The Cats
Was it Carlyle who said, “Philanthropists should mind their own business”? Then, it was I, especially if it should happen to be a cat’s business.
What noble uncomplaining creatures, I thought, as I looked out our barrack window and watched two haggard felines feeding on the leftovers of a neighbor’s breakfast. Hmm, why don’t I give them the meals my kids refuse to eat. Mad reasoning! After one taste of our garbage, the cats, without any feeling of tribal loyalty, moved, fleas and all, from under the neighbor’ house to under ours.
We were new to the community. We were new to the roaming wildlife. From the neighborhood gossip, I gathered the two sad-eyed cats were abandoned illegitimates, who had survived through snow, wind and heat, impervious to the rocks of the 599 children on our street in Shanks Village, a former army camp, now converted into housing for the families of Columbia University students and veterans of Rockland County during the postwar years.
At first, I could not tell our new boarders apart, except that one cat was less frightened of tee than the other. Ugly they were, even with the stretch of the most sympathetic imagination — alley gray with monotonous stripes, undistinguished whiskers, and battle-worn fur. They had a nameless look; therefore we didn’t bother to distinguish them. After a time, one disappeared, perhaps because of my cooking. The one who stayed showed obvious signs of being pregnant, so we made her semi-respectable by naming her Mehitabel after the most charming of literary cats.
Noiselessly, Mehitabel lost the sag to her stomach and deposited on our doorstep five homely, rat-looking creatures, all the image of herself, plus one ravishingly beautiful redhead, whom we immediately called Tangerine. The only change in Mehitabel with her new name and new family was that she grew even more drab and colorless. Although she wanted her offspring to be brought up in the house, for herself she asked nothing but to be allowed to come in to nurse her darlings.
After the darlings started to walk and drink from a saucer, she figured they were in good hands and went about her outdoor ways. Life with the kittens would have run smoothly but for Clifford, the father and milk-buyer in our household, who insisted that we get rid of the litter, except for Tangerine. What beauty will do!
Kind people came, took one surprised look at the cats and always decided, “We’ll take the orange one.” They might just as well have asked for an original Renoir. It was obvious that Tangerine was not an asset to her sisters.
When milk went up another penny, Clifford gave me my choice — him or the cats. After an ad in the local paper produced not one cat lover, I chanced upon an article telling of a missionary who found food and funds for his flock simply by asking God. I wondered, would be a sacrilege to seek a small favor for five such sorry-looking animals. Would it work? Visions of the quintet sitting helplessly in some gas chamber made up my mind. I would offer a plea to the Divine.
The religious will say the ways of God are mighty, even for the smallest animal; the non-spiritual will quote the chances of coincidence — but, at any rate, here’s what happened.
Twenty minutes after my petition, there was a loud rapping on the door. Someone was always knocking at Shanks — a neighbor out of salt, a bill collector, a pamphleteer. This time it was the third. I took the throwaway from the woman, but before I could close the door, she asked, “Are these all your cats?” Tiredly, I prepared to explain again to somebody about the way cats do happen to pile up, when she added breathlessly, “Would you give me one?”
With generous abandon, I shouted, “Take them all, but not the redhead.” On and on I talked, citing the virtues of cats from the ancient Egyptians down. Without any question of color or sex, she picked one up and, cuddling it in her bundle of pamphlets, she left, while calling back “Thank you, thank you” in various keys of happiness.
Before I had time to fully recover from the wild joy of that good fortune, another tapping sounded on the door. My happiness fluttered, Oh-h-h, I thought, she’s brought it back. But no, it was another young woman. “I’ve come for a cat,” she announced as if she were purchasing a loaf of bread. “My neighbor told me you have hordes of them.” After giving her selection a couple of kisses, she went off as gaily as the first woman.
Somehow, I felt as I’d just sold two mink coats and had no doubt the the other members of Mehitabel family would get homes. By night, my faith was rewarded. Another rapping on the door — it was our pamphlet distributor back again. It seemed her kitten had run away and her children were heartbroken. “Couldn’t I have another.?” I suppressed my impulse to advise her to search further for the stray and gave her a refill.
I had two cats to go now; however, it didn’t seem right to push the prayer. But the prayer was taking care of itself, for the next morning a little child turned up and piped, “My Momie says I can have one of your kittens.” Sweet child, sweet names I called her and off she romped with her drab new pet. All that day nothing happened and I thought surely the power had run out when my husband said, “Margaret:” (whenever he calls me ‘Margaret’ instead of ‘Peggy’ that means he’s either extremely pleased or displeased with me). I expected the latter mood, since cats seemed to be the topic of dinner. “Margaret,” he repeated, “I have decided that as long as you’ve been so successful in finding homes for all those kittens, you may keep Tangerine’s sister.” The children whooped with joy; and to this day I am convinced that it was all a lesson, even if dumb beasts were used, in the vast power of faith.
The children called the redeemed one, Auntie. We found later that the name was slightly prophetic. All was blissful until Mehitabel start to put on weight again. I wondered what Margaret Sanger would have done in my position, not to mention Mehitabel’s. I did nothing; neither did Mehitabel.
Too soon after, my daughter announced, “I guess Mehitabel’s had her kittens, Mom. She’s thin again.” Oh dreadful thought — how many this time? I kept listening for scratches on the door. But they didn’t come until the rains started the next evening. Mehitabel brought us five babies — four little gray bags and another dazzling redhead. We repeated the post-natal care; the kittens repeated the growth pattern and Father repeated his threats. However, they were becoming mellower.
Since it was Spring, I just shoved the little darlings under the house with their mother and Auntie. The kittens thrived; and Mehitabel, grayer than ever, went back to roaming, leaving Auntie to take care of the children. Poor soul, she did so much baby-sitting that at length, I think, she believed the kittens were her own.
Eight cats we had, not counting their boy-friends, big fat gross-looking creatures, whom we tried to beat off with brooms. Word, too, must have passed from to dog to dog about all the fun to be had at the Nelsons, for before the Summer was over, unruly packs would come leaping, yapping, and snarling until Auntie and the girls would flee to the roof. The hounds feared neither broom nor mortal and only retreated before the wild, magnetic stare and stance of Mehitabel.
Little sleeping was done at night by the cats or by us, for the girls started giving unruly parties, and from under the barracks came shameful sounds of revelry. Even indoors, life was exciting, for every time my children came dashing in with friends, Mehitabel’s children and their friends would also come flocking in. The new game, smart among the cat set, was to have daily contests to see which one could sneak through the door the most times.
However, time always conquers numbers or some such thing, for one day Tangerine was abducted, and one of the girls ran off with a night companion. Also, we managed to force two others on guests, whom we first filled with cheap cooking sherry.
The whiteness of the first snows of Winter and the fatness of Mehitabel made me think of Don Marquis’s Mehitabel, who returned from Hollywood with platinum blonde kittens. However, we all agreed that in spite of the two redheads, it was unlikely that our Mehitabel would produce a white-haired blonde offering.
We learned, then, never to underestimate a cat, especially if you can’t keep track of her boy-friends, for that very same day of our scoffing, Mehitabel presented us with five platinum blondes. If we were impressed, Auntie wasn’t, for she stood off in the snowy night, watched them being carried in, then disappeared. A life of continual sacrifice obviously wasn’t for her.
This time we did not have to beg people to accept kittens. They put in bids before the babes could toddle. With this example I vowed to dip the next batch, if not platinum, in peroxide. And the next batch did come, soon enough, and they weren’t platinum and I broke my vow. There were only four of them, added to the four we already had, that was eight too many.
He who has always gets. One of Mehitabel’s older girls gave birth to four more. That gave us a cozy dozen. It was obvious from some of the comments from our neighbors that they were losing patience. In fact, one went so far as to show me a newspaper article about a woman in Paris who was accused of being a witch all because her neighbors objected to her collection of black cats. If the French didn’t know the facts of life and cats, how could I expect more of my neighbors.
So with the help of another but very timidly offered prayer, a traveling pot-and-pan saleswoman was sent to our door. She had a friend with a farm and a need for cats. Although the wicked suspicion rose in my mind that the friend might have a lab with a need for cats, I gave in, nevertheless, after pressure from Father. Ten of them, ten of the cats she took; and it was I, not Mehitabel, who wept when they all rode off in a car.
When we moved from the barracks to one of the army houses, we took Mehitabel and her remaining daughter with us. But the luxury of a house was not for their wild souls. Three times they escaped and returned to the empty barracks. The fourth attempt to recapture them was fruitless and, in fact, almost dangerous. It seems I had caught the mumps, and my jaws being rather swollen and my health rather infectious, I decided to conduct the search after dark.
With the mumps, a fever of 103, and a flashlight I was combing the vicinity of our old home with low enticing cat calls. What cured me, not out of the mumps but of cat-chasing, was the unneighborly gentleman with the revolver, who appeared on his back steps and demanded to know who went there. Although I satisfied his curiosity as to why I was there, I doubt that I ever convinced him as to my sanity.
As for Mehitabel and her daughter, I understand they became creatures of the field and were living an ancient happy life.
Do we have a cat now? Of course! A male, and oh how dull!
Peggy Nelson, circa 1956