The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

Before noon the houseman took the Mercedes into town to pick up the Bunsen twins, a boy and a girl. Mrs. Hopple welcomed them warmly and gave them a picnic basket in which the cook had packed food enough for twelve children. “Wear your beeper, Donald darling,” she reminded him. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to bring your guests back.”

Donald drove the twins to the meadow in the pony cart. Having observed his father in social situations, he played the role of host nicely, and the picnic went smoothly. No one fell down. No one picked a fight. No one got sick.

When Mrs. Hopple beeped her son, he drove his guests back to the house with brief detours to the dog kennel, rabbit hutch, chicken coop, and horse stable.

“Did you have a nice time?” Mrs. Hopple asked the excited twins.

“I ate four chocolate things,” said the boy.

“My mother told me to say thank you,” said the girl.

“I saw a snake,” the boy said.

“We saw Whiskers,” the girl said.

“He’s green!”

“No, he’s blue with green whiskers.”

“His eyes light up.”

“Sparks come out of his whiskers.”

“He can fly.”

“Really?” said Donald’s mother. “Did he say anything to you?”

The twins looked at each other. Then the boy quacked like a duck, and the girl said: “Beep beep beep!”

Mrs. Hopple thought: Donald has coached them! Still, the mention of sparks made her uneasy. Living so far from town, the Hopples had an understandable fear of fire. She left the house hurriedly and rode a moped to the stable.

Bobbie was in the corral, exercising the horses. Donald was unhitching the pony. The barn cats were in evidence, but there was no sign of a creature with red-hot whiskers. Her usual buoyant spirit returned, and she laughed at herself for being gullible.

On the way back to the house she overtook the head gardener, laboring arthritically up the hill, carrying a basket of tulips and daffodils. She rebuked him kindly. “Mr. Bunsen, why didn’t you send the flowers up with one of the boys?”

“Gotta keep movin’,” he said, “or the old joints turn to ce—ment.”

“Mr. Hopple is arranging to hire some more help for you.”

“Well, ’twon’t do no good. Nobody wants to do any work these days.”

“By the way, you have two delightful grandchildren, Mr. Bunsen. It was a pleasure to have them visit us.”

“They watch too much TV,” he complained . . . . “Lookit that grass turnin” brown. No rain for ten days! . . . Somethin’ else, too. Some kind of critter’s been gettin’ in the greenhouse. Eats the buds off the geraniums. And now the tractor’s broke. Don’t know what happened. Just conked out this afternoon.”

“You must call the mechanic early Monday morning,” Mrs. Hopple said encouragingly. “Ask for priority service.”

“Well, ’twon’t make no difference. They come when they feel like it.”

The gardener’s grouchy outlook had no effect on Mrs. Hopple, who was always cheerful. Mentally reciting a few lines of Wordsworth, she carried the flowers into the potting shed, a room entirely lined with ceramic tile. There she was selecting vases from a collection of fifty or more when a commotion in the nearby kitchen sent her hurrying to investigate.

Suzette was standing in the fireplace—which was now cold and swept clean—and she was banging pots and pans and screaming up the chimney. From the cook’s raving—three parts English and two parts French—it appeared that a diable up on the toit was trying to get down the cheminée into the cuisine.

Mrs. Hopple commended the cook on her bravery in driving a devil off the roof but assured her that the chimney was securely screened and nothing could possibly enter the kitchen by that route, whether a raccoon or squirrel or field mouse or devil.

Back in the potting shed she found a silver champagne bucket for the red tulips and was choosing something for the daffodils, when the buzzing intercom interrupted.

“Tractor’s okay, Miz Hopple,” said the gardener. “Started up again all by itself. But there’s some glass busted out in the greenhouse.”

She thanked Mr. Bunsen and went back to her flowers, smiling at the man’s perverse habit of tempering good news with a bit of bad. As she was arranging daffodils in a copper jug, Donald burst into the potting shed. “I couldn’t find you, Mother,” he said in great distress. “The rabbits are gone! I think somebody stole them!”

“No, dear,” she replied calmly. “I think you’ll find them in the greenhouse, gorging on geranium buds. Now, how would you like strawberries Chantilly tonight?” It was the family’s favorite dessert, and Donald jumped up and down and gave his mother a hug.

Later, she said to Suzette, speaking the cook’s special language: “I’ll drive to the ferme and pick up the fraises and the crème.” Mrs. Hopple liked an excuse to breeze around the country roads in the Ferrari convertible with the top down. Today she would drive to the strawberry farm for freshly picked fruit and to the dairy farm for heavy cream.