The Second Cat Megapack: Frisky Feline Tales, Old and New

by Pamela Sargent

  My doubts were all dispelled. My fears had vanished. Like conquerors, we passed the bowing flunkey at the door—

  Imagine, if you can, the sight which met our gaze. At the head of the great table, gaunt and gray, sat Mr. Sylvester Furnwillie, Chairman of the Board. At his right hand was seated the President of Bogwood; at his left, the loathsome Gregory Morton puffed at an opulent cigar. The six remaining Regents were ranged on either side. Beyond them, Smithby stood. Across from him, his wife reposed. And, at the table’s very end, sat an enormous tomcat, staring at Mr. Furnwillie with cold, green eyes.

  Smithby, all unaware of our entrance, was speaking. “…therefore,” he was saying, “we observe that the hsss-s-s of Old Cat gradually changed to fsss-t-t in ordinary Modern Cat. That shows how simple the functioning of Grimalkin’s Law can be—”

  “Ha!” cried Witherspoon.

  Smithby suddenly was still; all eyes were on us.

  Mr. Furnwillie lifted his spectacles with a palsied hand. “Dear me, dear me!” he said uncertainly. “You are some minutes late, are you not? You really shouldn’t keep the Board of Regents waiting, gentlemen. No, indeed. Dr. Smithby has proffered some serious charges. Oh, very serious. He states that you have had him followed everywhere, and that you even hired a trollop to—er—seduce him. Tsk-tsk! We can’t approve such goings-on at Bogwood, gentlemen. Now can we? After all—”

  He broke off. He peered at Hogan and the Yus. His lofty forehead wrinkled with distaste. “Who are these people, Witherspoon? They cannot be alumni; they do not have the Bogwood look about them. Eh? Are they relatives of yours?”

  Witherspoon folded his arms across his chest, and, in an awful voice, he answered, “They are Smithby’s doom!”

  There was a frightened murmur from the Regents. Gregory Morton emitted a vulgar feline expletive. Mr. Furnwillie exclaimed distractedly.

  Witherspoon silenced them with one contemptuous glance. He pointed straight at Smithby. “Yes, his doom! We admit his charges, Flewkes and I! We hired Hogan to dog his wicked steps. We employed Marilynne. And we are proud of it—for by our humble efforts we have saved Bogwood from degradation and the world’s disdain!”

  Like Jove about to hurl his thunderbolt, he seemed to grow in stature standing there.

  “Smithby!” he cried. “Smithby, your hour has come! Resign. Go far away. Never again befoul this sacred air! Beowulf has confessed your villainy, and we know all. We, Smithby, know about the shrimps!”

  He paused. A dreadful silence reigned.

  “Yes, the shrimps—the shrimps which Smithby conceals about his person, gentlemen!” Like a shrill trumpet, his voice shook the room. “Cat is a sham, a mockery, and a hollow fraud! No one can speak a single word of Cat! The creatures mew for—Shrimp!”

  He stopped. We waited for the earth to open under Smithby’s feet, the heavens to fall. And—

  And nothing happened.

  I looked. Dumbfounded, I looked again. Several of the Regents were whispering to each other and casting the most peculiar glances in our direction. Mr. Sylvester Furnwillie was conferring with Gregory Morton. Smithby and Cynthia Smithby were exchanging smiles. The large, striped tomcat was pretending to stare unconcernedly out the window.

  “Wh-what does this mean?” demanded Witherspoon.

  Mr. Furnwillie ignored him. He looked around. His countenance assumed an aspect of extreme displeasure. To me he said, “Professor Flewkes, though I am deeply shocked by this vindictive and absurd denunciation, it does not surprise me. It is in keeping with the questionable associates, the reprehensible activities. Such things we might expect of Witherspoon, for he is not originally a Bogwood man. But not of you. Tsk-tsk. I am most gravely disappointed. Indeed I am. You—well, you should be ashamed.”

  Shocked to the core, I started to protest. He did not let me.

  “Professor Flewkes, we know about the shrimps. Of course Professor Smithby carries them, just as some men carry cigars to give their friends. Why shouldn’t he? I carry them myself. Surely you don’t expect a cat to smoke cigars?”

  “B-but—but Beowulf—?” I stammered.

  And it was Smithby who replied. “I think I can explain that,” he said, a little sadly. “Not long ago, and much against my will, I was forced to tell poor Beowulf that I was flunking him. He was emotionally upset. I fear that, faced with his inability to master Cat, he sought refuge in the pretense that no one could.”

  Mr. Furnwillie thanked him. “You make it amply clear, Dr. Smithby—and I am only sorry that this incident should have marred so bright a morning—”

  Behind me I heard the voice of Chester Yu snap out an angry phrase in Cantonese. I heard a squeal of pain from Beowulf as he received some corporal punishment.

  Mr. Furnwillie smiled. “When you have added such a glorious leaf to Bogwood’s laurels.” His smile disappeared. “Yes, Professor Flewkes—this morning Dr. and Mrs. Smithby proved the validity of Cat to our complete satisfaction. They showed us the result of Mrs. Smithby’s splendid project in education and research. Their proof is absolute, beyond cavil, and quite beyond the shadow of a doubt!”

  “You lie!” screamed Witherspoon, livid with rage, trembling in every limb. “Don’t try to tell me that this illiterate woman has taught each one of you to babble Cat! This is another fraud! And you are aiding and abetting it! I shall inform the Press! Hogan and I shall expose you for what you are!”

  “Tsk-tsk!” Mr. Furnwillie said reprovingly. “If you behave like that, Witherspoon, you’ll have to leave the room. I cannot babble Cat, as you so coarsely put it, but Mr. Morton can, and—”

  Witherspoon whirled. “Come, Hogan, Flewkes! Let us seek the society of honest men!” He marched toward the door; and at the door he turned. “Furnwille—” He roared defiance like a wounded lion. “Furnwillie, I resign!”

  Then he was gone, with Hogan closely behind. The only sound was Hogan’s foolish giggle in the corridor.

  I lacked the strength to follow. Mutely, I stood before the Board, all my high hopes for Bogwood in ashes at my feet.

  Mr. Furnwillie put on his spectacles and took them off again. “Dear me,” he said, “how violent the man is! Even though Dr. and Mrs. Smithby, in their complaint, did ask us not to punish him, I fear that we must accept his resignation.”

  “Certainly!” growled Gregory Morton; and the other members of the Board nodded solemnly.

  Mr. Furnwillie sighed. “Ah me, this leaves us with a painful duty, doesn’t it? We should do something, I suppose, about Professor Flewkes?”

  He looked at me, and so did all the rest. Even the tomcat favored me with a fixed regard.

  I summoned all my shredded dignity. “Gentlemen,” I answered, “I shall spare you this harsh necessity. I, too, shall seek a more congenial atmosphere.”

  And it was then that Cynthia Smithby, with a little cry, came to her feet and ran to me. “Dear Dr. Flewkes!” she pleaded, clinging to my arm. “Do not resign! Why, Emerson and I are both so fond of you—we could not bear the thought. I beg you, stay! Let us convince you—”

  As the impassioned words poured forth, she drew me willy-nilly toward the table’s end.

  “Let us open to you our brave new world, where cats can take at last their rightful place, contributing to science, culture, and the arts. Believe me—you will see the day when cats shall vote, hold public office, and instruct our youth. Perhaps there even may be peace on earth under a parliament of Man and Cat!”

  She pointed at the tomcat on his chair. “Look! Only look! This is Rabindranath. He’s the living proof!”

  Roughly, I shook her off. “Madam,” I exclaimed, “I am no fool. You may delude your students. You may deceive Mr. Furnwillie in his senility. But you cannot persuade me that you can teach a language which does not exist!”

  “Oh please,” she implored, “I do assure you—you do not understand. I’ll introduce you to Rabindranath. His interests lie within your own domain. He’s starting to translate The Aspern Papers into Cat. Dea
r Dr. Flewkes, at least will you not speak with him? Will you not converse?”

  Two tears flowed like dewdrops down her cheeks. They did not move me. “Converse?” Contemptuously, I gestured at the cat. “No, never! Never will I demean myself to—mew!”

  And—ah, cruel gods!

  Coolly, Rabindranath looked me up and down. “Mew?” he said. “That will be scarcely necessary.”

  EPITAPH OF A CAT, by Joachim du Bellay, Translated by R. N. Curry

  My life seems dull and flat,

  And as you’ll wonder what,

  Magny, has made this so,

  I want you first to know

  It’s not for rings or purse

  But something so much worse;

  Three days ago I lost

  All that I value most,

  My treasure, my delight;

  I cannot speak, or write,

  Or even think of what

  Belaud, my small grey cat,

  Meant to me, tiny creature,

  Masterpiece of nature

  In the whole world of cats—

  And certain death to rats!—

  Whose beauty was worthy

  Of immortality.

  Belaud, first let me say,

  Was not entirely grey

  Like cats bred here at home,

  But more like those in Rome,

  His fur being silver-grey

  And fine and smooth as satin,

  While, lying back, he’d display

  A white expanse of ermine,

  Small muzzle, tiny teeth;

  Eyes of a tempered warmth,

  Whose pupils of dark-green

  Showed every color seen

  In the bow which splendidly

  Arches the rainy sky.

  Plump neck, short ears, height

  To his head proportionate;

  Beneath his ebony nostrils

  His little leonine muzzle’s

  Prim beauty, which appeared

  Fringed by the silvery beard

  Which gave such waggish grace

  To his young dandy’s face.

  His slender leg, small foot—

  No lambswool scarf could be

  More soft, except when he

  Unsheathed and scratched with it!

  His neat and downy throat,

  Long monkey’s tail, and coat

  Diversely flecked and freckled,

  In natural motley speckled;

  His flank and round stomach

  Under control, his back

  Longish—a Syrian

  If ever there was one!

  This was Belaud, a gentle

  Animal, whose title

  To beauty was so sure

  He’d no competitor!

  A sad and bitter cross!

  Irreparable loss!

  It almost seems to me

  That Death, though he must be

  More ruthless than a bear,

  Would, if he’d known my rare

  Belaud, have felt his heart

  Soften—and for my part

  I would not wince and shrink

  So from life’s joys, I think.

  But Death has never watched

  Him as he jumped or scratched,

  Laughed at his nimble tricks,

  His many wild frolics,

  Admired the sprightly grace

  With which he’d turn, or race,

  Or, with one whirl of cat,

  Tumble, or seize a rat

  And play with it—and then

  Would make me laugh again

  By rubbing at his jaw

  With such a frisky paw

  In such a dashing manner!

  Or when the little monster

  Leapt quietly on my bed,

  Or when he took his bread

  Or meat most daintily

  Straight from my lips—for he

  Showed in such various ways

  His quaint, engaging traits!

  What fun to watch him dance,

  Scamper, and skate, and prance

  After a ball of thread;

  To see his silly head

  Whirl like a spinning wheel

  After his velvet tail;

  Or, when he made of it

  A girdle, and would sit

  Solemnly on the ground,

  Showing his fluffy round

  Of paunch, seeming to be

  Learned in theology,

  The spit of some well-known

  Doctor at the Sorbonne!

  And how, when he was teased,

  He used to fence with us—

  Yet if we stopped to fuss

  Was very soon appeased!

  O Magny, now you see

  How he diverted me,

  You’ll realize why I mourn---

  And surely no cat born

  Has ever had so nice

  A style with rats and mice!

  He would come unawares

  Upon them in their lairs,

  And not one could escape

  Unless he’d thought to scrape

  A second hole—no rat

  Ever outran that cat!

  And let me add at once

  My Belaud was no dunce,

  But very teachable,

  Knowing how to eat at table—

  When offered food, that is:

  That eager paw you’d see,

  Held out so flirtingly,

  Might scratch you otherwise!

  Belaud was well-behaved

  And in no way depraved;

  His only ravages

  Were on an ancient cheese,

  A finch, and a young linnet

  Whose trillings seemed to get

  On Belaud’s nerves—but then

  How perfect are we men?

  He wasn’t the sort to be

  Out everlastingly

  After more food to eat,

  But was content to wait

  Until his meals, when he

  Ate without gluttony.

  Also he was by nature

  A well-conducted creature;

  For he would never spread

  His traces far and wide

  Like many cats, but tried

  To live as a well-bred

  Feline should live and be

  In all his ways cleanly…

  He was my favorite plaything;

  And not forever purring

  A long and tunelessly

  Grumbling litany,

  But kept in his complainings

  To kitten-like miaowings.

  My only memory

  Of him annoying me

  Is that, sometimes at night

  When rats began to gnaw

  And rustle in my straw

  Mattress, he’d waken me

  Seizing most dexterously

  Upon them in their flight.

  Now that the cruel right hand

  Of Death comes to demand

  My bodyguard from me,

  My sweet security

  Gives way to hideous fears;

  Rats come and gnaw my ears,

  And mice and rats at night

  Chew up the lines I write!

  The gods have sympathy

  For poor humanity;

  An animal’s death foretells

  Some evil that befalls,

  For heaven can speak by these

  And other presages.

  The day fate cruelly

  Took my small dog from me—

  My Peloton—the sense

  Of evil influence

  Filled me with utter dread;

  And then I lost my cat:

  What crueler storm than that

  Could break upon my head!

  He was my very dear

  Companion everywhere,

  My room, my bed, my table,

  Even more companionable

  Than a little dog; for he

  Was never one of those

  Monsters that hideously

  Fill night wi
th their miaows;

  And now he can’t become

  Poor little puss, a tom—

  Sad loss, by which his splendid

  Line is abruptly ended.

  God grant to me, Belaud,

  Command of speech to show

  Your gentle nature forth

  In words of fitting worth,

  Your qualities to state

  In verse as delicate,

  That you may live while cats

  Wage mortal war on rats.

  TRAPS, by Jack Dann and George Zebrowski

  The continent below him was covered with lush jungle except for the sandy plateau twenty miles in diameter. A moment earlier his instruments had picked up the other ship sitting near the southern edge of the tableland. The sandy surface of the plateau was fairly regular and Rysling decided to bring his own craft down on automatic, as close to the other ship as possible. He sat back in his contour seat and waited, his senses alert. Was someone else trying to beat him to his job?

  His small exploratory vessel was now three thousand feet above the plateau and coming down fast on secondary jets. The primary landside jets cut in with a roar at five hundred feet and the sleek vessel settled slowly to the sand. When all had quieted, the displaced sand made a crater-like perimeter around the silver hull.

  Rysling made sure the double safety on the star-drive was secure, and cut in the double safety for the landside rockets. Through his forward screen he saw that the other ship—and also both suns—were up. The yellow star was high in the dark blue sky, near its noontime. The red giant was near the horizon, just above the green jungle which surrounded the barren plateau. Rysling released the strap from around his waist. He stood up slowly and stretched. Nothing about the other ship was moving.

  As yet the planet had no name, only a number: 3-10004-2. The gravity was only slightly higher than Earth normal. The atmosphere was nearly identical in composition to Earth’s. For all practical purposes the planet was ready to be colonized. But Earth Authority was picky. It wanted a complete classification of the land animals. That was why he was here, to catch the only remaining land animal that had not yet been caught, a catlike, four-footed creature which to date had eluded all efforts of hunters. That was all he had been told. He had been given a flat fee, operating expenses and a time limit of one earth month. Two weeks had already gone by.