ISSUE: Spring 1933
Societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals? But what about animals’ cruelty to humans? What about the way kittens run rough-shod over everybody —take Waifie, for instance.
We first met her late one night when returning from the movies. I mean we were returning from them. Where Waifie had been, who she is, and what, she and heaven alone know—and I doubt if she has admitted even heaven to her entire confidence. On the surface of life she appeared to be a tiny abandoned kitten, a waif and stray — hence her name!—of the perfectly common or garden grey-and-white variety, alone and defenseless on the village street. As such, in the role of Poor Little Kitty, she was picked up and tenderly cherished—with such fatuous blindness do we humans enslave ourselves I She may have suffered some trepidations alone on the wide street where predatory dogs prowled, and motor Jabberwocks with eyes of flame went whiffling past; but if so, there was nothing in her manner to suggest it. Taken into our car and settled upon the mistress’s knee, Waifie’s port and carriage was that of a duchess entering her own limousine. With a gesture we later came to know as all her own, this cat atom folded her tail around her toes, yawned minutely, breathed “Home, James,” just above a purr, and immediately fell fast asleep.
Next morning I looked to see a tiny frightened kitten humbly grateful for all the care lavished upon her. I did not know my Waifie! Small she is, a pound and a quarter with all her fur on, and barely six inches in her stocking feet, but humble—? Never! It was we who were humble, and her slaves. We realized at once, and indeed we might have guessed it the night before from that finished gesture of the tail enfolding the toes, that the world was Waifie’s and all the kingdoms thereof, animal, human, mineral, and catnip— and she knew it! Perhaps the world is mine also, but as yet I have not been fortunate enough to discover it. Besides, owning the world and knowing it, Waifie also owns herself: hence that gesture of the enfolding tail. She does not accept what is offered — how can one accept what is already his? She is finished, complete, perfect. Her slightest movement, the faintest twitch of a whisker, the pricking of an ear, is an inflection in the verb “to be.”
She moved about on velvet gloves — which by the way, conceal mailed fists—inspecting this her new kingdom with delicate sniffs, and at her feet we bowed, we fell, we lay down—or words to that effect. A human bed was hers to sleep upon by night, and by day the master of the house offered the palm of his hand. Curled around, she exactly fits into it. It is possible that he sometimes desires his hand for other purposes, but it is useless for anything else as long as Waifie naps upon it.
There was another kitten—besides several grown-ups— already in residence when Waifie arrived, a rough and tumble boy kitten by the jaunty name of Percival, who goes in fur rompers of mottled grey. Waifie took no foolishness from him! Percival is a nice boy, but though his weight in fur and flesh is just twice that of Waifie’s, in spirit and person there are tons more of her. Waifie is; Percival may be.
Percival and Waifie, playing together—Waifie graciously permits this—chased each other up the silver lace vine, there to discover that they had out-climbed themselves, and dared not venture down the dizzy way to earth again. Percival gave way to unmanly tears. Waifie merely sat her down to await the ladder which well she knew would presently be brought for her convenience. The Master of the house was busy about other matters, he did not wish to stop and ladder kittens, but what would you? Waifie waited.
So Tiberius might have sat
Had Tiberius been a cat.
I was the only one to attempt a small rebellion. I only did it once. I desired to take a nap in the hammock. True, an assorted pile of kits and cats—Waifie, and two grown-ups —were already napping there; but the hammock was wide— “Plenty of room for everyone, pussies,” I said, stretching myself along the outer edge, and gently urging over some masses of blue, white, yellow, and grey fur. Outrage ! At my first touch every cat there opened wide indignant eyes upon me; everyone arose — “Oh please don’t, I’ll go!” I cried hastily. Too late! I had already committed the unpardonable sin. Every cat sniffed up its whiskers, implying an unpleasant odor—all too painfully plain to me from whence the odor emanated! And putting their tails in the air, they every one, George, Bluebell, and Waifie—”kits, cats, sacks, and wives”—shook my dust and ashes from their paws, and stalked away. Waifie was the least and the last of that procession, but well I know it was she put all the others up to it! Her going left me crushed by the wayside—juggernaut!
Oh Waifie, what makes you so perfect, so complete, so IS—? What is the cryptic secret of the kingdom of the cat?
She hears me perfectly well but she will not answer, pretending to be entirely concerned with leaping and pouncing upon the fallen petals of the silver lace vine, killing each one with a tiny smack. I must content myself with the old childhood’s catch—
Nobody knows on
How many toes on
Pussie cat goes on.
Ouch! WAIFIE! Pleasel
All at once abandoning the death of the petals, Waifie has come to sit at my feet, bestowing upon me a long look. After which she suddenly up-ends and proceeds to sharpen her claws on my best silk stockings—and me inside of them! I have already mentioned that hers is the mailed fist in the velvet glove!
(At this point I am diverted to reflect a moment sadly that I never achieve anything more elegant than legs in stockings, whereas the genteel always have limbs in hose. However, I am somewhat comforted by remembering one such, a girl but lately graduated from a State Reformatory, by the way, giving me a sprightly account of how another girl accused her of stealing her stockings—” ‘Pardon me,’ she ses, ‘but them’s my hose.’ ‘Pardon me/ I ses, ‘they’re my hose—an’ if you say that ergin I’ll smack you in the face!’ ” Perhaps, after all, the gentility is only hose deep!)
Gently but firmly I detach Waifie’s fists from my—shall we say—fatted calf? And again she and I exchange a long look. Now, however, in her gaze there is no resentment, no haughtiness. Instead, out of her little pointed grey and white face she permits such a flood of beneficent sweetness to pour forth that I am ravished away. Through the kitten blue portals of her serenity I enter a world unknown. Where it is, what it is, who shall say? I only know that there it is always summer time with perfumed breezes blowing over golden meadows. There are still waters with pleasant harbors, and outer seas where no fear ever comes; and there in the centre of the kingdom sits Waifie’s little cat angel, tail folded around perfect paws, throat moving to a continuous thread of purr, while her kitten eyes do ever behold the face of an ineffable benevolence.
O Waifie, live forever! I salute your tiny paw, offering you on bended knees the tribute of a catnip mouse!
