Little Cat's Luck Read online

  as the protector of his corner—

  not to mention his reputation

  as the meanest dog in town—

  very seriously.

  “Go!”

  he shouted.

  “Get away from here,

  right now!

  Go! Go! Go!”

  The little cat

  kept right on coming.

  Gus couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Nobody

  walked right up to his fence

  that way.

  Nobody in this whole town!

  It didn’t help

  that the invading cat

  had a helter-skelter look

  about her.

  One ear black,

  the other ginger.

  Black and ginger patches

  tossed

  here,

  there,

  and everywhere

  on a white background.

  Even her nose looked patched,

  half pink,

  half black.

  Such a cat

  shouldn’t be taking herself

  quite so seriously!

  Gus tried again.

  “Get out of my sight,

  you ugly thing!”

  If someone called you

  an ugly thing,

  you’d probably turn around

  and leave.

  I know I would.

  But though Patches certainly heard—

  Gus was so loud

  she couldn’t help

  but hear—

  she

  kept

  on

  coming.

  Like every cat in the world,

  she knew herself

  to be beautiful,

  so it never occurred to her

  that Gus might be talking

  to her.

  And if she had realized,

  she would simply

  have decided

  he was a very foolish dog.

  Gus was so flabbergasted

  that he swallowed

  the rest of his barks

  and stood staring

  at the little cat.

  Gazing into eyes

  as golden as two small suns,

  Gus found himself thinking,

  just for an instant,

  that he might have been mistaken

  when he called this cat

  ugly.

  He didn’t say that,

  of course.

  Who ever heard

  of the meanest dog in town

  apologizing?

  Patches marched right up to the fence.

  “I’m looking for a special place,”

  she informed Gus.

  “It has to be private—

  very private—

  snug,

  dark,

  quiet.

  I want a place that—”

  But by this time

  Gus had overcome his astonishment.

  He’d gotten past

  admiring Patches’s eyes,

  as well.

  And he opened his mouth

  so wide that,

  if it hadn’t been for the fence

  that stood between them,

  he could have taken in

  the whole

  of the small calico cat

  in

  one

  bite.

  “GO AWAY!”

  he roared.

  “THIS INSTANT!”

  Now,

  Patches,

  as you know,

  was not a worldly cat,

  but she wasn’t a foolish one

  either.

  Without another word

  about special places,

  she turned around

  and marched back across the street,

  carrying her tail

  tall

  and

  proud,

  the

  white

  tip

  flicking

  with

  each

  step.

  The flicking

  of that white tail tip

  enraged Gus.

  Who was this patchy little cat

  to make a fool of him?

  How could she

  walk up to his fence

  and demand a special place

  like that?

  Even Gus’s boy,

  when he came into his yard

  to bring fresh water

  and kibble,

  stepped carefully.

  Quite respectfully,

  really.

  And no one—

  no one!—

  had ever walked away

  from his fierce barking

  quite so calmly

  as this

  small

  cat.

  Still . . .

  what could a self-respecting dog do

  except to say it all

  again?

  “Go!”

  he shouted.

  “Go! Go! Go!

  And don’t you

  ever,

  ever,

  ever

  come back!”

  Patches did what she was told.

  She kept going.

  But as to never coming back . . .

  well,

  that was another matter

  entirely.

  Because while she’d been standing

  close to the fence,

  she had noticed something

  very interesting:

  two bowls

  next to Gus’s doghouse,

  one filled with fresh water,

  the other with kibble.

  Patches had been well fed

  that morning,

  so she wasn’t hungry yet.

  But it occurred to her

  that there probably wouldn’t be

  any chipped blue bowls

  out here in the wide wide world,

  so she made a mental note:

  kibble and water

  near the mean dog’s house.

  This

  was a place

  to remember.

  After all,

  the great noisy thing

  had to sleep

  sometime.

  Didn’t he?

  The problem with searching

  for a special place

  without knowing

  where such a place might be—

  or even what

  it might look like

  should you find it—

  is that the search

  can take a great deal

  of time.

  And it did.

  Patches wandered

  from yard to yard,

  from street to street,

  from park to parking lot to downtown storefronts,

  without once getting a glimpse

  of the special place

  she longed for.

  Was it the sheltered spot

  beneath the picnic table

  in the park?

  No.

  Too many people

  had gathered there

  to eat lunch.

  Was it the concrete urn

  filled with flowers

  on the steps of city hall?

  No,

  the urn had no roof.

  What if it rained?

  She glanced up

  at the single dark cloud

  c r a w l i n g

  across the face of the sun

  as

  it

  slid

  down

  the

  afternoon

  sky.

  Was it the space

  beneath the Dumpster

  behind the butcher’s shop?

  No.

  It smelled nasty.

  But even the smell

  of meat going rotten

  made her tummy rumble

  and reminded her

  ho
w late it was getting.

  Almost dark.

  Well past her suppertime.

  And though Patches kept searching,

  when she paused,

  at last,

  to look up at the star-pricked sky,

  she found she felt

  very

  small,

  just a bit lonely,

  and

  extremely hungry.

  The little cat had searched so long,

  in fact,

  and grown so weary,

  that she might have

  given up entirely

  and gone back home

  to her girl.

  If she had only known

  where her home

  and her girl

  had gone off to!

  But she had been walking

  for so long

  that she had quite forgotten

  where she had come from.

  So what could a small cat do

  but keep walking?

  She walked

  until the pink-and-black pads

  of her white paws

  were sore.

  And even then,

  she walked some more.

  Patches walked

  until she found herself

  on the corner

  in front of the post office

  once more

  with its

  f

  l

  a

  p

  p

  i

  n

  g

  red, white, and blue flag.

  How could she have made a circle

  without even knowing?

  And there was that mean dog again,

  barking.

  “No! No! No!”

  he was saying.

  “Go! Go! Go!

  Get away from here!

  This corner is

  mine,

  mine,

  mine!”

  “Who wants your old corner?”

  Patches said,

  more to herself than to him.

  But even as she said that,

  she remembered . . .

  fresh water

  and a big

  bowl

  of

  kibble!

  Beside the doghouse!

  And even as she was thinking

  about water and kibble,

  a drop of rain landed

  right

  on her small

  pink-and-black

  nose.

  Patches looked around

  for someplace dry.

  Only the blue postbox

  looked the least bit

  friendly.

  It stood up on legs

  just the right height

  to shelter a small cat.

  Not the special place

  she’d been looking for,

  certainly,

  but it would do

  for now.

  Perhaps someone had put

  this blue box

  here

  just for her.

  So Patches crawled

  beneath the postbox

  and lay down

  out of reach

  of the rain.

  Her tummy rumbled,

  reminding her

  of what she’d known

  for hours.

  She was

  very,

  very

  hungry.

  She didn’t know when

  she’d ever been

  quite so hungry.

  Thirsty,

  too.

  She gave her grumbly tummy

  a lick,

  just so it would know

  she still cared,

  and curled into a ball.

  There it went again,

  that rumbling!

  Her tummy rumbled so hard

  that it wriggled,

  too.

  “Oh my,”

  Patches said.

  She’d never felt anything

  quite like that

  before.

  All of which

  made her think again

  about the bowls

  of food and water

  beside the doghouse.

  But Gus was still busy yelling,

  “Go! Go! Go!

  Get out of here!

  Now!”

  making it clear

  that he wasn’t asleep.

  So she gave her sore paws

  each a lick

  and tucked her nose

  beneath her tail.

  Certainly she was sleepy

  even if the dog wasn’t.

  So sleepy

  that neither the rumbles

  nor the wriggles

  in her tummy

  could keep her

  from closing her golden eyes

  and slipping

  away.

  First she dreamed

  of her warm, comfortable house,

  of her chipped blue bowl filled with kibble,

  of her girl.

  And then she dreamed

  of her special place.

  It was waiting for her.

  Somewhere near.

  She was certain of it.

  When the mouseling

  stepped on Patches’s whisker,

  the little cat woke

  with a start.

  It’s odd,

  as I’m sure you know,

  for a mouse to walk right up to a cat

  and step on her whisker.

  But the night was dark,

  and this particular mouse

  was very young.

  Also, he was excited,

  which was why

  he wasn’t paying attention.

  He’d been scurrying

  home to his mother,

  eager to show her

  the bright red berry

  he held

  carefully

  in his mouth.

  In the darkness

  he hadn’t noticed

  the crazy-quilt curl of fur

  when he ran

  beneath the postbox.

  And it was just bad luck

  that the whisker

  lay in his path.

  Have I mentioned Patches’s whiskers

  before?

  Not just that she washed

  and smoothed them

  regularly,

  but have I told you

  how magnificent they were?

  In case I haven’t,

  I’ll tell you now.

  Patches’s whiskers were splendid.

  White.

  THICK!

  Long!

  Long enough

  to be stepped upon

  by a mouseling

  so excited about

  his red berry

  that he forgot to look out

  for obvious dangers

  such as cats.

  And that is how

  Patches’s whisker,

  her very own long, white whisker,

  tugged her awake

  from a sound sleep.

  She jerked her head up,

  slapped her paw down,

  and caught

  the mouseling

  neatly

  in the curve of her claws.

  “Help!” he cried,

  dropping the red berry.

  “Let me go!”

  Patches’s tummy rumbled.

  Every cat knows

  that mice—

  even little mouselings—

  are good

  for eating.

  Patches had never actually

  eaten a mouse.

  In fact,

  she had never even met one.

  (I’ve told you she was not

  a worldly cat.)

  But she was pretty sure

  this was

  a mouse she held,

  in the curve of her claws.

&nb
sp; Still,

  just to make sure

  before taking a bite,

  she asked,

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a mouse,”

  quavered the tiny fellow.

  “I knew that,”

  Patches snapped.

  (She was usually

  a polite cat,

  but having to ask

  something she should have known

  rather embarrassed her,

  so she covered her embarrassment,

  as folks sometimes do,

  with a sharp remark.)

  “But,”

  she added

  in a more pleasant tone,

  “surely you have a name.”

  By this time

  the tiny mouse—

  who,

  though he was very young,

  didn’t have to ask any questions

  to recognize a cat . . .

  or the claws of a cat

  holding him captive,

  or the teeth of a cat

  gleaming above him—

  had begun trembling

  from his teensy whiskers

  all the way down to his skinny tail.

  Still he answered bravely,

  “I don’t think I do,”

  he said.

  “Have a name,

  I mean.

  My mother calls me mouseling,

  but she calls

  my brothers and sisters

  mouseling too.

  So it’s not quite the same.”

  And then he looked

  into Patches’s golden eyes

  and said,

  “I’ve heard

  you have to own a human

  to have a real name.

  Do you own a human?”

  “Of course,”

  Patches answered,

  her voice growing softer

  at the mere mention of her humans.

  “At least,

  I had a girl once.

  But a golden leaf

  came dancing,

  and she got lost.”

  (Cats,

  as you may have noticed,

  are not much inclined

  to take responsibility

  for their own mistakes.)

  “Oh,”

  said the mouseling.

  He wasn’t sure

  he understood,

  but it seemed best

  to keep the cat talking.

  Talking was far better

  than biting,

  chewing,

  swallowing.

  At least it was better

  for him!

  So he wriggled just a bit

  to get away from the claw

  pressing on his soft, round ear

  and asked,

  “Was she a nice girl?”

  “Very nice!”

  Patches said.

  “Very, very nice!”

  And then her tummy rumbled,

  which reminded her that,

  however nice her girl

  might be,

  her girl wasn’t here now,

  and that she,

  Patches,

  was very,

  very

  hungry.

  Patches looked down at the mouseling

  still held snugly

  beneath her paw.

  Where should she start?

  With that funny little nose?

  The whiskers might tickle.

  With the skinny tail?

  Certain to be rubbery.

  Even while she considered,

  her tummy rumbled again . . .

  more loudly

  this time.

  “Please!”

  whispered the mouseling.

  And that’s when Patches