The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

There was a brown tablecloth with brass candlesticks and two plates instead of one. Alone in the kitchen he surveyed the table setting. The spot he usually occupied was cluttered with dinnerware, but there was plenty of room between the candlesticks. He hopped up lightly, stepped daintily among the china and glassware, and arranged himself as a dusky centerpiece on the brown tablecloth.

At that moment there were ominous sounds outdoors. A car had pulled into the yard, crunching on the gravel, and the heavy boots that Dakh Won feared were stamping on the back porch. He made himself into a small motionless bundle. Bruising boots could not reach him on the table.

The back door opened and banged shut, making a little flapping noise at the impact.

“Hey, Hilda! Hilda! Where the devil are you? What’s happened to this door?”

“Here I am. I was upstairs, dressing.”

“Why? Who’s coming?”

“Nobody. I thought it would be nice to—”

“What the devil have you done to the back door?”

“That’s a cat-hatch. I had it installed so Dakh Won can go in and out. It’s hinged, you see—”

“A cat-hatch! You’ve ruined a perfectly good door! Who made it? Who cut the thing?”

“A very nice man from the farm down the road. It didn’t cost anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“How did you meet this man? Why didn’t it cost anything?”

“Well, I was taking my walk along the ravine—the way the doctor said I should—and the farmer was mending the fence around his property, so we started talking. Dakh Won was with me, and the man said we ought to have a cat-hatch. So he came over with a box of tools—”

“And you had this man in the house when you were alone?”

“Jack, the man is seventy years old. He has thirteen grandchildren. One of his grandsons wants to study piano, and I’m going to teach that boy whether you like it or not.”

“How old is he?”

“What does that matter?”

“I want to know what goes on here when I’m away.”

“Don’t be silly, Jack.”

“You’re not interested in me, so I figure you’ve got something else going.”

“That’s insulting—and crude!”

“You don’t appreciate a real man. You should’ve married one of those long-haired musicians.”

“Jack, you make me tired. Are you going to change clothes, or ruin the floor with those stupid boots?”

“That’s a laugh. You cut a hole in the door and give me hell for scratching the floor!”

As the voices grew louder, Dakh Won became more and more uncomfortable. He shifted his position nervously.

“Hilda! He’s on the table! . . . Scram! Beat it!”

A rough hand swept Dakh Won to the floor, and a ruthless boot thudded into his middle, lifting him into the air.

“Jack! Don’t you dare kick that cat!”

“I’m not having no lousy cat on my table!”

Dakh Won scudded through the cat-hatch and across the porch, pausing long enough to lick his quivering body before heading for the ravine. In the weeds alongside the trail he hunched himself into a pensive bundle and listened to the buzzing of evening insects.

Soon he heard the car drive away with more than the usual noise, and then he saw the shoe with bobbing tassels limping down the path.

“Dakh Won! Where are you? . . . Poor cat! Are you hurt?”

Strong hands lifted Dakh Won and smoothed his fur. He let himself be hugged tightly, and he flicked an ear when a drop of moisture fell on it.

“I don’t know what to do, Dakh Won. I just don’t know what to do. I can’t go on like this.”

The evil boots stayed away all weekend, and the next, and the next, but strange feet started walking into the house. The visitors came through the gate at the end of the ravine trail, bringing pleasant voices and laughter and small treats for Dakh Won, and they were careful where they walked.

One night, after an evening of music, the visitors went back down the trail, and Dakh Won stretched full length in the middle of the living room rug. Suddenly he raised his head. There was a meancing sound in the darkness outdoors—the familiar rumble of heavy boots on the back porch. They stamped their way uncertainly into the house.

“Jack! . . . So you decided to come back! Where have you been?”

“Whazzit matter?”

“You’ve been drinking again.”

“I been drinkin’ an’ thinkin’ an’ drinkin’ an’—”

Dakh Won heard something crash in the kitchen.

“You’re dead drunk! You can’t even sit on a chair.”

“I wanna find the cat. Where’s Stinker? I wanna drown ’im.”

“Jack, you’d better leave.”

There was another crash, and Dakh Won streaked through the house—a brown blur passing through the kitchen and out the cat-hatch. Under the back steps he hunched and listened to the anger of the voices.

“I’m warning you, Jack. Don’t give me any trouble. Go away from here.”

“You tryin’ to throw me outa my own house?”

“I’m all through with you. That’s final.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I’m filing for divorce.”

“Whoopee! Now I can have some fun.”

“You’ve been having plenty of fun, as you call it. I know all about that camp trailer you live in. I know what goes on when you’re away on a job—you and your tramps!”

“Go on—getta divorce. Nobody wants you. Nobody wants a—wants a cripple!”