_A Whimsical Storiette_
_By_ Bruce Grant
Myra looked up from her writing.
“David,” she said, “I am positive I heard a cat outside.”
The man only growled, settled himself deeper in his comfortable chair,
and continued to read.
The giant breath of the blizzard rattled the windows. The snow flung
itself wrathfully against the panes. Outside it was bitter cold.
“I can’t bear to think of a cat outside on a night like this,” continued
Myra.
“Forget it!” exclaimed David, arousing himself. “You are continually
thinking of cats. All that I hear from you is cats. You dream of cats,
you occupy your mind with cats. I heard no cat crying outside. It is
only your imagination.”
“No; I heard a cat—I am sure,” insisted Myra.
It was warm inside. David sat beneath a green-shaded reading lamp. The
pyramid of light fell on his tall figure, attired in a dressing-gown and
slippers, slouched comfortably in the chair.
Myra sat at a desk, scribbling in a book, now and then tapping her lips
with her penholder. She wore a clinging, yellow negligée, and her hair
was done back tightly on her head. In her sleek, brown coil of hair at
the back there was a large Spanish comb.
“David; I _know_ I heard a cat then!” she cried, throwing down her pen.
“You surely must have heard it, too.”
David laid down his book.
“When you are through dreaming of cats,” he said, “I’ll be able to read.”
Myra rose.
“I cannot bear to think of a cat out on a night like this—a little
homeless cat.”
Then she walked from the room.
David mused. _Cats!_ Nothing but cats! She had gone insane on the subject
of cats. He had never known her to be so unreasonable about cats. She
seemed worse since their cat, Rodolpho, had died. Her mind seemed now
occupied with nothing but cats. He was sure she had been writing
something about cats in her book.
To prove his contention he walked to the desk. He picked up the small,
leather-bound book. He read:
_“THE SNOWSTORM._
_“Against the pane the snow flakes press_
_Like dainty kitten paws._
_Outside the chill wind stings and cuts,_
_Like angry kitten claws.”_
David laid the note-book down. There! He had been right. He strode back
to his chair. Myra returned to the room.
“I looked out of the dining-room window,” she said. “I could not see the
cat. It is awful outside.”
She paused.
“Cats are such unfortunate creatures. In fact, all animals are
unfortunate—animals domesticated by man. They never know when their
masters are going to turn against them, or at least ignore them.”
“People treat cats that way because cats are good for nothing,” David put
in. “Cats enter your home, eat your food, roll up on your bed, and do
nothing. Rat traps are better for catching rats and mice. You don’t need
cats in the scheme of things. They are worthless.”
“Yes,” added Myra softly, in a passionless voice. “A woman comes into
your home, and eats your food, and spends your money, and curls up on
your bed. A cook and a housekeeper can do better work than she.”
“There is no comparison,” cried David. “A woman at least shows you some
affection—a cat never.”
“A woman shows affection when she knows that it is wanted,” Myra said in
a distant voice.
There was an awkward silence. These arguments never came to anything.
Why did they indulge in them? They always led to disagreeable subjects,
or touched on the fatuity of marriage. No, such arguments never did any
good. Far better if both remained silent. David picked up his book.
“Cats are very intelligent animals,” Myra continued, half aloud. “They
know instantly when they are not wanted. If anyone in a household hates
a cat, there is no need of that person speaking gruffly or striking the
cat. The cat will know. Cats have powers of divination which are denied
most humans. They are such sensitive creatures. They respond to the least
touch, the least kind thought. They slink away at the least unkind word,
at the least unkind thought.”
She hesitated, trifling with her pen.
“They know when they are not wanted. I should not be surprised if a cat
would go out into the cold—on a night like this—if it knew it was not
wanted.”
“Stop such darn foolishness!” growled David.
Myra looked at him, raising her eyebrows quizzically.
“Please don’t talk that way,” she said.
For an instant there came over him a surge of hatred. Would she ever
leave him alone! Alone for a few minutes of peaceful reading. Wasn’t she
contented to live quietly and peacefully without continually worrying
herself about cats, and whether or not her husband still loved her.
She was talking:
“It is true I love cats. I have loved them all my life. They are the most
beautiful and graceful of animals. But please forgive me if I hurt you by
talking about them. They show me affection. They seem to know that I love
them.”
But David was not listening. He was thinking. She was like a cat. Her
movements were catlike. Truly, she was every inch a cat. Come into your
home, absorb your warmth, eat your food, taunt you, insist on being
stroked and petted at every turn—truly a remarkable woman, as remarkable
as those small animals she adored, David scowled.
Events tumbled over themselves in his mind. She was susceptible to men.
When one caressed her with his voice she almost purred with pleasure. She
loved those who flattered her. He had flattered her most and had won her.
She now still expected all the flattery and little attentions which he
had given her before. She could not “settle down.” He felt that he exuded
hate at that moment. He felt that at last his eyes were opened.
Myra got up from her desk again.
“I’m going out into the back yard and see if I can find that kitty,” she
announced.
David could not read now. He sat silently in his chair, repressing the
wrathful things that tried to force themselves from his lips. He heard
Myra putting on her shoes.
She peeped in finally and smiled wistfully. He sat in the same spot. The
back door closed softly.
David gradually began to grow calmer. He sat and waited. In the silent
house, the quiet broken only by the rattling of the windows and the
thudding of the snow against the glass, he began to look back over his
married life.
They had been more or less happy during the three years. It would be hard
to find another woman who would put up with his idiosyncrasies. What a
fool he was! Myra was a wonderful woman, after all, the most wonderful in
the world!
He walked to the back door and called out into the night. He rushed
through the snow and the cutting wind. He returned and waited. The clock
told off the long hours.
Then it came to him—Myra’s words, “I should not be surprised if a cat
would go out on a night like this—into the cold—if it knew it was not
wanted....”