Cats In Clover

  ***

  Ben called from the living room, "There's a strange cat in the front yard."

  I joined him at the window. A large short-haired cat with a black face and a black and white body sat near the veranda and stared back at us. "He looks thin. I'll put out some food and water for him."

  "You told me once that feeding a stray meant you'd have him forever," Ben said. "We don't need another cat."

  "But I want one. The trouble is, George might not let me keep him. He tolerated Clyde and Jeremy, though."

  "That's only because Clyde and Jeremy had their own slaves and didn't try to steal us away from him."

  I put food and water on the veranda and the cat, whom we named Blackjack, took to sleeping under it. George called him rude names and ran him off the property a dozen times a day, but Blackjack seemed to sense when George was sleep and always came sneaking back.

  One day Blackjack strolled into the house and ate out of George's dish. The King suddenly emerged from the linen closet, saw the other cat and went for him. Blackjack got out barely in time and disappeared for the rest of the day.

  "Why is George so determined to chase Blackjack away?" Ben asked. "He can still be King."

  "I guess he's afraid if he shares his empire and slaves he'll end up losing everything."

  Blackjack and I persisted, but George refused to soften his attitude. As far as he was concerned, it was a one-cat kingdom; he had troubles enough controlling his slaves and Nicky.

  After the third confrontation at the food dish in the kitchen, Ben said, "I don't think this is going to work. George is never going to give in."

  "He'll have to, sometime."

  Next time we locked George in the bathroom before we invited Blackjack inside to eat. Blackjack was cautious but after eating, he checked out the kitchen and living room and decided it was safe. He sprawled on the rug, purring, his eyes half shut in contentment.

  Ben went to the bathroom and let George out.

  Fortunately, we'd left the front door open far enough for Blackjack to escape. He disappeared into the blackberries, George right behind him.

  "It's no good," Ben said. "We'll have to find another home for Blackjack."

  "I hate to give up. He's such an easy-going little guy. I'm worried about what will happen to him."

  We phoned around and for once, luck was with us. The Frasers at Ellis Bay, who had sold us the chickens and Nicky, wanted to adopt a cat. Our experience with George had made us so cunning there was no trouble putting Blackjack into the cat carrier. He meowed softly a few times on the trip down to Ellis Bay, but remained calm in spite of the bumpy road.

  "He's so civilized I'm beginning to think we should have taken George instead," I said.

  Ben looked startled. "You don't mean that."

  "Of course I don't mean it. I'm just griping about everybody but us having laid-back cats."

  "But George has more personality than a dozen other cats put together."

  "I remember when you thought cats had no personality."

  Ben shook his head. "I had no idea they were such fascinating animals."

  I sighed. It was a little crushing to realize every story I'd ever told him about cats had gone in one ear and out the other, but it was exactly the same thing that happened with my commands to George.

  We left Blackjack with his head stuck in a food bowl, his adoptive parents gazing fondly at him.

  The moment we entered the house, George tore up the stairs and back down again. He raced back and forth in the hall and chased imaginary prey. Once or twice he stopped and, legs braced, tail lashing, gave us a wild-eyed, puckish look. Then off he went again.

  "Vacuum activity," said the Houseboy, who had by now read every book on cats he could find. "He has a safe place to live and plenty of food, so his energy builds up because he doesn't have to patrol territory and hunt the way wild cats do."

  "But why 'vacuum'?"

  "You know the saying 'nature abhors a vacuum.' There's a vacuum — an empty space — in George's life due to lack of exercise, so nature fills it by causing him to race around at full speed."

  "That's much too scientific. I'd prefer to think he's chasing elephants."

  "I'm sure he would, too. I just hope he never catches one because you'd stick me with the job of getting rid of it."

  XI - Fall Surprises

  October was balmy, the mornings fresh with dew and spider webs sparkling in the sun. By ten we were outside in the mellow warmth harvesting potatoes, carrots and beets or finishing off the cedar siding on the house. The big maples in our little forest had turned into golden splashes of sunshine against the dark evergreens. With a blue sky overhead, blue sea shimmering a quarter mile away and hens clucking contentedly to each other in the orchard while Ben pruned fruit trees, I felt almost reconciled to life on a small island farm. Almost.

  Even George the Magnificent was mellow. He'd given Nicky a few swift smacks to teach the dog who was boss and, though Nicky now weighed twice as much as George, he still deferred to the King. They roamed the farm together every day, George giving the dog lessons in hunting.

  "I think Nicky catches more mice than George," Ben said. His training of Nicky had not progressed beyond the 'Sit, Nicky, okay?' stage but the pup was smart and I thought he might eventually make a good watch dog.

  "When are you going to teach him to chase the deer?"

  "He tried to herd Cal's goats. He'll herd the deer when he's bigger."

  Fortunately, Nicky was good-natured and a sharp 'No!' had so far kept him from sins like chewing my slippers and climbing on the couch but nothing I could do kept him off our bed. He continued to use the cat door, though it was a struggle because of his expanding girth. He'd poke his head out, look both ways for traffic, then suck in his belly and wriggle through.

  One day I saw George coming across the lawn, stumbling over the garter snake dragging from his mouth. I blocked the cat flap and had just shut George's window entrance when I heard a heavy thud and a yip. Nicky had obviously tried to fire himself through the cat flap. When I opened the door and told him he was getting too big for it, he looked at me with hurt surprise and went off to look for comfort from Ben. We were back to being butlers again.

  Other things had improved, however. "I notice George hasn't thrown up much lately," Ben said. "Are you feeding him something different?"

  "No. He seems more confident now. He should be; we've had him almost seven months." Being a little superstitious, I didn't want to voice my fear that George was saving his energy to do it at Christmas, when he could impress guests and keep me even busier than the season warranted.

  Ben read my mind. "We'd better not give him much turkey at Christmas or he'll be at it again, like the ancient Roman aristocracy at their banquets. They induced vomiting so they could go on eating."

  "Disgusting."

  "I bet George doesn't think so."

  "Don't tell him that," I said. "He understands human language quite well when he wants to. The problem is that he usually doesn't want to. He doesn't hear a word when I tell him to get off my drawing assignments."

  "He's probably trying to help you."

  "I might as well let him; George's wet foot prints are more artistic than anything I can do with a pencil. I don't really mind. At least I know now that I can't draw worth a darn."

  "Or grow tomatoes," Ben added.

  George was most indignant when the weather turned cold in November and we had to shut our bedroom window. Speeding toward the house at full gallop, as usual, he slammed into the window three midnights in a row. Then swore loudly enough to wake us up – as if we hadn't already been wakened by the crash and the shuddering glass – and issued shrill orders to be let in. Ben and I pretended not to hear him, knowing that eventually he'd go round to the cat door. We also pretended not to hear the lengthy lecture we received when he landed on the bed and paced back and forth across the Houseboy, Nicky and me.

  I tried to atone by letting him sleep in
the bottom drawer of my dresser on Cal's mohair cloth, which George loved. That was a mistake; every time I went to the bathroom in the night, I tripped over the open drawer. I finally moved the cloth to a cardboard box in the corner.

  "I hope Cal never comes in here and sees you've given his first prize weaving to George for a blanket," Ben said. "Why don't you make it into a skirt, like Cal suggested?"

  "I will. I just want to strengthen it with a little cat hair first."