A remembrance by Elizabeth Whitmore

Light may earth lie over thee 
Who lay so lightly on my knee  

Patsey is dead, and we are desolate. I sit and read, but now no firm silky little head nuzzles its way into the hand that droops over the chair arm. Bill brings the tea-tray, but need no longer step carefully, lest he trip over the lithe figure that romps about his feet, nose uplifted to savor the fragrance of cakes. Bed-time comes, but no click-click of little spurred feet racing ahead up the stairs, no paw darted between the banisters to tap us as we follow. And when the light goes out, no warm little heap of drowsy content crooning in the hollow of my arm. Only a little black cat, laid to rest under the old apple tree two months ago, but the house is still bewilderingly silent and empty.

His place in our hearts was his own creation; he owed nothing to pedigree or beauty. His sweet-natured, long-haired mother had surely loved a cat of low degree, and her son’s points would have astonished the judges at any cat-show: a retreating chin, bandy-legs, big feet with extra “thumbs” that spread and gave him a pigeon-toed gait, a thin little body carried high, and an extraordinarily long tail. Yet in his incorrigibly debonair presence one forgot the defects; clad in daintily kept black coat dashed with white at paw-tips and breast he stepped along with a gait that, for all his big feet, was light and dancing, head carried high, clear lemon-yellow eyes sparkling, tail curving and vibrating with sheer gaiety, and as he came into a room eyes would smile and hands go out to him as to a winsome child. Like a child, too, if strangers were present he would make his way a little shyly to the side of someone he knew and loved, and from that safe refuge carry on a discreet flirtation or a sly raid on the tea-tray. Indeed, he never lost that child-like blend of shyness with strangers and rollicking abandon with those he knew and loved. Even at the mature age of four years, when the typical cat has developed a fund of courteous reserve, and must be approached with a certain formality, we still called him “Kitten” and “Little One”, and watched over him with indulgent protection.  

Yet, like any child, he had a very definite personality. His pranks were, from the first, not merely the graceful gambols of a young thing overflowing with physical vitality, but the experiments of a humorous youngster who “likes to see the wheels go ‘round”. When he arrived, a tiny bundle of fur that rested likely on the palm of my hand, he had come from a solicitous mother and a basketful of jolly brothers and sisters, hence it was natural that he should prance confidently up to the two stately middle-aged brothers that had hitherto swayed our household. To his evident surprise, he was greeted by menacing growls. But he neither cowered nor tried to fight; he backed warily under a chair, settled himself with his tail neatly across his toes, cocked his head on one side and studied his bachelor uncles thoughtfully. Then followed six weeks of experiment; a dart from ambush on three legs, followed by a swift, well placed paw-tap (apparently with sheathed claws) and a spring to one side before the heavier cat could gather himself for chastisement; a nip from a chair-seat at a passing tail; a snatch with dextrous big paw at meat set down for his elders — meat of which he had no need, as his own saucer was still unfinished. Usually a light spring carried the invader out of reach; now and then the incensed elder would deliver a heavy drubbing that made Pat shake his ears and blink. But neither success nor failure ruffled his temper; he would withdraw to safety, and resume that air of calculation, almost audibly asking himself “How much farther can I go?”  

In the end, a modus vivendi was established. Bob, the gray with the fighter’s jaw, was evidently too hurt and angry to endure teasing, and, except for an occasional swift raid, was wisely let alone. But Leader, the tiger, big, pompous, vain, yet at heart nervous and not unwilling to be friendly, became the bewildered butt of small nephew’s jokes: he would be routed from a comfortable nap to trot heavily and indignantly down the hall, while Patsey pranced behind on three legs, smacking with the uplifted fourth the fat, furry rump ahead; or when he sat with Bob, nose lifted and quivering with ecstasy during the cutting of their dinner ration, Pat, with his habitual humorous deliberation, would saunter up and plant a lighting-swift left-hander on lifted nose or broad chest, and before Leader could focus his gaze would be seated staring demurely into the distance between narrowed lids. There was no roughness, no malice, just a little comedy for Pat’s amusement, and (if we could judge by side-long glances) for ours, as well. But poor literal-minded Leader, whose household had hitherto moved about him with smooth and decorous etiquette and who had thought his wishes were law, was fairly demoralized into submission to the gay impudence of the newcomer. The climax came one evening when Leader had asserted his ancient privilege of settling himself ponderously across my knees while I worked. Pat had been perfectly comfortable in a chair across the room, but in a moment rose, strolled over, sat down in front of me and eyed Leader challengingly. Leader half-opened an eye, shut it again a little ostentatiously, and waited. Pat tapped my knee with a tentative paw; I said, “No, you see there’s no room.” Leader clenched his claws into my dress and set his jaw without looking at Pat. Whereupon the youngster gathered himself, leaped lightly and squarely onto Leader’s flank, and settled down as composedly as if nothing were between him and my knees. Leader grunted under the impact, grew tense, and pulled himself together a little, evidently resolved to out-stay the intruder. But, bit by bit, as he shifted ever so little to ease his position, Pat let a leg or a tail slide into the vacant space, never shoving or fighting, but simply holding each new bit of territory till poor Leader, with but a quarter of a lap to cling to, heaved himself down and lumbered off to seek consolation with my husband. At this Pat rose, yawned, folded himself into a compact little ball and slept in undisturbed possession with a wide margin of lap on every side. In the end the steady, good-humor persistence won out; the big cats tolerated his teasing, now and then saluting with touched noses and waving tails, no ant then even ignoring his filching a toothsome bit from their meat-platter.  

But his real cronies were his human associates, and to them his gay impertinences were a constant diversion. Who could be harsh with a young rascal that soared into the air to land light-footed in the middle of a business letter, when he apologized by putting a paw on each shoulder, and reaching up to outline one’s chin in a series of love-nips? Or when he was caught in the center of the dining table, draining the last drop from the flower-bowl (not that he was neglected; his own bowl was kept full of water, but this was more exciting), who could fail to answer the challenge in flattened ears and switching tail, and turn chastisement into a game of tag. His sins were annoying, but they were so clean and frolicsome – no dirt, no sulking, no tempers; when he was caught, he rolled over in one’s arms with such a comical air of conceding the honors of the game that the dutifully pronounced “Ba-a-a-d Patsey” had almost always an undertone of laughter, and he never learned a reason for shrinking from a lifted hand.

In many cases, too, his transgressions were really an assertion of a discriminating personal taste. For example, the raw milk and meat diet that satisfied his uncles had little attraction for him, and he early learned to leave his meat scarce touched, and go to stamp and rub his chin coaxingly against the table where stood the cake-box. As we opened the door, his nose would quiver inquiringly; if there were nothing but white bread within, he accepted a bit politely, taking it as if reluctantly, bit by bit, from our hands. But let the scent of fresh-baked graham reach his nostrils, and he would reach up, rub his chin against the proffered white without offering to take it, or, if we insisted, would take it into his mouth and quietly lay it down, gazing up at us reproachfully until we sliced the precious graham. He could scent it from the moment it was brought to the house, and many a time I have looked up to see him standing in the library door, summoning me with quick, beckoning turns of his head to come out to the kitchen and put away the fresh loaf. He hardly hoped for a taste at the moment, but, child-like, had to tell me it had come. If, however, the scent were sponge cake, he would be up and doing – quite literally “up”, on the table, side-board, even the highest shelf, and before I could come to the rescue, the deft paw would single out a slice and whip it onto the floor. Muffins, waffles, cookies – all, in his judgment, belonged to the cake family, and what wonder he was always prompt at breakfast, and roused from his nap at the tinkle of the tea-tray!  

Tea-time was the great social event of his day. Like most well-bred cats, he developed a code of etiquette as rigid as an eighteenth-century courtier’s. If tea were brought promptly at 4:15 while we were seating ourselves he would appear, tail erect, eyes beaming on each in turn, and, making his way close to the low table sit down expectantly. If, after a decent pause, he found me still too absorbed in human guests to offer him the customary bit of sand-tart or cheese biscuit, he called himself to my attention by tapping the plate with a tentative paw; if I still ignored him, his code permitted him to help himself. With a quick claw inserted into a cookie, he would swing it free, and, holding it daintily erect between two “hands” as would a squirrel, would lower it and proceed to nibble off the edges until it had reached a manageable size. This skill had its disadvantage for a busy hostess. If the tea-things had been set out beforehand to await the coming of a guest, Patsey, like my young son and daughter, could scarce resist the temptation to reach up and make off with an advanced morsel or two. In his kitten days he had once sniffed out the presence of a box of fresh doughnuts which I had momentarily laid on the library couch while I went to hang up hat and coat. When I returned, he had pulled the box onto the floor, opened it neatly, fished out a doughnut as large as himself, and taken a swift series of bites that stripped the circle down to the very rim of the “hole”. Had the package contained meat, he would have been content to wait.

We usually adapted ourselves to his code for the tea-ritual, and any departure from precedent distressed him sorely. If tea were delayed beyond 4.30, or, on rare occasions, omitted, a puzzled, anxious little figure paced from room to room, forehead wrinkled, eyes lifted in question to such friends as he could find. It was not hunger: cake in the kitchen did not appease him. Someone must sit in the accustomed chair with a plate of good things, and give him three or four bits with all due ceremony, talking, ruffling his fur, inviting him to creep up and seize a piece from between one’s lips, or leap after it over one’s hands. Then at last he would trot off contentedly, or settle into a convenient lap.

So at bedtime: the rites were as precise as for a royal “coucher”. If we did not voluntarily go to the pantry for a last snack, we were summoned with stampings and beckonings and coaxed till Pat heard the rattling of an opening biscuit-box. One taste, to make sure we had selected an acceptable variety, and he raced ahead, upstairs, prepared for a joyous romp in which he cleverly “fielded” bits of biscuit tossed into the most unexpected corners of the room. Those great front paws often met in mid-air and brought down the “ball” with the precision of a big-league fielder, the quick eyes saw thro our feints, and we rarely puzzled him as to the direction of the throw. But he established bounds; a piece under the bureau or dressing table was “out” and apparently ignored, tho’ he marked the spot, and usually went back in the morning to retrieve and eat it. The game over, he paced into the bath-room (if I went in without him he scratched at the door until he was admitted), took a long drink from his cup and sat down to wash himself, and superintend my preparations for the night. When all was finished, and I stooped to pick him up, such risings on hind legs to reach up and rub nose and jaw against my cheek, such love-bites all around my chin before he climbed on my shoulder for the ride to bed! But the fastidious little soul insisted that every trace of cold-cream be wiped away, otherwise, the proffered caress stopped midway, and tho’ he came willingly enough to my shoulder, he wrinkled up his nose and kept a good three inches between his face and mine. Once in bed, he must have one more ceremonial cookie-bit (he knew it would be on the bedside table) then crawl up my chest till his paws stretched under my chin, and lie purring while I read. At last, lights out and the long ritual duly performed, he would slide quietly down beside me and become the most gentle and soothing of bed-fellows.

For gentleness was, after all, one of his most marked traits. Despite his confident, waggish impudence with his friends, he was very timid with strangers. He never sought, never even accepted battle with the truculent tom-cats that invaded his garden. Light and small (he weighed little over seven pounds) he would only have been annihilated had he met the challenge, so he let his doughty uncles guard the marches and ran for the house or a tree. Yet the shrinking seems to have been due not merely to prudence, but to dislike of roughness. However swift or ingenious were his games, they were never violent. If we interrupted a nap, or moved him from a forbidden perch on table or book-case, he never struggled, but relaxed and purred in his captor’s arms; if he wanted to escape, he waited till the hand that was stroking him lifted a little, and then slipped quietly away. Even his voice was pleasant, Like most cats whose human associates take pains to understand a gesture or a glance, he never yowled complaints or demands. (A cry when someone inadvertently stepped on paw or tail was another matter). When he did utter anything louder than the crooning purr that responded to a touch or even to a friendly word, it was little trills of affectionate greeting like a mother-cat’s discovery of cake or the dash upstairs for the bed-time romp, or welcomed the return of friends who had deserted him for the evening. As for growls and spits, I cannot remember ever hearing him indulge, even in answer to profanity from the elder cats. That he usually met by backing off to sit down and stare, apparently preternaturally innocent, but really alert to tap a passing tail.  
So dainty a personality had its almost inevitable physical frailness. From babyhood he showed traces of asthma, and would now and again be shaken by a cruel bronchial cough. His appetite was light, and, even more than the ordinary cat, he shrank from cold and wet. Just before his fourth birthday he began to droop rapidly; the quick pad-pad of his feet became languid; when he came in to tea he would climb into my lap and lie quietly, sniffing with a show of interest at offered tid-bits, only to drop his head across his paws with a sigh. At bed-time he asked to be carried upstairs, and lay smiling at us from the foot of the bed, ignoring the invitation to play. We tried to cheat ourselves with the thought “a touch of grippe from the cold, damp spring” and to believe, when, after a night’s rest his eyes sparkled and he moved more briskly that “Patsey was really on the mend”. But we could not long blind ourselves to the struggle for breath that increased till he could no longer relax in sleep, but crouched painfully with head stiffly erect. The doctor shook his head: “Pleurisy – hardly one chance in a hundred” – and for some days we fought grimly for that one chance. The little patient worked with us, gallant, almost reasonable; as long as he could, he struggled periodically to his feet and tried to eat and drink; he accepted the painful medicine, wincing, but not really resisting. His cleanliness and courtesy persisted to the last; he gave himself up gratefully to the gentle brushing that kept his coat smooth, and once, when in weakness he could not keep to his standard of perfect cleanliness, he looked up at me in utter distress. Even when each breath was a hideous task, he managed to press his head up against the hand that caressed it and to answer with a whispered purr. And when, at last, the kindly doctor, with tears in his eyes, lifted him tenderly to put an end to the suffering, he scarcely shivered, but yielded himself with his old trustful docility.

A moment later he was lying stretched out naturally, his head dropped on his paws, his golden eyes half opened as if he were drowsily acknowledging a greeting, and we choked back our tears at a release as gentle as his life. Truly, he was the merriest, sweetest and most courteous of all cats. May he rest in peace!