The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

“Bobbie couldn’t see him. Whiskers doesn’t like big people. When he sees grown-ups he disappears. Whoof! Like that!”

Mrs. Hopple rang the bell for the next course. “And what kind of voice does this wonderful little animal have, dear? Does he scold like the Siamese or meow like the other cats?”

Donald considered his reply while he properly chewed and swallowed the last mouthful of leek. Then he erupted into a loud babel of sounds: “AWK AWK ngngngngng hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh beep-beep-beep beep-beep-beep AWK.”

The maid’s eyes expressed alarm as she entered the dining room to remove the plates, and she was still regarding Donald with suspicion when she served the next course.

At that moment the boy shouted: “There he is! There’s Whiskers!” He pointed to the window, but by the time the adults had turned their heads to look, Whiskers had disappeared.

The main course was the kind of simple provincial dish the Hopples approved: a medley of white beans, lamb, pork ribs, homemade sausages, herbs, and a little potted pheasant. Their cook, imported from the French wine country, would have nothing to do with microwave ovens or food processors, so they had built a primitive kitchen with a walk-in fireplace to keep Suzette happy. The cassoulet that was now served had been simmering in the brick oven all day. With it came a change of subject matter, and the meal ended without further reference to Whiskers.

After dinner Donald performed his regular chore of feeding the Gang—taking their dinner tray upstairs in the glass-enclosed elevator, rinsing their antique silver drinking bowl (attributed to Paul Revere), and filling it with bottled water. Meanwhile his parents were served their coffee in the library.

“You were right about the boy,” Mr. Hopple remarked. “His imagination runs away with him.”

His wife said: “Donald’s story is probably an elaboration on an actual occurrence. No doubt the cat is a stray, perhaps the runt of a litter, unwanted, and thrown out of a passing car.”

“You have an explanation for everything, sweetheart. And you are so efficient. Did you make any plans for the weekend?”

“No, darling. I knew you’d be coping with jet lag. But I invited the gardener’s grandchildren to have lunch with Donald. They’re his own age, and he needs to meet town children occasionally.”

On Saturdays the Hopples usually breakfasted in festive style in the conservatory, but both maids were suffering from morning sickness the next day, so the family trooped into the kitchen. There they sat at an ancient wooden table from a French monastery, under a canopy of copper pots and drying herbs, while Suzette cooked an omelette in a long-handled copper skillet over an open fire.

After breakfast Donald said: “Mother, can I take some of the Gang’s catfood to the kittens in the stable?”

“May I, darling,” she corrected softly. “Yes, you may, but ask yourself if it’s advisable to spoil them. After all, they’re only barn cats.”

“Two of the kittens are very smart, Mother. They’re as smart as the Siamese.”

“All right, Donald. I value your opinion.” After he had scampered away, Mrs. Hopple said to her husband: “See? The Whiskers story was only a fantasy. He’s forgotten about it already . . . . By the way, don’t forget to ask Bobbie about the bonfire, dear.”

Her husband thanked her for the reminder and went to buzz the stable on the intercom. “Good morning, Bobbie. This is Hopple speaking. We haven’t met as yet, but I’ve heard good reports of you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Since you live near the south gate, I’m wondering if you’ve observed any trespassing in the meadow. Someone had a bonfire there, and that’s bad business.”

“No, sir. Never saw anything like that,” the new stableboy said, “but I’ve been away for three days at a science conference, you know.”

“If you notice any unauthorized activity, please telephone us immediately—any hour of the day or evening.”

“Sure thing,” said Bobbie.

“One more question: Have you seen any . . . unusual cats in the stable or on the grounds?”

“Only a bunch of kittens and an old mother cat.”

“No strange-looking stray with long whiskers?”

There was a pause, and then the young man said: “No, I only heard some funny noises—like a duck quacking, and then some kind of electronic beep. I couldn’t figure where it came from.”

“Thank you, Bobbie. Keep up the good work.”

Mr. Hopple flicked off the intercom and said to his wife: “Donald is making those ridiculous noises in the stable. How long should we allow this to go on before consulting the doctor?”

“Darling, he’s just playing games. He’ll grow out of it soon. It’s common for young children to invent imaginary friends and have conversations with them.”

“I can assure you that I never did,” said her husband, and he went to his study, asking not to be disturbed.