Hugh Lofting: Doctor Dolittle's Return

And then there was Itty, the moon cat—strangest and most puzzling of animals. True, she did not demand any of my time; but I became very interested in her. She had not yet taken her place as part of the household (for which the rest of the animals were not sorry). But she was now at least willing to leave her cage. And she used to wander round the garden on silent feet, examining everything with great care and curiosity. She seemed particularly interested in the birds and watched them by the hour. This frightened the birds a good deal, especially those who were late nesters and still had young ones to raise. But Itty seemed to remember her promise to the Doctor; for I never saw her kill, or even try to catch, one.

Occasionally at night I would see her looking up at the moon, wistfully—as though she was wondering what was going on there, in that home world of hers from which she had cut herself off with so much courage. The other animals, when she first came out and began to move about, left her severely alone. They sneaked into corners when they saw her coming, and kept out of her way. Her answer to this was to keep out of their way—but in a superior, far grander manner. It seemed almost as though, having lived so many thousands of years longer than these upstart earth animals, she felt she should meet their rude unfriendliness with dignity instead of anger—rather the way one might leave impertinent, naughty children to grow older and learn better manners.

Just the same, whenever I saw her gazing at the moon in that strange dreaming way, she seemed to me like a very sad and forlorn soul, one who perhaps carried the secrets and mysteries of all the ages in her heart and had not so far found any one worthy to share them. And I wondered if the Doctor, in bringing her down, had not had at the back of his mind some wish to keep with him this one last animal link between the world of the moon and the world of the earth. Had he not perhaps felt after twelve months on the moon that a year is but a little time in the life of the universe, and that the moon cat—if and when she would—could still tell him much he did not know?

Certainly I have never known an animal who had such complete confidence in herself. She always seemed to be mistress of the situation, whatever happened. Her eyes! This world of ours has never seen anything like them. In the dark they didn't just glow, they burned and smouldered with a light of their own—sometimes with the sudden white flash of diamonds; sometimes like the green glimmer of emeralds, a sleeping southern sea at twilight, a cool forest at daybreak; sometimes like rubies, flaming, dangerous, red; sometimes like the opal—all colours, mingling, changing, fading and gleaming again…. What eyes! When they looked into your own, steadily, for minutes on end, they seemed to be reading your thoughts, searching you and your whole life—all the lives that lay behind you, your father's, your grandfather's, back to the beginning of time. Itty, often uncomfortable company perhaps, was for me always fascinating.

Quite a while before this I had learned something of her language. She talked very little—gave no opinions. She appeared to be feeling her way about this new world, so to speak, before she would say what she thought of it. When I told her that the Doctor had gone away she seemed quite upset. But I assured her at once that he would be back before very long.

From then on she tried in her funny stiff way to show me that she liked me. This I am sure was not just because I fed her, but because I always treated her in the way she liked to be treated. Of her own accord she would often follow me round the place and watch with great interest whatever I was doing. But she had never as yet gone into the house.

One evening when I was returning from some of my gardening work I found her sitting on the Long Lawn gazing at the moon. I asked her if she would not like to come inside and join the animals round the kitchen fire. Rather to my surprise, she came in with me right away without saying a word.

In the kitchen they were all there: Gub–Gub, Chee–Chee, Dab–Dab, Polynesia, Jip, Too–Too and Whitey. They greeted me with friendly shouts; but when poor Itty stalked in behind me they all bristled like a lot of porcupines and a dead silence fell over the room.

The cat went over everything in the kitchen with her usual careful inspection. On the bottom shelf of the dresser there was a sort of rack for pots and pans. She peered into all the pots and smelt each of the pans. She moved silently over to the fireplace and examined the poker and tongs as though wondering what they were for. The fire itself she stared at for a long while and I wondered if it was the first time she had seen one burning inside a house.

During all this the rest of the animals never uttered a sound or a word, but followed her round the room with seven pairs of suspicious eyes as though she were a bomb that might blow up, or a creeping, deadly snake. I felt so angry I could have slapped them.

I nudged Jip with my knee and whispered,

"Can't you say something, you duffer? Start a little conversation. I never saw such hospitality. Make her feel at home!"

Jip coughed and spluttered and grunted like some one coming out of a trance.

"Oh, ah, yes," he said. "Er—ahem—er—splendid weather we're having, eh?"

I made signs to the rest of them to wake up and show some life. Gub–Gub came to the conversational rescue.

"Yes, indeed," said he, "though I did think it might rain in the early part of the morning. But who cares? There will be lots more weather tomorrow."

I glanced for help towards Polynesia on the win–dow–sill. She looked as sour as a pickle, but she understood I wanted entertainment. She broke into a dismal Russian sea–song about a shipwreck.

Then Whitey started to tell jokes, particularly dull ones which no one apparently heard—and even he himself forgot to laugh at them. Everybody's eyes and attention were still on the cat, who continued to stalk round the room. She looked as though she were taking no notice whatever of anything but her tour of inspection. Yet I felt certain she was listening to every word that was being said, and, quite possibly, understanding a good deal of it. Finally she disappeared under the table. Then all the company became more uncomfortable and awkward than ever. When they couldn't see her they seemed to feel their very lives were in danger from a hidden enemy. They reminded me of a lot of old maids at a tea–party, scared that a mouse was going to run up their skirts. I truly believe that if I had not been there they would have broken and run off in a panic. I was furious with them, knowing how much John Dolittle wanted the moon cat to feel at home in his house. Things were going from bad to worse. I did some chattering myself, talking about anything that came into my head. It was hard, uphill work. But I did manage to bully them at least into making a noise. It was the most ridiculous kind of conversation, but it was better than nothing.

After several minutes of it Dab–Dab said,

"Sh! What's that noise?"

We all listened. It was a strange sound.

"It's almost like a strong wind in the trees," whispered Gub–Gub.

"More like the sea breaking on a beach," said Jip.

"No—an engine, I'd say," murmured Dab–Dab—"Or a band playing in the distance—Extraordinary!"

"I wonder where it's coming from," squeaked the white mouse, who had, as usual, retired to the mantelpiece.

I looked under the table.

It was Itty. Although her eyes were half closed, I thought I saw the shadow of a smile on her face.

She was purring !

But in spite of all there was to do, the old place was not the same without John Dolittle. I missed him terribly—so did the animals. The chats around the kitchen fire after supper were not the same. Somebody would start a story and we would all begin by listening attentively. Yet sooner or later the interest would wear off, the thoughts of the listeners would stray away and we would end by talking about the Doctor and wondering how he was getting on.