The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

Gus says: “Funny thing, folks. Durin’ Prohibition I ran a speakeasy, and once up north I came close to killin’ a fella with a peavey, and nobody give a hoot-n-holler. Now I get me a little cat, and they’re liftin’ my license.”

Porky was there, and he says: “Don’t be a dumfool, Gus. It ain’t worth it. Get rid of the cat.”

“Nope,” Gus says. “Tipsy and me’ll get a shack up in the north woods, and we’ll get along jim-dandy. She’ll have a reg’lar hoodang in North Kennebeck. No alleys. No garbage cans. No scummy rats.”

And that’s the last we ever seen of Gus and Tipsy.

Did you ever hear about them after that?

Can’t say we did. But a few years back, me and some buddies went fishin’ up north. Drove up in a big RV. Stopped in North Kennebeck to get grub for our camp. No shacks there anymore. No dirt roads. All condominiums and curbstones. Musta been a lotta cats in town because the store had about fifty kinds of catfood in them little cans. I asked around, if anybody every heard of an old fella called Gus. Nobody remembered him. Course, that was maybe forty years before. Time flies, don’t it?

We ate some five-dollar sandwiches in a restaurant in North Kennebeck. Made me think back to the Depression—sandwiches for ten cents—big bowl o’ soup for a nickel. It was a nice restaurant, though—sort of a log cabin. Folks said it was there a long time. Changed hands once in a while but always kept the same name. It was called Tipsy’s Tavern.

A Cat Named Conscience

(The following interview with Miss A.J.T. was taped at the Gattville Senior Care Facility in October 1985, for the Oral History Project of Gattville Community College.)

Don’t shout at me! I’m not deaf. I can’t see a blessed thing, but I can hear. You want to know how old I am? The newspaper said I’m a hundred, but I don’t know about that. The last birthday I remember, I was twenty-nine. Twenty-nine red roses came to the house in a long box. Expensive ones! Most likely a dollar a dozen. They came from Chicago on the train, and the depot boy delivered them on his bicycle. Roses in December! Imagine that! . . . A whole boxcar of flowers came for Mister Freddie’s funeral, but that was in April.

Push my wheelchair to the window, so I can feel the sun . . . . There! That’s better. You sound like a very young man. Are you from the newspaper?

No, ma’am. I’m from the college.

What? The college? What college? The newspaper took my picture. Are you going to take my picture? . . . Speak up! Everybody mumbles.

No pictures, ma’am. We just want to record your recollections of Gattville in the early days—for the Oral History Project.

Oral what? I don’t know anything about that. Are you going to write down what I say? I can tell you a heap of stories. I was a little girl when the granary exploded and burned down half the town. And one summer the circus came to town, and the lion got loose.

What’s that noise? I hear something humming.

Just the tape recorder, ma’am.

What? I don’t know anything about that . . . . Do you know about the grasshoppers? When they came to Gattville, we could hear them humming before we could see them. A black cloud, they were, over the whole county. Chewed up the crops, trees, everything—even the washing on the line.

Another time, the president came to Gattville. He made a speech from the back of the train . . . . Are you still there?

Yes, ma’am. This is very interesting.

The whole town, almost, went down to the depot and shouted, “Teddy! Teddy!” Biggest crowd I ever saw in Gattville, except for Mister Freddie’s funeral. Aunt Ulah went to the depot with a sign on a stick. GIVE WOMEN THE VOTE! On the other side of it said: CLOSE THE SALOONS! Aunt Ulah was a caution, she was.

Where’s my cat? I want my cat. Look on the bed . . . . Look on the table. It’s not a real cat. They won’t let me have a real one, but I like a little furry critter on my lap. I talk to him and stroke him. He’s only got one eye, but I don’t care. They’re only buttons. Could you send me a shoe button? Then somebody could fix his eye.

There were twelve gray pearl buttons on my gray kid shoes. My, they were pretty! I wore them to the funeral and ruined them—walking behind the coffin. It’s muddy in April. A cat went to the funeral, too. We had a heap of cats in Gattville. The general store had three. The granary always had seven or eight. Cousin Willie called our town Catville. Aunt Ulah said that wasn’t nice, but Uncle Bill laughed like anything.