredom.

  As they left the big top, the sky was growing dark and the crowd hurried towards lighted streets. Shadows made odd patterns out of guy-ropes and Uncle Edward moved cautiously to avoid tent pegs.

  A soft voice whispered from the darkness. “Edward? You don’t have to go yet, do you?”

  It was one of the dancers. Felicity? Kitty wasn’t sure. She caught a glimpse of a slender shape in a leopard skin and heard her uncle answer eagerly, “No.”

  The minutes stretched endlessly. The crowd vanished, leaving them alone in the darkness. The temperature seemed to drop sharply and, somewhere close by, a big cat snarled—a sound to curdle the blood.

  Shadows shifted menacingly. There was an overpowering smell of cat and Kitty felt nervous. The dark forms slinking towards them hinted more of cat than girl.

  “Stand aside, Kitty,” a voice purred.

  Then she saw—or imagined she saw, as in her dream—a woman change form, her body rippling and extending as she dropped on all fours to become a savage beast.

  There was a flicker of striped fur as the animal stalked Uncle Edward, who stood as if paralyzed. Green eyes glowed like emeralds. A roar made an eerie and terrifying sound in the night.

  There was more than one of the huge felines padding silently towards Uncle Edward, who gave a startled cry and turned to run. But there was nowhere to run to. Cats surrounded him, crouching to spring.

  One pounced as if playing with a mouse. A lightning—quick forepaw shot out, claws raking. Two hundred pounds of lethal lightning launched itself through the air and Uncle Edward went down. His scream was muffled as sharp teeth fastened in his throat. A black panther shook him the way a dog shakes a rat.

  Kitty heard something snap with a brittle crack, and her uncle was no more than a limp bundle of rags. She found that her own lips were drawn back and that she wanted to join in.

  Cruel fangs savaged flesh, ripping and tearing, cracking and crushing bones as the body was dragged across the ground into the black night.

  Soon there was only torn and blood-stained clothing and a few scattered bones, and the cats melted away.

  Leila’s voice came as a low murmur. “Don’t be frightened, Kitty. We’re shapechangers, you know—I’m sure you’ve heard of us. Some people call us werecats—and you’re one of us. Come to me and I’ll show you how to make the change.”

  Kitty went eagerly.

  In the morning, the show moved on. But now there was one extra cat in the big cage, small, young, and purring with contentment.

  LETTERS FROM A CAT, by Helen Hunt Jackson

  INTRODUCTION

  I do not feel wholly sure that my Pussy wrote these letters herself. They always came inside t
he letters written to me by my mamma, or other friends, and I never caught Pussy writing at any time when I was at home; but the printing was pretty bad, and they were signed by Pussy’s name; and my mamma always looked very mysterious when I asked about them, as if there were some very great secret about it all; so that until I grew to be a big girl, I never doubted but that Pussy printed them all alone by herself, after dark.

  They were written when I was a very little girl, and was away from home with my father on a journey. We made this journey in our own carriage, and it was one of the pleasantest things that ever happened to me. My clothes and my father’s were packed in a little leather valise which was hung by straps underneath the carriage, and went swinging, swinging, back and forth, as the wheels went round. My father and I used to walk up all the steep hills, because old Charley, our horse, was not very strong; and I kept my eyes on that valise all the while I was walking behind the carriage; it seemed to me the most unsafe way to carry a valise, and I wished very much that my best dress had been put in a bundle that I could carry in my lap. This was the only drawback on the pleasure of my journey, my fear that the valise would fall off when we did not know it, and be left in the road, and then I should not have anything nice to wear when I reached my aunt’s house. But the valise went through all safe, and I had the satisfaction of wearing my best dress every afternoon while I stayed; and I was foolish enough to think a great deal of this.

  On the fourth day after our arrival came a letter from my mamma, giving me a great many directions how to behave, and enclosing this first letter from Pussy. I carried both letters in my apron pocket all the time. They were the first letters I ever had received, and I was very proud of them. I showed them to everybody, and everybody laughed hard at Pussy’s, and asked me if I believed that Pussy printed it herself. I thought perhaps my mamma held her paw, with the pen in it, as she had sometimes held my hand for me, and guided my pen to write a few words. I asked papa to please to ask mamma, in his letter, if that were the way Pussy did it; but when his next letter from mamma came, he read me this sentence out of it: “Tell Helen I did not hold Pussy’s paw to write that letter.” So then I felt sure Pussy did it herself; and as I told you, I had grown up to be quite a big girl before I began to doubt it. You see I thought my Pussy such a wonderful Pussy that nothing was too remarkable for her to do. I knew very well that cats generally did not know how to read or write; but I thought there had never been such a cat in the world as this Pussy of mine. It is a great many years since she died; but I can see her before me today as plainly as if it were only yesterday that I had really seen her alive.