The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

Compared to other country estates in the vicinity, Hopplewood Farm was not extensive. There was just enough acreage to accommodate the needs of Mr. and Mrs. Hopple and their three children—an eight-bedroom house and six-car garage; swimming pool, tennis court, and putting green; a stable with adjoining corral, fenced with half a mile of split rail; a meadow just large enough for Mr. Hopple to land his small plane; and, of course, the necessary servants’ quarters, greenhouse, and hangar.

The house was an old stone mill with a giant waterwheel that no longer turned. Its present owners had remodeled the building at great cost and furnished it with American antiques dating back two centuries or more. Twice it had been featured in architectural magazines.

The Hopples, whose ancestors had been early settlers in America, were good-hearted, wholesome people with simple tastes and a love of family and nature. They enjoyed picnics in the meadow and camping trips in their forty-foot recreation vehicle, and they surrounded themselves with animals. Besides the four top Arab mares and the hackney pony, there were registered hunting dogs in a kennel behind the greenhouse, a hutch of Angora rabbits, some Polish chickens that laid odd-colored eggs, and—in the house—four exotic cats that the family called the Gang.

Also, for one brief period there was a cat too small for his whiskers.

The Gang included a pair of chocolate-point Siamese, a tortoiseshell Persian, and a red Abyssinian. Their pedigrees were impressive, and they seemed to know it. They never soiled their feet by going out-of-doors but were quite happy in a spacious suite furnished with plush carpet, cushioned perches, an upholstered ladder, secret hideaways, and four sleeping baskets. Sunny windows overlooked the waterwheel, in which birds now made their nests, and for good weather there was a screened balcony. Four commodes in the bathroom were inscribed with their names.

When the cat who was too small for his whiskers came into the picture, it was early June, and only one of the Hopple children was living at home. Donald, a little boy of six with large wondering eyes, was chaffeured daily to a private school in the next county. John was attending a military academy in Ohio, and Mary was enrolled in a girls’ school in Virginia. Donald. John. Mary. The Hopples liked plain, honest names rooted in tradition.

On their youngest child they lavished affection and attention as well as playthings intended to shape his interests. He had his own computer and telescope and video library, his child-size guitar and golf clubs, his little NASA space suit. To the great concern of his father, none of these appealed to Donald in the least. His chief joy was romping with the assorted cats in the stable and telling them bedtime stories.

The subject was discussed one Friday evening in early June. Mr. Hopple had just flown in from Chicago, following a ten-day business trip to the Orient. In his London-tailored worsted, his custom-made wing tips, and his realistic toupee, he looked every inch the successful entrepreneur. The Jeep was waiting for him in the meadow, and his wife greeted him happily and affectionately, while his son jumped up and down with excitement and asked to carry his briefcase.

Then, while little Donald showered and dressed for dinner, his parents enjoyed their Quiet Hour in the master suite. Mr. Hopple, wearing a silk dressing gown, opened an enormous Dutch cupboard said to have belonged to Peter Stuyvesant, and now outfitted as a bar. “Will you have the usual, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Don’t you think the occasion calls for champagne, darling?” his wife replied. “I’m so happy to see you safely home. There’s a bottle of D.P. chilling in the refrigerator.”

Her husband poured the champagne and proposed a sentimental toast to his lovely wife. Mrs. Hopple had been a national beauty queen twenty years before and still looked the part, whether wearing a Paris original to a charity ball or designer jeans around the farm.

“First tell me about the small fry,” Mr. Hopple said. “They’ve been on my mind all week.” The Hopples never called their children “kids.”

“Good news from John,” said his wife, looking radiant. “He’s won two more honors in math and has made the golf team. He wants to attend a math camp this summer, but first he’d like to bring five schoolmates home for a week of fishing and shooting.”

“Good boy! He has a well-balanced perspective. Is he interested in girls as yet?”

“I don’t think so, dear. He’s only ten, you know. Mary is having her first date this weekend, and it’s with an ambassador’s son—”

“From which country?” Mr. Hopple cut in quickly.

“Something South American, I believe. By the way, she’s won all kinds of equestrian ribbons this spring, and she wants our permission to play polo. Her grades are excellent. She’s beginning to talk about Harvard—and business administration.”

“Good girl! Someday it will be Hopple & Daughter, Inc. And how is Donald progressing?”