Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

“I can guess what that is!” said Bill, looking cynical and vindictive.

“Percy!” shouted Margaret and Cornelius in unison. “What—have—you—done?”

Recoiling at the unjust accusation, Percy shrank into his smallest size. He was a fastidious cat who observed the formalities of the litterbox with never a lapse.

Margaret circled the puddle. “Somehow I can’t believe that Percy would do such a thing.”

“Who else would leave a puddle on the floor?” said Bill with a cutting edge to his voice. “A ghost?”

“Ghosts!” cried Deedee. “I knew it! It was that crazy stunt of yours, Bill!” She peered into an oversize brandy snifter on the bar. “Where’s—my—diamond—ring? I put it in this big glass thing when I helped Margaret in the kitchen last night. Oh, Bill, something horrible happened here. I feel all cold and clammy, and I can smell something weird and musty. Let’s go home. Please!”

Bill stood there scratching his right ankle with his left foot. “We’d better get back to the city, folks, before she cracks up.”

“Let me prepare breakfast,” Margaret said. “Then we’ll all feel better.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” Deedee wailed in misery. “I just want to go home. I’ve got some kind of rash on my ankles, and it’s driving me nuts!” She displayed some streaks of white blisters.

“That’s ivy poisoning, kiddo,” Bill said. “I think I’ve got the same thing.”

“It couldn’t be,” Margaret protested. “We’ve never seen any poison ivy at the cemetery!”

The Diddletons packed hastily and drove away from Big Pine Lake before the sun had risen above the treetops.

Percy, his pride wounded, refused to leave his refuge under the sofa, even to eat breakfast, and for some time following the weekend of the big puddle he remained cool toward Cornelius and Margaret. Although they quickly forgave him for all the untoward happenings, he found scant comfort in forgiveness for sins he had not committed. The incident was related to a new houseful of guests each weekend, and the blow to Percy’s reputation caused him deep suffering.

At the end of the season Deedee’s diamond ring was found behind the pine woodbox. The Diddletons paid no more visits to the chalet, however. Nor did Cornelius and Margaret return to the loggers’ graves; almost overnight the entire cemetery became choked with poisonous vines.

“Very strange,” said Margaret. “We’ve never before seen any poison ivy there!”

“I fail to understand it,” said Cornelius.

The Fluppie Phenomenon

We first became aware of the Fluppie Phenomenon fifteen years ago. My husband and I had no pets at that time, and innocently we agreed to provide bed and board for a Siamese kitten while my sister in St. Louis traveled abroad for a few weeks. Geraldine assured us that cat-sitting would be an enjoyable experience. She wrote:

“I wouldn’t trust Sin-Sin with anyone but you. She won’t be a bit of trouble. Just keep her indoors and be sure she doesn’t meet any male cats. She’s almost old enough to get ideas, and I don’t want her to mate casually. She has an impressive pedigree, and I intend to breed her with discrimination when she comes of age . . . . You will be rewarded with affection and entertainment. Sin-Sin has lovable ways and is a very mechanical cat . . . . What would you like me to bring you from Paris?”

“What’s a mechanical cat?” I asked Howard. He was tinkering with the stereo, which had been performing erratically for several weeks.

“When I was a kid it was a windup toy,” he said, “but I suppose they’re all battery operated now.”

“No, Geraldine is referring to her kitten,” I said. “Do you object if we cat-sit for a few weeks?”

“Go ahead and do it, if you want to,” Howard said, “but don’t get me involved. I’m going to stick with this stereo problem till I get it licked. I think it’s the amplifier.”

My husband made a startling discovery very soon; it was impossible to remain uninvolved with Sin-Sin.

We picked her up at the airport. Inside the ventilated cat-carrier there was an indistinct bit of fur. It stirred. It was alive. We placed the carrier on the back seat of the car.

“Now I can relax,” I said. “She made the trip safely.”

With Howard at the wheel, looking blissfully uninvolved, we drove away from the airport and were exceeding the speed limit only slightly when we were unnerved by a devilish scream behind us. It was the cry of a wounded sea gull, with the decibel level of an ambulance siren. Howard ran the car off the pavement and halfway into a ditch before realizing that Sin-Sin, who had been lightly tranquilized for the journey, was getting back to normal and introducing herself.

“Perhaps she wants to get out of the carrier,” I said, hoping that the demonstration we had just heard was not an example of our new boarder’s usual speaking voice. Lifting her out of the carrier I had a twinge of misgiving. Who was this lovely creature entrusted to my care? Her pale fur felt far more precious than my dyed-squirrel jacket. Her brown markings were arranged with a chic that made me look dowdy, and her haughty manner did little to put me at ease. As for her eyes, they were a celestial blue filled with mysteries beyond my comprehension.

Nervously I placed Sin-Sin, whose lithe body had the tension of a steel spring, on an old sweater on the back seat, wondering if a ten-year-old cashmere was good enough to offer her.

On the way home we stopped at a supermarket to buy a supply of catfood and a bag of litter for her commode. Would she be satisfied with a plastic dishpan? Or would she expect something in porcelain or cloisonné?

While shopping we left her on the cashmere sweater with the car doors carefully locked. When we returned with our purchases, however, the car was surrounded by curious strangers, and Sin-Sin was outside—on the hood. One rear window stood wide open!

There she sat like an ancient Egyptian cat idol, stretching her neck and accepting the adulation of the mob, which she evidently assumed was her due. I elbowed through the crowd with my heart beating fast and made a grab for her, but she moved aside in disdain and hopped to the roof of the car. There were giggles and guffaws from the crowd.

“Don’t frighten her,” I pleaded.

Then Howard scrambled after her, making frantic lunges and muttering under his breath as he tried to match wits with a seven-month-old kitten. The merriment of the onlookers did nothing for his composure, and when he finally got his hands on Sin-Sin, he was far from uninvolved.

We drove away from the supermarket and were busily blaming each other for negligence when a sudden draft alerted us. This time the opposite window was open, and Sin-Sin was craning her neck at the landscape and blinking at the breezes.

I shrieked, and Howard jammed on the brakes. Then the explanation dawned upon us. Power windows! Sin-Sin had accidentally stepped on the push-button! . . . Needless to say, she spent the rest of the trip locked in the carrier, protesting at full volume.

Upon arriving at our house the newcomer sniffed disparagingly at everything, declined her supper served on one of my best plates, vetoed the soft bed prepared for her, and ignored the silly toys we had bought. Every movement she made caused us concern, and Howard watched her with such fascination that he forgot to work on his stereo project.

“We’re pestering her too much,” he said after a while. “Let’s go to a movie and leave her alone. She’ll get acquainted with the place in her own way.”

We went to the show, but my mind was not on the film. Would Sin-Sin hurt herself? Were there any hidden hazards? Some of the windows were open; could she push through those old screens? Suppose she ate one of the plants and poisoned herself!