Living with the Lama (1964)

CHAPTER TWO

It is easy to be wise after the event. Writing a book brings back one's memories. Through years of hardship I often thought of the words of the Old Apple Tree: “Little Cat, this is not the end. You have a purpose in life.” Then I thought it was mainly a kindness to cheer me. Now I know better. Now—in the evening of my life—I have much happiness; if I am absent for even a few moments I hear, “Where's Feef? Is she all right?” and I know that I am truly wanted for myself, not just for my appearance. In my young days it was different; I was merely a showpiece, or as modern people have it—a “conversation piece.” The Americans would call it a gimmick.

Mme. Diplomat had two obsessions. She was obsessed with the idea that she should climb higher and ever higher in the social scale of France, and showing me off to people was a sure charm to success. It amazed me, because she hated cats (except in public), and I was not allowed in the house unless there were visitors. The memory of the first “show off” is vivid in my mind.

I was in the garden on a warm, sunny day. For some time I had been studying the flowers, watching the bees carry pollen on their legs. Then I moved on to examine the foot of a poplar tree. A neighbour’s dog had recently been there and left a message which I wanted to read. Casting frequent glances over my shoulder to see that all was safe, I devoted my attention to the message. Gradually I became more and more interested and more and more withdrawn from the events around me. Unexpectedly, rough hands grabbed me and woke me from my contemplation of the dog-message. “Pssst!” I hissed as I leaped free, giving a backwards swipe as I did so. Quickly I scrambled up the tree trunk and looked down. “Always run first and look afterwards,” Mother had said, “It is better to run needlessly than to stop and never be able to run again.”

I looked down. There was Pierre the Gardener holding the end of his nose. A trickle of scarlet blood was leaking past his fingers. Looking at me with hate, he stooped, picked up a stone, and threw it with all his strength. I dodged round the trunk, but even so the vibration of the stone against the trunk almost shook me free. He bent to pick up another stone just as the bushes parted behind him and Madame Albertine, walking silently on the mossy ground, stepped through. Taking in the scene at a glance, she swiftly shot a foot forward, and Pierre fell face-down on to the earth. She grabbed him by his collar and jerked him upright. Shaking him violently—he was just a little man—she swung him round. “You hurt that cat and I KILL you, see! Mme. Diplomat sent you to find her, you son of a pig, not hurt her.”

“The cat jumped out of my hands and I fell against the tree and made my nose bleed,” Pierre muttered, “I lost my temper because of the pain.” Madame Albertine shrugged and turned to me. “Fifi, Fifi, come to Mama,” she called. “I'm coming,” I yelled as I put my arms round the tree trunk and slithered down backwards.

“Now you be on your best behaviour, Little Fifi,” said Madame Albertine, “The Mistress wants to show you to her visitors.” The term “Mistress” always amused me. Monsieur le Duc had a Mistress in Paris, so how was Mme. Diplomat the Mistress. However, I thought, if they want her to be called “Mistress” as well it will not hurt me! These were very strange and irrational people.

We walked together across the lawn, Madame Albertine carrying me so that my feet should be clean for the visitors. Up the broad stone steps we went—I saw a mouse scurry into a hole by a bush—and across the balcony. Through the open doors of the Salon I saw a crowd of people sitting and chattering like a flock of starlings. “I have brought Fifi, Madame!” said Madame Albertine. “The Mistress” jumped to her feet and gingerly took me from my friend. “Oh my darling sweet little Fifi!” she exclaimed as she turned so quickly that I was made giddy. Women rose to their feet and crowded close, uttering exclamations of delight. Siamese Cats were a rarity in France in those days. Even the men present moved to have a look. My black face and white body, ending with a black tail, seemed to intrigue them. “Rarest of the rare,” said the Mistress, “A wonderful pedigree, she cost a fortune. So affectionate, she sleeps with me at night.” I yelled a protest at such lies, and everyone jumped back in alarm. “She is only talking,” said Madame Albertine, who had been ordered to stay in the Salon “just in case.” Like me, Madame Albertine's face was registering astonishment that the Mistress should tell such absolute falsehoods. “Oh, Renée,” said a women visitor, “You should take her to America when you go, American women can very greatly assist your husband's career if they like you and the little cat certainly draws attention.” The Mistress pursed up her thin lips so that her mouth completely disappeared. “Take her?” she queried, “How would I do that? She would make trouble and then there would be difficulties when we brought her back.”

“Nonsense, Renée, I am surprised at you,” replied her friend. “I know a vet who can give you a drug to put her to sleep for the whole air trip. You can have her go in a padded box as diplomatic luggage.” The Mistress nodded her head, “Yes, Antoinette, I will have that address, please,” she answered.

For some time I had to remain in the Salon while people exclaimed at my figure, expressed amazement at the length of my legs and the blackness of my tail. “I thought all the best type of Siamese cat had a kinky tail,” said one. “Oh, no,” asserted the Mistress, “Siamese cats with kinked tails are not now the fashion. The straighter the tail the better the cat. Shortly we shall send this one to be mated then we shall have kittens for disposal.”

At long last Madame Albertine left the Salon. “Phew!” she exclaimed, “Give me four-legged cats any time rather than that two-legged variety.” Quickly I glanced around, I had never seen two-legged cats before and did not really understand how they would manage. There was nothing behind me except the closed door so I just shook my head in bewilderment and walked on beside Madame Albertine.

Darkness was falling and a light rain was pattering on the windows when the telephone in Madame Albertine's room jangled irritably. She rose to answer it and the Mistress's shrill voice disturbed the peace. “Albertine, have you the cat in your room?” “Yes, Ma'am, she is not yet well.” Replied Madame Albertine. The Mistress's voice rose an octave, “I have told you, Albertine, I will not have her in the house unless visitors are here. Take her to the outhouse at once. I wonder at my goodness in keeping you, you are so useless!”

Reluctantly Madame Albertine drew on a heavy woolen knitted coat, struggled into a raincoat, and wrapped a scarf around her head. Lifting me, she wrapped a shawl around me and carried me down the backstairs. Stopping at the Servants' Hall to pick up a flashlight, she walked to the door. A blustering wind blew into our faces. Scudding clouds raced low across the night sky. From a tall poplar tree an owl hooted dismally as our presence scared off the mouse which he had been hunting. Rainladen branches brushed against us and shed their load of water over us. The path was slippery and treacherous in the dark. Madame Albertine cautiously shuffled along, picking her steps by the feeble light of the flashlight, muttering imprecations against Mme. Diplomat and all she stood for.

The outhouse loomed before us, a darker patch in the darkness of the shading trees. She pushed open the door and entered. There was a frightening crash as a plantpot, caught by her voluminous clothes, swept to the floor. In spite of myself, my tail fluffed with fright and a sharp ridge formed along the length of my spine. Flashing her light in a semi-circle before her, Madame Albertine edged further into the shed toward the pile of old newspapers which was my bed. “I'd like to see That Woman shut in a place like this,” she muttered to herself. “It would knock some of the fancy airs out of her.” Gently she put me down, saw that there was water for me—I never drank milk now, only water—and put a few scraps of frogs' legs beside me. Patting my head, she slowly backed out and shut the door behind her. The fading sound of her footsteps was drowned by the keening of the wind and the pattering of the rain upon the galvanized iron roof.

I hated this shed. Often people forgot all about me, and I could not get out until the door was opened. All too frequently I stayed there without food or water for two or even three days. Shouts were of no avail, for it was too far from the house, hidden in a grove of trees far at the back of all other buildings. I would just lie and starve, becoming more and more parched, waiting for someone in the house to remember that I had not been seen about for a time, then come and investigate.

Now it is so different; here I am treated as a human. In place of near-starvation I always have food and drink, and I sleep in a bedroom on a real bed of my own. Looking back through the years it seems as if the past was a journey through a long night and I have now emerged into the sunlight and warmth of love. In the past I had to beware of heavy feet. Now everyone looks out for ME! Furniture is never shifted unless I am made aware of its new location, because I am blind and old and can no longer fend for myself. As the Lama says, I am a dearly loved old granny who is enjoying peace and happiness. As I dictate this I sit in a comfortable chair where the warm rays of the sun fall upon me.

But all things in their place, the Days of Shadows were still upon me and the sunlight had yet to break through the storm-wrack.

Strange stirrings took place within me. Softly, for I was as yet unsure of myself, I sang a song. I padded round the grounds seeking SOMETHING. My longings were vague, yet urgent. Sitting beside an open window—not daring to enter—I heard Mme. Diplomat using the telephone. “Yes, she is calling. I will send her immediately and have her collected tomorrow. Yes, I want to sell the kittens as soon as possible.” Shortly after, Gaston came to me and put me in a stuffy wooden box with the lid fastened securely. The smell of the box, apart from the stuffiness was MOST interesting. Groceries had been carried in it. Frogs' legs and snails. Raw meats and things that were green. I was so interested that I hardly noticed when Gaston lifted the box and carried me off to the garage. For a time the box was left resting on the concrete floor. The smell of oil, and petrol made me feel sick. At last Gaston entered the garage again, opened the big front doors, and started up our second car, an old Citroen. Tossing my box rather roughly into the luggage space, he entered the front and drove off. It was a terrible ride, we took corners so fast that my box slid violently and stopped with a bump. At the next corner the process would be repeated. The darkness was intense, and the fumes from the engine exhaust made me choke and cough. I thought the journey would never end.

Violently the car swerved, there was the horrid squeal of skidding rubber, and as the car straightened and shot ahead once more my box rolled over, upside-down. I slid against a sharp splinter and my nose began to bleed. The Citroen juddered to a stop and soon I heard voices. The luggage compartment was opened and for a moment there was silence, then, “Look, there is blood!” a strange voice said. My box was lifted, I felt swaying as someone carried it along. Some steps were climbed and shadow fell across the cracks of the box and I guessed that I was inside a house or shed. A door shut, I was lifted higher and put on a table.

Fumbling hands scraped against the outer surface, then the lid was thrown open. I blinked in the sudden light. “Poor little cat!” said a woman's voice. Reaching in she put her hands beneath me and lifted me out. I felt ill, sick and dizzy with the exhaust fumes, half stunned from the violent journey, and bleeding from the nose quite heavily. Gaston stood by looking white and frightened. “I must telephone Mme. Diplomat,” said a man. “Don't lose me my job,” said Gaston, “I drove very carefully.” The man lifted the telephone while the woman mopped the blood from my nose. “Mme. Diplomat,” said the man, “Your little cat is ill, she is underfed and she has been dreadfully shaken by this journey. You will lose your cat, Madame, unless greater care is taken of her.”

“Good Gracious me,” I heard Mme. Diplomat's voice reply, “Such a trouble for a mere cat. She IS looked after. I do not pamper her and spoil her, I want her to have kittens.”

“But Madame,” the man replied, “You will have no cat and no kittens if she is treated like this. You have a very valuable Pedigree Siamese Cat here, of the best strain in the whole of France. I know, I bred her Mother. To neglect this cat is bad business, like using diamond rings to cut glass.”

“I know you,” answered Mme. Diplomat, “Is the chauffeur there, I want to speak to him.” Silently the man passed the telephone to Gaston. For a time the torrent of words from the Mistress was so great, so vitriolic, that it defeated its own end and merely bemused the senses. At last, after much haggling, terms were agreed upon. I was to stay at—where was I?—until I was better. Gaston departed, still shivering as he thought of Mme. Diplomat. I lay upon the table as the man and woman worked upon me. There was the sensation of just a little prick and almost before I realised it I was asleep.

It was a most peculiar sensation. I dreamed that I was in Heaven and a lot of cats were talking to me, asking where I came from, what I was doing, and who my parents were. They were speaking in best Siamese Cat French, too! Wearily I raised my head and opened my eyes. Surprise at my surroundings caused my tail to fluff and a ridge to form along the length of my spine. Inches from my face was a wire mesh door. I was lying on clean straw. Beyond the wire mesh door was a large room containing all kinds of cats and a few small dogs. My neighbours on each side were Siamese cats. “Ah! The wreckage is stirring!” said one. “My! Your tail did droop when you were carried in,” said the other. “Where did you come from?” yelled a Persian from the opposite side of the room. “These cats make me sick,” growled a Toy Poodle from a box on the floor. “Yeh,” muttered a small dog just out of my line of sight, “Dese dames would get slapped down real good Stateside.” “Hark at that Yank dog shootin' the breeze!” said someone nearby; “He hasn't been here long enough to have a right to talk. Just a boarder, that's what he is!”

“I'm Chawa,” said the cat on my right, “I've been spayed.” “Me, I'm Song Tu,” said the cat on my left; “I fought with a dog, gee, you should see that dog, I REALLY worked him over!”

“I'm Fifi,” I responded timidly, “I didn't know there were any more Siamese cats than my late Mother and me.” For a time there was quiet in the big room, then complete uproar broke out as a man entered bearing food. Everyone talked at once. Dogs demanding to be fed first, cats calling the dogs selfish pigs, the clatter of feeding dishes and the gurgle of water as drinking containers were filled. Then the slurp slurp as the dogs started eating.

The man came over and looked at me. The woman entered and came across. “She is awake,” said the man. “Nice little cat,” said the woman. “We shall have to build her up, she will not have kittens in her present state.” They brought me a plentiful supply of food, and moved on to others. I was not feeling so good, but thought it would be bad manners not to eat; so I set to and soon cleared up the whole lot. “Ah!” said the man, coming back, “She was starving.” “Let us put her in the Annexe,” said the woman, “She will get more sunlight there, I think all these other animals bother her.”

The man opened my box and cradled me in his arms as he carried me across the room and through a door which I had not been able to see before. “Goodbye,” yelled Chawa “Nice meeting you,” screamed Song Tu, “Remember me to the Toms when you meet them!” We passed through the doorway and entered a sunlit room where there was one large cage in the centre. “Going to put her in the monkey cage, Boss ” asked a man whom I had not seen before. “Yes,” replied the man who was carrying me, “She needs looking after because she would not carry in her present state.” Carry? CARRY? What was I supposed to carry? Did they think I was going to work here at carrying dishes or something? The man opened the door of the big cage and put me in. It was nice, except for the smell of disinfectant. There were tree branches and shelves and a pleasant, straw-lined box in which I could sleep. I wandered around cautiously, for Mother had taught me to most thoroughly investigate any strange place before settling down. A tree branch was inviting, so I did my claws to show that I had settled in. By walking up the branch I found that I could look over a small hedge and see beyond.

There was a very very large enclosed space, with netting all the way around it and all the way across the top. Small trees and bushes studded the ground. As I watched, a most magnificent Siamese Tom strolled into view. He was a gorgeous figure, long and slim, with heavy shoulders and the blackest of black tails. As he walked slowly across the ground he was singing the latest love song. I listened entranced, but for the moment was too shy to sing back to him. My heart fluttered, and I had the strangest feelings. A deep sigh escaped me as he wandered out of sight.

For a time I sat bemused on the topmost reach of that branch. My tail twitched spasmodically, and my legs trembled so much with emotion that they would scarce support me. What a Tom, what a superb figure! I could well imagine him gracing a Temple in far-off Siam, with yellow-robed priests greeting him as he lazed in the sun. And—was I mistaken?—I felt that he had glanced in my direction, knew all about me. My head was awhirl with thoughts of the future. Slowly, shakily, I descended the branch, entered the sleeping box, and lay down to think things over.

That night I slept restlessly; the next day the Man said I had a fever through the bad car journey and the exhaust fumes. I knew why I had the fever! His handsome black face and long sweeping tail had haunted my sleeping hours. The Man said I was in poor condition and must rest. For four days I lived in that cage, resting and eating. The next morning I was led to a little house inside the netting enclosure. Settling down, I looked about me and saw that there was a netting wall between my compartment and that of the Handsome Tom. His room was neat, and well kept, his straw was clean, and I saw that his bowl of water had no dust floating on the surface. He was not in then, I guessed that he was in the enclosed garden seeing about the plants.

Sleepily I closed my eyes and dozed off. A hearty voice jerked me awake and I glanced timidly towards the netting wall. “Well!” said the Siamese Tom, “Glad to meet you, I'm sure.” His big black face pressed close to the netting, his vivid blue eyes flashing his thoughts towards me. “We are being married this afternoon,” he said, “I'll like that, will you?” Blushing all over, I hid my face in the straw. “Oh, don't worry so,” he exclaimed, “We are doing noble work, there are not enough of us in France. You'll like it, you'll see!” he laughed as he settled down to rest after his morning walk.

At lunchtime the Man came in and laughed as he found us, sitting close with only the netting between us, singing a duet. The Tom rose to his feet and roared to the Man: “Get this ***** door out of the way!” using some words which made me blush all over again. The Man leisurely unlatched the door, hooked it back safely, and turned and left us.

Oh! That Tom, the ardor of his embraces, the things he said to me. Afterwards we lay side by side in a warm glow, and I had the chilling thought; I was not the first! I rose to my feet and strolled back to my own room. The Man came in and once again shut the screen door between us. In the evening he came and carried me back to the big cage. I slept soundly.

In the morning the Woman came and carried me off to the room at which I first entered the building. She put me on a table and held me securely while the Man carefully examined me all over. “I shall have to see this cat's Owner because the Little thing has been badly treated. See—” he said, pointing to my left ribs and pressing where it was still tender, “Something dreadful has happened to her and she is too valuable an animal to be neglected.” “Shall we take a ride in that direction tomorrow and have a word with the Owner?” The Woman seemed to be really interested in me. The Man answered, saying, “Yes, we will take her back, we might be able to collect our fees at the same time. I will telephone her and say that we will deliver the cat and collect the money.” He picked up the phone and eventually spoke to Mme. Diplomat. Her sole concern appeared to be that the ‘cat delivery’ might cost her a few francs more. Assured that it would not, she agreed to pay the bill as soon as I was returned. So it was decided, I should stay until the following afternoon and then should be returned to Mme. Diplomat.

“Here, Georges,” called the Man, “Take her back to the monkey cage, she is staying until tomorrow.” Georges, an old bent man whom I had not seen before, shambled over to me and lifted me with surprising care. Placing me on his shoulder he walked away. Into the Big Room he carried me, not stopping so that I could have a word with the others. Into the Other Room, where he entered the Monkey Cage and shut the door behind us. For a few short moments he trailed a piece of string in front of me. “Poor little thing,” he muttered to himself, “It is clear that no one has ever played with you in your short life!”

Alone once more; I walked up the sloping branch and looked out across the wired enclosure. No emotion stirred within me now, I knew that the Tom had plenty of Queens, and I was just one of a long line. People who know cats always call the males “toms” and the females “queens.” It has nothing to do with pedigree, but is just a generic term.

A solitary branch was swaying, bending beneath a considerable weight. As I watched the big Tom sprang from the tree and plummeted to earth. Rushing up the trunk he did the same thing again, and again. I watched in fascination, then it dawned upon me that he was taking his morning exercise! Idly, for want of something better to do, I lay upon my branch and sharpened my claws until they shone like the pearls around Mme. Diplomat's neck. Then, bored, I slept in the comforting warmth of the noonday sun.

Some time later, when the sun was no longer directly overhead but had moved to warm some other part of France, I was awakened by a soft, motherly voice. Peering with some difficulty at a window almost out of my reach, I saw an old black queen, one who had seen many many summers. She was decidedly plump, and as she sat there on the window ledge, washing her ears, I thought how nice it would be to have a chat.

“Ah!” she said, “so you are awake. I hope you are enjoying your stay here; we pride ourselves that we give better service than anywhere else in France. Are you eating well?” “Yes, thank you,” I replied, “I am being looked after very well. Are you Madame the Proprietress?”

“No,” she answered, “Although many people think I am. I have the responsible task of teaching new Stud Toms their duties; I give them a try-out before they are put in general circulation. It is very important, very exacting work.” We sat for a few moments, absorbed in our own thoughts. “What is your name?” I asked.

“Butterball,” she replied, “I used to be very plump, and my coat used to shine like butter, but that was when I was much younger,” she added. “Now I do a variety of tasks—besides THAT which I told you, you know. I also police the food stores to see that the mice do not disturb us.” She relaxed into contemplation of her duties, and then said, “Have you tried our raw horsemeat yet? Oh, you simply MUST try it before you leave. It is truly delicious, the best horsemeat you can buy anywhere. I believe that we may be having some for supper, I saw Georges—that's the helper, you know—cutting it up just a few moments ago.” She paused, then said in a satisfied voice, “Yes, I'm SURE there is horsemeat for supper.” We sat and thought, and washed a little, then Madame Butterball said, “Well, I must go, I will see that you get a good helping—I believe I can smell Georges bringing supper now!” She jumped from the window. In the Big Room behind me I could hear shouts and yells. “HORSEMEAT!” “Feed me first!” “I'm starving—quick, Georges!” But Georges took no notice, instead he came through the Big Room and straight in to me, serving ME first. “You first, Little Cat,” he said. “The others can wait. You are the quietest of the lot, so you get served first.” I purred at him to show that I fully appreciated the honour. He put before me a great quantity of meat. It had a wonderful scent. I rubbed against his legs and purred my loudest. “You are only a little cat,” he said, “I will cut it up for you.” He very civilly cut the whole lot into pieces then, with a “Have a good meal, cat!” he went off to attend to the others.

The meat was just wonderful, sweet to the taste, and tender to the tooth. At long last I sat back and washed my face. A scrabbling sound made me look up just as a black face with twinkling eyes appeared at the window. “Good, wasn't it?” said Mme. Butterball. “What did I tell you? We serve the best horsemeat obtainable here. You wait, though; FISH for breakfast! Lovely stuff, I have just tasted it myself, Oh well, have a good night!” With that she turned and was gone. Fish? I could not think of food now, I was full. This was such a change from the food at home, there I was given scraps which humans had left, messed up stuff with silly sauces which often burned my tongue. Here rats lived in real French style.

The light was fading as the sun set in the Western sky. Birds came flapping home, old ravens calling to their fellows, discussing the events of the day. Soon the dusk deepened, and bats came fluttering by, their leathery wings creaking as they wheeled and turned in pursuit of night insects. Over the tall poplar trees the orange moon peeped shyly, as if hesitant about intruding upon the darkness of the night. With a sigh of contentment, I climbed lazily into my box and fell asleep.

I dreamed, and all my longings came to the surface. I dreamed that someone wanted me just for myself, just for companionship. My heart was full of love, love which had to be suppressed because no one at my home knew of a little girl cat's longings and desires. Now, as an old woman cat, I am surrounded with love and I give my all in return. We know hardship, now, and shortages, but to me this is THE perfect life, where I am one with the family and loved as a real person.

The night passed. I was restless and ill at ease wondering about going home. Would it be hardship again? Would I have a bed of straw instead of old, damp newspapers? I wondered. The next thing I knew it was daylight. A dog was barking mournfully in the Big Room. “I want out, I want out,” he was saying, over and over. “I want out!” Nearby a bird was telling off her mate for being late with the breakfast. Gradually the usual sounds of the day came to life. The bell in a church tower clanged as its brazen voice called the humans to do some sort of service. “After Mass I am going to the town to get a new blouse, will you give me a lift?” asked a female voice. They passed from my hearing before I could catch the man's reply. The clattering of buckets reminded me that it would soon be time for breakfast. From the netted enclosure the Handsome Tom lifted up his voice in a song of praise to greet the new day.

The Woman came with my breakfast. “Hello, cat,” she said, “Have a good meal because you are going home this afternoon.” I purred and rubbed against her to show that I understood. She was wearing new, frilly underthings, and she appeared to be in the best of spirits. I often smile to myself when I think of how we cats see people! Often we can tell a person's mood by their underclothes. Our viewpoint is different, you see.

The fish was very good, but it was covered with some meal, or wheatey stuff, which I had to scrape off. “Good, isn't it?” said a voice from the window.

“Good morning, Madame Butterball,” I replied. “Yes, this is very good, but what is this covering to it?” Madame Butterball laughed good-naturedly. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “You must be a country girl! Here we ALWAYS—but ALWAYS—have cereals in the morning so that we get our vitamins.” “But why did I not have them before?” I persisted. “Because you were under treatment and had them in liquid form.” Madame Butterball sighed, “I must go now, there is always so much to do, and so little time. I will try to see you before you leave.” Before I could reply she had jumped off the window, and I could hear her rustling through the bushes.

There was a confused babble of talk from the Big Room. “Yeh,” said the American dog, “So I sez to him, I don't want you nosin' around MY lamp post, see! You allus snoops round to see what you can sniff out.” Tong Fa, a Siamese Cat who came in late in the evening, was talking to Chawa. “Tell me, Madame, are we not permitted to investigate the grounds here?” I curled up and had a sleep, all this talk was making my head ache.

“Shall we put her in a basket?” I awoke with a start. The Man and the Woman entered my room by a side door. “Basket?” asked the Woman, “No, SHE does not need putting in a basket, I will have her on my lap.” They walked to the window and stood talking. “That Tong Fa,” mused the Woman, “It is a shame to put him to sleep. Can't we do something about it” The Man shifted uncomfortably and rubbed his chin. “What CAN we do? The cat is old and nearly blind. The Owner has no time for him. What CAN we do?” There was silence for a long time. “I don't like it,” said the Woman, “it's murder!” The Man remained silent. I made myself as small as possible in a corner of the cage. Old and blind? Was that grounds for a death sentence? No thought for years of devotion and love, kill the Old Ones off if they could not fend for themselves. Together the Man and the Woman walked into the Big Room and gently took old Tong Fa from his cage.

The morning dragged on. I had somber thoughts. What would happen to me when I was old? Apple Tree had told me that I would have happiness, but when one is young and inexperienced waiting seems an age without end. Old Georges came in. “Here is a little horsemeat, small cat. Eat it up because you are going home soon.” I purred and rubbed against him, and he stooped to stroke my head. Barely had I finished eating, and doing my toilet, when the Woman came for me. “Here we go, Fifi!” she exclaimed, “Home to Mme. Diplomat (the old witch).” She picked me up and carried me through the side door. Madame Butterball was waiting. “Goodbye, Feef,” she yelled, “Come and see us again soon.” “Goodbye, Madame Butterball,” I replied, “Many thanks for your hospitality.”

The Woman walked on to where the Man was waiting beside a big old car. She got in, made sure the windows were almost shut, then the Man got in and started the engine. We drove off and turned on to the road leading to my home.