The Not Entirely Useless Cat

The cat materialized out of the fog like some kind of apparition – on the small side and black from nose to tail – she stepped lightly with a slight swagger.   At Sparrow’s feet, the old hound dog stirred and twitched, raised his head and peered into the fog with a throaty growl.  Sparrow stretched out his hand and laid it lightly on the dog’s course-coated head and the old hound relaxed at once.  He sat quietly, looking from the approaching cat to Sparrow and back again, alert, curious but still as a statue.

Step by deliberate step, the cat continued toward us.  She moved with typical feline grace and confidence, tail held high and yellow-eyed stare unwavering.  There was not the slightest sign of hesitation or fear and when she was within a few feet of the rickety front steps, she stopped and quite calmly sat down.

Ain’t never had much likin’ for cats, Sparrow said mildly, But this un’s got some brass, I’ll give her that.

The cat yawned.

Ay-uh, Sparrow said with something like reluctant admiration, Thing’s got spirit.

As if to confirm the words, the cat gave a short, sharp meow and the sound echoed eerily on the damp air.  She casually resumed walking toward us until she was within reach, then climbed the old steps and settled herself between Sparrow and the hound dog where she began to wash her paws and whiskers methodically.  When she was finished, she gave the dog an indifferent look, touched noses with him briefly and then curled up against his side and went to sleep.  The dog sighed and laid his head on his paws.

If that don’t beat all, Sparrow muttered, Thinks she owns the place.

This ain’t no charity home, cat, he told her firmly, You be wantin’ to move in here, you’ll be doin’ your share.  Ain’t no harm in havin’ a decent mouser ‘round the place but you ain’t gon’ be seein’ no handouts.

Then he sent me to the icebox for a piece of left over haddock, coaxed her into his lap, and fed it to her – and the hound dog – in small bites.  A man of his convictions Sparrow was.  When next I stopped by and asked after the cat, the old man shrugged.

Almost caught her a mouse last evenin’,  he said diffidently, She ain’t entirely useless.  She’s inside somewheres if you’re wantin’ to see her.

The not entirely useless cat was indeed inside, curled on a quilt at the foot of Sparrow’s bed and sleeping soundly in a nest of souvenir pillows.  Her sleek coat shone from a recent brushing and she was surrounded by handmade toys – a tightly wound ball of rubber bands, a feather tied to a stick with a length of string, a small square of burlap, roughly sewn together around the edges, filled with what sounded like loose coins – and several well-worn old shoes.

Don’t be gettin’ any wrong ideas, missy, Sparrow rumbled from the front porch, Them’s jist what you call trainin’ aids.   Been learnin’ her to hunt.

Oh, ay-uh, I said as straight-faced as I could manage, I ‘spect it ain’t easy with a cat.

He gave me a suspicious look.

Learnin’ to earn your keep and all, I mean, I added quickly, Cats just ain’t quick like dogs.

It seemed to satisfy him and he nodded, settling back into the old rocking chair and pulling out a pack of cigarette papers and a faded pouch of tobacco.   We sat for a time while he smoked, listening to the tide coming in and the waves as they washed up against the aged wharf, still hidden by the fog.  It was near to supper time when we heard a soft thump from inside the house, followed by a series of casually chatty meows.  The cat appeared on the other side of the screen door, took a moment to groom herself then pushed through and in one graceful leap, launched herself into Sparrow’s lap, meow’ed loudly and climbed up onto his shoulder.

Ain’t nothin’ to see, cat, the old man told her, Still fogbound and that’s a fact.

You gon’ name her? I asked.

She'll name herself in good time, he shrugged, Ain't up to me.

Another meow, although whether in confirmation or protest, I couldn’t tell.  Sparrow sat passively as she rubbed her head against his unshaven cheek, paid no mind when she sunk her claws into and began to knead his flannel shirt.  I watched her pick her way down his chest and across his thigh to jump delicately down to where the hound dog was sleeping.  She shoved and shifted and twined about his face and upper body, purring loudly and head-butting his muzzle before finally and contentedly nestling into the space between his chin and chest.  The old dog, feeling affectionate or resigned or just too sleepy to care, sighed and didn’t put a fight. 

Brazen little thing, ain’t she, Sparrow mused thoughtfully, Don’t know no fear.

What’s the name of that war hero fella from Texas, he asked a few minutes later, That movie actor soldier won every medal they is?

Audie Murphy? I asked.

Ay-uh, that’s the one, he grinned, Reckon that’s as good a name as any.  It’s fittin’, don’cha think.

I thought it was a fine name for a fine cat and said so but if the cat cared one way or another, it wasn’t clear. Having come from out of the fog to find an old man and a dog to love, she slept on.  She never did exactly catch on to being an effective mouser but she did learn to come when Sparrow called her name and that was good enough.  Audie Murphy was there to stay.