The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

“You and your drunken driving made me a cripple! And you’re going to pay—and pay—and pay.”

“You witch!”

“You won’t have a dollar left for tramps—not when the court gets through with you!”

“You crippled, ugly witch! I’ll smash your fingers!”

“Don’t you touch me!”

“I’ll kill you—”

“Stop it! . . . STOP . . .”

Dakh Won heard the screams and the scuffling feet. Then he saw the tassled shoes limping hurriedly from the house into the night. They headed for the ravine faster than he’d ever seen them go.

Bounding after them he heard sobs and moans as the feet hobbled unevenly along the trail toward the gate. The clay path was white in the moonlight, winding between the dark cherry bushes and the blackness of the ravine.

Back in the house there were crashing noises and a bellowing voice. Then Dakh Won saw the brutal boots staggering across the yard toward the white ribbon of pathway.

Ahead of him, the tassled shoes hurried on in panic, and behind him the boots were coming. The cat’s ears went back, and his sleek tail became a bushy plume. He stopped in the path and arched his back.

Then unaccountably, with a sudden languor, Dakh Won sprawled on the path and lay there, motionless. Where he happened to stretch his dark body there was a streak of shadow across the moonlit path, cast by a wild cherry bush, and in this puddle of darkness Dakh Won was an invisible mound of dark brown fur.

The boots lumbered closer, the voice roaring. “I’ll get you, you witch! I’ll kill you!”

Dakh Won closed his eyes. The feet bore down, and the boots tumbled over him, plunging deep into his unprotected side. With a snarl of pain he sprang to his feet—just as the evil boots sailed over him and disappeared. There was a rumbling of loose rocks in the ravine and then only the splash of the rushing stream down below as the cat licked his wounded side.

Only Dakh Won knows the true reason for his action that night on the ravine trail. It is not a cat’s nature to be vengeful—or heroic—but Dakh Won is a Siamese, and when people talk about the fatal accident in the ravine, his sapphire eyes are full of secrets.

East Side Story

(The following interview with Mrs. P.G.R. was taped at the Country Residence for Women in December 1985, for the Oral History Project of Gattville Community College.)

Yes, of course I shall be happy to give you my recollections of the 1920s. What interests you in particular, my dear?

What was it like to be a woman in the twenties?

Oh, it was glorious! We had recently gained the right to vote, you know. We bobbed our hair and bobbed our skirts up above the knee and burned our petticoats. They called us flappers. My parents were shocked because I danced the wicked Charleston and smoked cigarettes in long holders and tried to look flat chested. Some of us went to Paris and really kicked up our heels. Those were the days!

Best of all, we were free to choose glamorous careers—not just schoolteaching and stenography. We felt gloriously in the swim, don’t you know.

What careers did you consider glamorous?

Advertising . . . journalism . . . merchandising . . . publishing, and so forth. I trained as a commercial artist, and I shall never forget my first job with an advertising agency. It was across the street from Cat Canyon. Do you know about the Palace Theater scandal? No, of course you don’t. You are too young.

What was Cat Canyon?

An enormous hole in the ground, filled with stray cats! At first the newspapers called it a civic disgrace and a monument to corruption. It all started when they tore down the Palace Theater. But first let me ring for tea . . . . Hello, Marie? May we have a pot of tea and some cookies brought up to 105? Two teacups, please. I have a guest. Thank you, Marie.

Now what was I about to say? Ah, yes, the Palace Theater. It looked like a Greek temple and had been there forever and was famous for its acoustics. All the great names had appeared there—Caruso, Mrs. Barrymore, the divine Sarah—all of those.

Where was it located?

Right downtown, on the East Side. The freeway cuts through there now. In the twenties downtown was exciting and civilized and clean and safe. It was a crime to tear down the Palace Theater, but some real estate speculators wanted to build a huge twenty-two-story office building.

Didn’t anyone try to stop them?

A few persons wrote irate letters to the newspapers, but there were no demonstrations or campaigns such as we have today. Militant demonstrations were reserved for woman suffrage, the labor movement, and Prohibition.