The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

Dakh Won jumped out of the warm bed and followed the bedroom slippers as they moved slowly down the stairs, one careful step at a time. His ears were laid back, and his fur was sharply ridged. He disliked loud voices, and the tension that he sensed made him vaguely uncomfortable.

Quarreling was not the only discomfort on weekends. There was the onslaught of feet. Nowhere on the floor could Dakh Won feel safe. He liked to sprawl full length in any patch of sun that warmed the rug. The floor was his domain, and feet were expected to detour. But on weekends his rights were ignored.

One Saturday he waked with a snarl of anguish when a crushing weight came down on the tip of his tail, and the next day he received a cruel blow to his soft underside when he was stretched trustingly in the middle of the hallway.

“Damn that cat! I tripped over him! I could have broke my leg. Hilda, do you hear me?”

“You should look where you’re going. Have you been drinking again?”

“You think more of that stinking beast than you do of me.”

“He smells better than that cigar you’re smoking.”

“It’s my house, and I’ll smoke what I like and walk where I like, and if that flea bait don’t keep out of my way—”

“You’re beginning to talk like those trashy people you associate with.”

“If he don’t keep out of my way, I’ll drown him!”

“He doesn’t have fleas, and you’re not going to touch him. He’s mine. I’m not going to die of loneliness in this godforsaken place. You don’t know what it’s like to be isolated all week—”

“What’s wrong with you women? You want all kinds of labor-saving gadgets, and then you gripe about having nothing to do. Why don’t you bake some bread or something instead of buying everything ready-made, if you’re so bored?”

“Stop pacing up and down—or else take those clumsy boots off. You’re ruining the floor.”

“Try scrubbing clothes with a washboard, if you’re so bored.”

“I’m a pianist, not a laundress. You seem to forget that I gave up a career to marry you. One of these days I’m going to start giving lessons—”

“And let people think I can’t support a . . . a sick wife?”

“If you’d stop pacing the floor and listen—”

“And have a lot of dirty farmers’ kids tramping through the house? Over my dead body!”

“Look out! You almost stepped on his paw!”

“Fool cat!”

Dakh Won soon learned to keep out of sight on weekends. Most of the time he stayed outdoors. He liked high places, and the path that ran along the edge of the ravine was a balcony overlooking Dakh Won’s universe. At the bottom of the rocky slope there was a gurgling stream with woods beyond it and mysterious noises in the underbrush.

Dakh Won could sit on the ravine trail for hours, entertaining his senses. He watched a leaf being tickled by the breeze, smelled wild cherries and the toasted aroma of earth warmed by the sun, tasted bitter grass and the sourness of insects that he caught with his paw, heard the whispers of the soil as a root reached down for moisture.

His ear was also tuned to sounds from the house—the loud and jarring voices, the slamming doors, the stamping of the cruel boots. High-laced, thick-soled, blunt-toed, they made him feel like a small and vulnerable creature.

When the weekend was over, he again felt safe. As if he knew he was needed, he stayed close, sitting on the piano bench while fingers danced on the keys and a foot tapped the pedal. The shoes were tied with leather tassles that bounced with every move.

Afternoons he followed the bobbing tassels down the ravine trail. The path was a narrow aisle of well-trodden clay, bordered on one side by wild cherry bushes and on the other by clumps of grass that drooped over the edge of the ravine. The tassled shoes always walked haltingly down the ravine trail, stopping to rest at a rustic bench before continuing to the wire fence at the end. There was a gate there, and another house beyond, but the tasseled shoes never went farther than the fence.

One day following the afternoon walk, the big round table in the kitchen was set with a single plate and a single cup and saucer, and Dakh Won sat on a chair to watch morsels of food passing from plate to fork to mouth.

“You’re good company, Dakh Won. You’re my best friend.”

He squeezed his eyes.

“You’re a big, strong, brave, intelligent cat.”

Dakh Won licked a paw and passed it modestly over his seal brown mask.

“Would you like a little taste of crabmeat?”

With guttural assent Dakh Won sprang to the tabletop.

“Oh, dear! Cats aren’t supposed to jump on the dinner table.”

Dakh Won sat primly, keeping a respectable distance from the cream pitcher.

“But it’s all right when we’re alone—just you and me. We won’t tell anyone.”

For the rest of the week, meals were companionable events, but when Friday night came, Dakh Won sensed a change in the system.