The Second Cat Megapack. George Zebrowski

against hers, as if he under­stood and agreed. Maybe he does realize, Arlene thought, Maybe, just maybe, he really does.…

      When Silky let go of her face and curled up on her legs, Arlene sat stroking his incred­ible fur for a few seconds, before lifting him off her lap and placing him on Dan’s old otto­man. She then walked over to the phone and dialed a number she knew by heart.

      * * * *

      Arlene timed it just right; she only had to wait outside the vet’s office for a few minutes, which she did while standing with her back to the fitful wind. And Silky—wiggling because he was hungry—was wrapped in enough blankets to keep him in-the-womb warm.

      When the veterinarian’s assistant opened the door at eight o’clock, Arlene shifted the squirming kitten to her other arm as she walked into the half-lit waiting room. Behind her, as the assistant finished turning on the rest of the lights, the woman asked Arlene, “Did you finally decide that Silky had grown enough?”

      Arlene uncovered Silky’s head; he yawned and blinked kitty kisses at her. “Yes, he hasn’t gotten any bigger since October…I guess he’s ten months old by now, don’t you think?”

      The assistant pushed a strand of her black hair out of her eyes, and paused to rub Silky’s ears as she made her way behind the recep­tion desk. “He sure doesn’t look it, but maybe his momma and father were small cats. Or he might be a—”

      Not wanting to hear about the other op­tion, Arlene said, “Poor Silky thinks I’m pun­ishing him…no food or drink since midnight. Had to put him in the bathroom overnight, just to keep him from the other animals’ dishes. We didn’t like that, did we?” She leaned over to nuzzle Silky’s fur with her slightly bulging nose.

      “Well, he’ll be happier once he’s healed. It’s hard on an un-neutered male if he doesn’t mate—but I shouldn’t have to tell you that. You’ve had a parade of kitties in here over the years—”

      Like Guy-Pie. And Bubba. And Puff and Fluff in a few months. But it’s different with you, isn’t it, Silky? Not just an end to a couple of gonads, is it, boy? But I just won’t be around to take in all those objectionables.… God forgive me, but I won’t be.

      The assistant reached over the desk to take Silky from Arlene, saying, “C’mon, big boy, let’s put you in a nice cage until the doctor comes. Oh, what a good boy,” she crooned as Silky butted his head under her chin. After Arlene scratched Silky’s ears and bent down to kiss one of his extended paws, the assistant headed for the back of the veterinary clinic, saying over her shoulder, “Y’know, Silky’s really one in a million. Usually they’re either stiff as boards or clawing the walls at this point.”

      And softly, so softly that the assistant never heard her, Arlene replied, “He really is at that, isn’t he?” before she left the office and walked face first into the cutting December wind.

      For Sassy, with love,

      And for Little Guy (1983-1988), in remembrance

      Also in memory of Puff and Pumpkin. Rest in peace, sweet boys.…

      —A. R. Morlan, 2010

      THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL CAT, by Lord Redesdale

      About sixty years ago, in the summertime, a man went to pay a visit at a certain house at Osaka, and, in the course of conversation, said—

      “I have eaten some very extraordinary cakes today,” and on being asked what he meant, he told the following story:—

      “I received the cakes from the relatives of a family who were celebrating the hundredth anniversary of the death of a cat that had belonged to their ancestors. When I asked the history of the affair, I was told that, in former days, a young girl of the family, when she was about sixteen years old, used always to be followed about by a tomcat, who was reared in the house, so much so that the two were never separated for an instant. When her father perceived this, he was very angry, thinking that the tomcat, forgetting the kindness with which he had been treated for years in the house, had fallen in love with his daughter, and intended to cast a spell upon her; so he determined that he must kill the beast. As he was planning this in secret, the cat overheard him, and that night went to his pillow, and, assuming a human voice, said to him—

      “‘You suspect me of being in love with your daughter; and although you might well be justified in so thinking, your suspicions are groundless. The fact is this: there is a very large old rat who has been living for many years in your granary. Now it is this old rat who is in love with my young mistress, and this is why I dare not leave her side for a moment, for fear the old rat should carry her off. Therefore I pray you to dispel your suspicions. But as I, by myself, am no match for the rat, there is a famous cat, named Buchi, at the house of Mr. So-and-so, at Ajikawa: if you will borrow that cat, we will soon make an end of the old rat.’

      “When the father awoke from his dream, he thought it so wonderful, that he told the household of it; and the following day he got up very early and went off to Ajikawa, to inquire for the house which the cat had indicated, and had no difficulty in finding it; so he called upon the master of the house, and told him what his own cat had said, and how he wished to borrow the cat Buchi for a little while.

      “‘That’s a very easy matter to settle,’ said the other: ‘pray take him with you at once;’ and accordingly the father went home with the cat Buchi in charge. That night he put the two cats into the granary; and after a little while, a frightful clatter was heard, and then all was still again; so the people of the house opened the door, and crowded out to see what had happened; and there they beheld the two cats and the rat all locked together, and panting for breath; so they cut the throat of the rat, which was as big as either of the cats: then they attended to the two cats; but, although they gave them ginseng and other restoratives, they both got weaker and weaker, until at last they died. So the rat was thrown into the river; but the two cats were buried with all honors in a neighboring temple.”

      ZUT, by Guy Wetmore Carryl

      Side by side, on the avenue de la Grande Armée, stand the épicerie of Jean-Baptiste Caille and the salle de coiffure of Hippolyte Sergeot, and between these two there is a great gulf fixed, which has come to be through the acerbity of Alexandrine Caille (according to Espérance Sergeot), through the duplicity of Espérance Sergeot (according to Alexandrine Caille). But the veritable root of all evil is Zut, and Zut sits smiling in Jean-Baptiste’s doorway, and cares naught for anything in the world, save the sunlight and her midday meal.

      When Hippolyte found himself in a position to purchase the salle de coiffure, he gave evidence of marked acumen by uniting himself in the holy—and civil—bonds of matrimony with the retiring patron’s daughter, whose dowry ran into the coveted five figures, and whose heart, said Hippolyte, was as good as her face was pretty, which, even by the unprejudiced, was acknowledged to be formidible commendation. The installation of the new establishment was a nine days’ wonder in the quartier. It is a busy thoroughfare at its western end, is the avenue de la Grande Armée, crowded with bicyclists and with a multitude of creatures fearfully and wonderfully clad, who do incomprehensible things in connection with motor-carriages. Also there are big cafés in plenty, whose waiters must be smoothly shaven; and moreover, at the time when Hippolyte came into his own, the porte Maillot station of the Métropolitain had already pushed its entrée and sortie up through the soil, not a hundred meters from his door, where they stood like atrocious yellow tulips, art nouveau, breathing people out and in by thousands. There was no lack of possible custom. The problem was to turn possible into probable, and probable into permanent; and here the seven wits and the ten thousand francs of Espérance came prominently to the fore. She it was who sounded the progressive note, which is half the secret of success.

      “Pour attirer les gens,” she said, with her arms akimbo, “il faut d’abord les épater.”

      In her creed all that was worth doing at all was worth doing gloriously. So, under her guidance, Hippolyte journeyed from shop to shop in the faubourg St. Antoine, and spent hours of impassioned argument with carpenters and decorators. In the end, the salle de coiffure was glorified by