by May Sarton
By now Tom Jones was quite exhausted with his morning’s business and generally decided that it was time for a snooze. It was then, just before he curled a paw round his nose, that he considered his housekeepers and wondered what they might be plotting. They seemed to have only one serious fault and that was the need to break up his fights with pails of water. It was a method which lacked dignity. Even more, Mr, Jones now suspected that they were determined in some way to curtail his activities out of doors, and his need to become a respected member of the community. They did not perhaps realize how important it was at this stage, when he was moving in on a rigid hierarchy, that he establish himself through many a tense and fearful battle.
“He’s a tom,” Gentle Voice would say, as if this were not the best thing in the world to be. “There’s no getting around it.” After all, she had named him Tom Jones herself, so whatever was she talking about? Why hadn’t she named him Sam Jones, or Timothy Jones if that was the way she felt about it? Were they con-templating giving him a new name?
It never occurred to the Fur Person that what they were contemplating was to change his personality, not his name, to change him, in fact, into a believer in non-violence, a Quaker cat for whom the glories of doing battle and tearing out the fur of enemies would become anathema. This was the meaning of the word “altered” which, with the word “hospital,” haunted their conversation. And Tom Jones knew these must be dangerous words because they always looked at him so commiseratingly when they used them, and gave him extra pieces of roast beef, as if they had told him a lie and were feeling rather guilty about it.
CHAPTER VIII — Poor Jones Has A Hard Time
HE HAD suspected that something was brewing but The Thing Itself took him wholly by surprise. In the first place he was thrust into a pillowcase with a string tied round it, at his neck, so only his head emerged and he was a Gentleman Cat made into a peculiar kind of struggling baby. His first instinct, of course, was to escape (the eighth Commandment of the Gentleman Cat is: “Never allow constraint of your person under any circumstances.”). But he was after all quite mature and he soon realized that struggle would achieve nothing. So he quieted down, his eyes very big and alarmed, and was carried out into the automobile which Brusque Voice was always driving off in and which made hideous noises and a disagreeable smell. He had often watched this happen from behind the snowball bush. Now he was himself sitting in Gentle Voice’s lap in the front seat of the car, all tied up in a pillowcase, and they were flying off at an alarming speed. Very soon, he could no longer recogize a single tree or house and at this point he became so anxious that he could not restrain his mews and began a series of protestations and miaowing in many keys, not once but over and over. It was the worst experience he had ever had, bar none. It was worse than being imprisoned in the stuffy apartment with that suffocating woman, because at least then he had been in control. It was worse than being an orphan with no name; it was worse than finding the perfect garden, house and old lady only to discover that another cat was already in residence. For now he was in such a state of anxiety that he could do nothing but howl, throwing the whole Ten Commandments of the Gentleman Cat to the winds, forgetting all about dignity and not showing your feelings, because he was in a real panic. He hardly heard the two Voices’ gentle comforting words, and after all, what were words when they had humiliated him by making him into a baby in a pillowcase and were taking him God knows where? He could not concentrate at all on what they said, and did not even try. He just howled.
Fortunately the Fur Person, like any respectable animal, had unlimited amounts of patience to draw on, and what he did in the hospital was simply to wait for the strange experience to be over, a prolonged and exhausting yoga exercise which left him quite weak, so weak that he hardly responded when at long last Gentle Voice lifted him out of his cage, and he knew that he had been rescued. Every now and then on the way home in the car he said a few words, a few loud complaining words about what had happened to him, but he was quite unable to purr, had perhaps forgotten how —he lay there, his mouth slightly open, panting, until finally Brusque Voice swung the car into his own street, opened the door, and he was (Oh bliss! Oh, unutterable bliss!) free. He staggered a bit, for he had been cooped up in a very small cage, then he raised his nose in ecstasy to sniff the fresh air, the sweet outdoor spring air smelling of earth, and grass and daffodils and rain. Very gently and tentatively his tail rose from a horizontal to a vertical position and he was just about to make a wild joyful dash down the street when he was seized by a coughing fit. No, it would be wiser for the present to go in and lie down.
“His face has grown quite pointed,” said Gentle Voice in a grieving tone. “Poor Tom, poor puss. . she murmured, stroking him down the long black line on his back. He followed her from room to room until she realized that what he needed was a lap, and at long last, for the Fur Person had become quite desperate holding back the purrs, agreed to settle in the little armchair in the dining room. There he curled himself up on the good warm lap and kneaded a little very gently, and sang a home-coming song, but it was so faint and exhausted a song that he himself could hardly remember it afterwards.
“I don’t like that cough!” Brusque Voice said the next morning. It was quite true that whenever Tom Jones had a really good idea like running up the pear tree in the back yard, or digging an especially good hole, he was seized by this irritating cough and thoroughly shaken.
“He’s not feeling at all well,” Gentle Voice answered. “Oh dear—that awful hospital and Tom Jones gave a faint tremble and felt the need of lying down, because the word “hospital” had become such a strange frightening word. The fact was that whatever they might think, he knew that he was not himself. He could barely remember what it had been like to be Terrible Jones and tear pieces of fur out of nameless enemies. His eyes never did seem to get clean though he washed and washed them until his paw and tongue were quite worn out. Worse, pretty soon he realized that the itching on his head was not just ordinary “time-for-a-lick-and-a-nibble” itching, but something far worse. When he nibbled himself hard, pieces of his own fur came out in his mouth. And after a few days, there were furless places on top of his head and round his ears.
When a cat begins to lose his fur, it is a very humiliating and terrible thing. Tom Jones sat with his paws tucked in on the floor and did not even feel like reading the newspaper. He who had been so full of self-respect that his walk (his tail vertical, his paws lifted lightly and gracefully) was a delight to behold, now felt an impulse to hide and walked very slowly with his tail floating out behind him in a melancholy and unself-respecting way. He looked and felt so forlorn that he lost all appetite. And about this rime it occurred to him that his housekeepers might give notice, that if he became a permanent invalid, they would no longer care to look after him. He knew how much they enjoyed stroking the top of his head and now there was nothing to stroke. And how often had he heard them exclaiming about his large green eyes, which grew marvelously dark at night and marvelously pale in the morning. Now they looked at him and said humiliating things like,
“Poor puss, he does look a sight, I must confess.” And one day Brusque Voice said, “Nobody could love him who had not known him before. But we love him, don’t we? And we won’t abandon him.”
It was she who brought a disgusting bottle of greasy stuff with a hospital smell and rubbed it into his fur twice a day. Tom Jones was by now beyond caring and had gone into a depression so deep, that he allowed her to do this, from sheer inertia. His purring machine even creaked a good deal and it hurt him to purr because it reminded him of the days when his purrs were sheer poetry and he himself a swaggering, handsome Gentleman Cat with a white tip to his tail. Ah, he thought, taking a surreptitious look, after all I still do have the white tip to my tail. And I must not despair. When he went out for his daily walk, he had to bear the insults of any cat who happened to be passing by, and when he heard a song of battle in the distance he ran home as fast as he coul
d. He did not have the strength or the will to fight. Only a strange thing was happening little by little. He was coming to understand that even if he never got well at all, his housekeepers were now more than housekeepers, they were true friends and they would not abandon him. He was really and truly safe. They did not love him for his glossy tiger coat, nor for his white shirt front and white paws, nor for his great green eyes, no, not even for the white tip to his tail. They loved him because he was himself.
CHAPTER IX — Glorious Jones or The Catnip Hangover
As SOON as he had come to understand that he was loved for himself, he began to feel a little better. One day he licked his paws as white as snow, and one day he realized that a thin new crop of fur was growing in the bare patches on the top of his head. After that it seemed only a little while before he was himself again: his coat grew thick and glossy, his shirt front shone as brilliant white as ever, and the white tip of his tail was often carried like a flag as he walked. Best of all, the cough entirely disappeared and he knew he was worthy of being addressed as Mr. Jones and respectfully saluted by fur people or anyone at all he happened to meet when taking his morning walk.
He was almost his old self, but not quite, for he was never to be Terrible Jones again. Somehow or other whatever had happened at the hospital had changed his nature and he was now a Gentle Cat rather than a Gentleman Cat. His philosophy of life had become mellow and peaceful, and when he was insulted he adopted Passive Resistance (which meant walking slowly away and not coming back to sing rude songs, whatever might be said to him of an insulting kind by less evolved members of the community). The idea of a fight made him feel sad, and a little anxious. He had become a Cat of Peace.
All this meant that he was out of doors rambling and roving much less than he used to be and it was necessary that he invent some indoor activities to keep himself busy and fit. In this the housekeepers were most understanding. One day Gentle Voice came home and the Fur Person, who was sitting on the porch with his paws tucked in, taking the evening air, ran out to meet her. She showed him her big bag of books and papers as if he should be interested in it, for some reason. And, quite true, Dear me, he thought, what a very strange and attractive smell it has. So he followed her indoors, filled with curiosity, and wound himself around her legs, purring the purr of ardent desire like a kettle coming to a boil and then bubbling very fast.
“Come here,” she called to the other housekeeper, and spread out a newspaper. “I have some catnip for Tom Jones.”
The Fur Person had forgotten all about the third commandment which concerns approach to food and how a Gentleman Cat must never look eager. He stood up on tiptoe and tried to get his head into the bag, he was so excited by this wonderful, intoxicating smell. Then he scratched a few times with his paw to inform the housekeepers that he was getting impatient and that they (not young, poor dears) were being very slow indeed about satisfying his need to examine whatever it was that had the smell, and to do it without further delay. But finally the newspaper was spread and Gentle Voice took out a little bundle of soft green leaves and laid them down. It was such a powerful smell that the Fur Person for a second hesitated to go near it; he crouched down, his cinnamon nose trembling, his eyes narrowed as if the flat bundle of dead leaves were a mouse and he would like to pounce on it and tear it to pieces. But before he could make up his mind, he was so attracted that he could not stop to consider and with one swoop of his paw gathered up the leaves and chewed them frantically, as if he were starving and this green stuff were the very best of meat.
“He likes it very much,” Brusque Voice said. The housekeepers beamed at each other because they were delighted when they could do anything to please a cat who had been so ill and now was well.
Tom Jones paused and ran his tongue over his chops a few times to get the last lingering taste, so aromatic, so unlike any food he had ever tasted before. While he licked his chops he realized that he felt a little dizzy and at the same time elated, and quite suddenly he knew that what was required now was to lie down on his back and roll and roll on what was left of the catnip.
“Oh look, he’s rolling,” Gentle Voice said and in the middle of his roll, all four feet in the air and the whole of his soft teddy-bear tummy exposed, he opened starfish paws and looked up languorously at these wonderful housekeepers who knew just what he needed. He rolled all the way over to one side and lay there, then he rolled back, then he rolled himself to a sitting position and took one more tiny taste of the catnip. Then he knew that he was just too full of something to keep still and he raced down the hall and back again, leaped up on the bed and stood there, waving his tail, his eyes blazing, And for the first time in weeks he began to compose a very loud happy song all about himself and how wonderful he was:
I’m a whiffling wonder
And my purr’s like thunder,
I’m an elegant fellow
And my temper’s mellow
And my eyes as green
As have ever been seen;
I’ve a coat like silk
Paws white as milk,
I’m a catly cat,
An aristocrat.
If you wish to see
Tom Jones, I’m he,
This Jones victorious
Glossy and glorious,
Lordly and lazy
And catnip crazy,
Yes, glorious Jones Is me!
“Goodness,” said Gentle Voice, “he does look pleased with himself!” “He’s simply roaring,” said Brusque Voice, “and look, he’s making starfish paws in the air, how sweet!”
For Glorious Jones, as he now knew himself to be, had just discovered that it was a very delightful thing to knead the air just as if all that surrounded him, the whole world, were a gigantic lap. He lifted one paw and spread it out and in, and his eyes grew soft. Then he lifted the other and tried the same thing, and his eyes grew softer. In fact he was feeling extremely sentimental by now.
Dear me, he thought, do you suppose I have had too much catnip and shall always be like this, dizzy with love and self-adulation? But just then he keeled over and found himself stretched out on the bed, almost asleep.
“He’ll sleep it off,” said Brusque Voice, tickling him behind one ear. “It’s a catnip hangover.”
So they tiptoed away and left him, and pretty soon his purrs grew quite faint, until there were long pauses between each one, and finally he gave a tremulous sigh, his back foot twitched once, and then he lay perfectly still.
CHAPTER X — The Mouse Is at Large!
AFTER that there were occasional green-letter Catnip Days, and there were also splendid Mouse-catching Days. Now that Terrible Jones was Glorious Jones, and more often just plain Gentle Jones, he did not find hunting as amusing as it had once been. He still occasionally went to the window and chattered at a passing bird, but this was more because he liked to hear his teeth clicking than anything else. He did not feel that he had to catch the bird. He preferred to observe life in general rather than to pounce upon it. As for mice, there had never been any around to catch, even when he was Terrible Jones, but he did sometimes think that a nice playful mouse would make for a pleasant change. After all, one could not read the newspaper all day long, even when one had become a Cat of Peace.
The housekeepers who had his comfort and happiness so much at heart, took this all into consideration and one day Brusque Voice came home from an expedition with a little paper bag in her hand. She came and rattled the bag softly at the Fur Person, who for some reason, had been feeling a bit low in his mind. Or perhaps simply a trifle bored. He had read and reread the newspaper; he had done a little desultory bee-hunting in the garden, but a dreadful old black gutter-cat had come and stared at him with such contempt that he came home and did yoga exercises for quite a while just to get over the humiliation. Now he pricked up his ears and turned his head sideways to have a look. Catnip, he asked himself? No, he answered him-self, as his nose trembled at the bag, but got no sensation at all, except the bland
pasty smell of paper itself. Whatever could it be?
“It’s a mouse,” Gentle Voice said, for she came in just then to find out what was up.
And indeed Brusque Voice had now opened the bag right near his nose and laid before him a soft gray mouse with a long elastic tail, real whiskers, two very bright eyes and pale pink ears, and even (for now she turned it over) tiny pale pink feet underneath its fat woolly body.
The Fur Person was not amused. A toy mouse for me? he thought, standing up to his full height on tiptoe and arching his back, then giving a tremendous yawn. A toy mouse for a catly cat, for a dignified cat like me?