The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

These daily romps, naps on downy cushions, outings in the coop on the fire escape, and two meals a day constituted the pattern of Phut Phat’s life.

Then one Sunday he sensed a disturbing lapse in the household routine. The Sunday papers, usually scattered on the library floor for him to shred with his claws, were stacked neatly on the desk. Furniture was rearranged. The house was filled with flowers, which he was not allowed to chew. ONE was nervous, and TWO was too busy to play. A stranger in a white coat arrived and clattered glassware, and when Phut Phat investigated an aroma of shrimp and smoked oysters in the kitchen, the maid shooed him away.

Phut Phat seemed to be in everyone’s way. Finally he was deposited in his wire coop on the fire escape, where he watched sparrows in the garden below until his stomach felt empty. Then he howled to come indoors.

He found ONE at her dressing table, fussing with her hair and unmindful of his hunger. Hopping lightly to the table, he sat erect among the sparkling bottles, stiffened his tail, and fastened his blue eyes on ONE’s forehead. In that attitude he proceeded to concentrate—and concentrate—and concentrate. It was never easy to communicate with ONE. Her mind hopped about like a sparrow, never relaxed, and Phut Phat had to strain every nerve to convey his meaning.

Suddenly ONE darted a look in his direction. A thought had occurred to her.

“Oh, John,” she called to TWO, who was brushing his teeth, “would you ask Millie to feed Phuffy. I forgot his dinner until this very minute. It’s after five o’clock and I haven’t fixed my hair yet. You’d better put your coat on; people will start coming soon. And please tell Howard to light the candles. You might stack some records on the stereo, too . . . . No, wait a minute. If Millie is still working on the hors d’oeuvres, would you feed Phuffy yourself? Just open a can of anything.”

At this, Phut Phat stared at ONE with an intensity that made his thought waves almost visible.

“Oh, John, I forgot,” she corrected. “It’s Sunday, and he’ll expect liver. But before you do that, would you zip the back of my dress and put my emerald bracelet on Phuffy? Or maybe I’ll wear the emerald myself, and he can have the amethyst . . . John! Do you realize it’s five-fifteen! I wish you’d put your coat on.”

“And I wish you’d simmer down,” said TWO. “No one ever comes at the stated hour. Why do you insist on giving big parties, Helen, if it makes you so nervous?”

“Nervous? I’m not nervous. Besides, it was your idea to invite your clients and my friends at the same time. You said we should kill a whole blasted flock of birds with one blasted stone . . . . Now, please. John, are you going to feed Phuffy? He’s staring at me and making my head ache.”

Phut Phat scarcely had time to swallow his creamed liver, wash his face, and arrange himself on the living room mantel before people started to arrive. His irritation at the disrupted routine was lessened somewhat by the prospect of being admired by the guests. His name meant “beautiful” in Siamese, and he was well aware of his pulchritude. Lounging between a pair of Georgian silver candlesticks, with one foreleg extended and the other exquisitely bent under at the ankle, with his head erect and gaze withdrawn, with his tail drooping nonchalantly over the edge of the marble mantel, he awaited compliments.

It was a large party, and Phut Phat observed that very few of the guests knew how to pay their respects to a cat. Some talked nonsense in a false voice. Others made startling movements in his direction, or worse still, tried to pick him up.

There was one knowledgeable man, however, who approached with the proper attitude of deference and reserve. Phut Phat squeezed his eyes in appreciation. The admirer was a distinguished-looking man who leaned heavily on a shiny stick. Standing at a respectful distance, he slowly held out his hand with one finger extended, and Phut Phat twitched his whiskers politely.

“You are a living sculpture,” said the man.

“That’s Phut Phat,” said ONE, who had pushed through the crowded room toward the fireplace. “He’s the head of our household.”

“He is obviously of excellent stock,” said the man with the shiny cane, addressing his hostess in the same courtly manner that had charmed Phut Phat.

“Yes, he could probably win ribbons if we wanted to enter him in shows, but he’s strictly a pet. He never goes out except in his coop on the fire escape.”

“A splendid idea!” said the guest. “I should like such an arrangement for my own cat. She’s a tortoiseshell longhair. May I inspect this coop before I leave?”

“Certainly. It’s just outside the library window.”

“You have a most attractive house.”

“Thank you. We’ve been accused of decorating it to complement Phut Phat’s coloring, which is somewhat true. You’ll notice we have no breakable bric-a-brac. When he flies through the air, he recognizes no obstacles.”