Conrad's Cat

Conrad's cat, a lanky, striped old tom with a bob tail and six toes on each paw, was the primary reason he lived alone. The cat, who went by the unlikely name of Roger, was as ill tempered as he was battle scarred, and not known for his affability. Over the years he had learned self sufficiency and while his main target was the drying racks of salt fish the factory workers laid out, he was a proficient scrounger. He prowled the fishing boats and the general store for scraps and was often seen stalking the gulls. No matter whether it slithered or skittered or took wing, Roger had become a lethal and non-discriminating hunter. He had driven off not only Conrad's dogs but two common law wives and it was widely believed that he was possessed of some sort of truly nasty tempered demon. It wasn't until after the incident with the Sullivan boy though that the real rumors started. Conrad had conjured the old cat, so the whispers went, he was gifted with eternal life, couldn't be killed and was too mean to die.

The Sullivans were a roughish, fatherless clan known for cruel pranks and petty crime. They tended to travel in a pack and were generally given a wide berth by islanders. One of the youngest, a cross eyed and hostile boy named Harry, was a well known bully, infamous for his underhanded fighting tactics and inability to hold his liquor. Apart from sheer meaness, nobody knew what made him take a notion to throw the rock at Roger but throw it he did, catching the sleeping cat square in the face and tearing fatally at his eye socket.

That cat was bloodied and madder'n a hornet, Uncle Shad reported gleefully, But he come at Harry like three kinds of hell and opened up the side of this face like a tin of sardines and then like to bit half his ear off. Ol' Harry took off runnin' anad caterwaulin' like the devil hisself was on his shirttail!

Dumb as dirt, that boy, Nana sighed, Only a Sullivan would pick a fight with a damn cat.

Another inch one way or the other and the ignorant fool'd be seein' outta one side of his face the rest of his miserable life, Rowena complained, Damn shame I could save his eye and not Roger's.

Harry licked his wounds for a few days, laying low til the talk died down and the swelling in his face eased. Meanwhile, Conrad and Rowena fashioned a black eyepatch for Roger and to their surprise, the old tom accepted it.

Don't he look like a right smart pirate, Conrad laughed.

Ayuh, Rowena nodded and grinned, Looks a damn sight better'n Harry Sullivan, I'd say. You watch yer back, Connie. Harry's meaner'n a snake and I got me a feelin' he ain't done with this yet. Mebbe keep Roger in for a spell.

It didn't take long.

Harry's first attempts at retribution were clumsy, almost laughable. He left a trail of mousetraps across the yard and Roger walked and twined through them with the precision and grace of a ballet dancer.

He set a snare baited with mackerel and then fell asleep waiting. Roger effortlessly stole the fish and left the bones.

He stole a frozen venison steak, coated it with rat poison and threw it in the yard. Roger walked by it, sniffed delicately and then turned his back and sprayed it copiously.

His last attempt was creeping through the yard with an ancient Colt revolver tucked in his pants. Roger watched impassively until Conrad appeared in the front window with a double barreled shotgun.

Boy, Conrad rumbled, You take one more step and I reckon I'll blow your kneecaps off in so many pieces you ain't never gon' walk again. And I'll feed what's left to the cat. Now git your sorry ass off my property and don't you ever bring it back!

That was the moment, so Uncle Shad later told Nana, that he learned the meaning of the word “skulk”. Harry Sullivan crawled away and disappeared into the warm summer darkness but by then, Conrad had had all he was going to take. Shotgun in tow, he paid a visit to the entire Sullivan clan and made it unmistakably clear that Roger was off limits.

Lemme put it this way, boys, he told the startled family, This is done. If'n that cat gets as much as a hangnail, I'll be acomin' after each and every last one of you. Harry done started all this nonsense, but I'll be the one to finish it. Don't care much how you rein him in, but rein him in you'd better. I don't take kindly to folks interferin' with what's mine.

To Ruthie and I, listening intently from Uncle Len's front porch across the road, it was as if we'd stumbled into a dusty old western movie. Conrad had become an instant hero and we hung on his every word, knowing instinctively that as witnesses, we might be called upon to recount the details of the showdown. We wanted to be accurate. We were also, I'm ashamed to admit, hoping for some fireworks, hoping that maybe it was the day Harry Sullivan got some of his own back. As is happened though, Harry's brothers found his feud with a cat – Sweet Jesus, a cat? one of the elders sneered scornfully - laughable and a little shameful.

Boy's a hothead, Connie, he said calmly, but we'll tend to him. You ain't gon' have no more bother 'bout it.

Conrad nodded agreeably and shouldered his gun.

Sorry to have troubled you, boys, he smiled, 'Preciate your time.

Whatever happened to Harry after that stayed locked up behind the walls of the Sullivan house but the clan was true to their word and Roger soon resumed his travels uninterruptedly. After some discussion with Uncle Len, Ruthie and I were persuaded to keep what we had seen to ourselves.

Ain't no need to fuel the fire, he told us firmly, and I reckon your grandmother'd be tannin' both your hides if she was to know how close you come to a man carryin' a gun. Don't 'pect it would do me much good neither, come to think of it.

We protested the unfairness of having such a good story and not being able to tell it but Nana's wrath would be nothing to sneeze at, we knew, and sometimes you have to cut your losses. We took a step toward the adult word and let deception and discretion carry the day.