Cats in Space and Other Places by Bill Fawcett (the first e reader txt) 📕

forgot her fears and Gummitch once again had the run of the house. But by then the transformation Old Horsemeat had always warned about had fully taken place. Gummitch was a kitten no longer but an almost burly tom. In him it took the psychological form not of sullenness or surliness but an extreme dignity. He seemed at times rather like an old pirate brooding on treasures he would never live to dig up, shores of adventure he would never reach. And sometimes when you looked into his yellow eyes you felt that he had in him all the materials for the book Slit Eyes Look at Life—three or four volumes at least—although he would never write it. And that was natural when you come to think of it, for as Gummitch knew very well, bitterly well indeed, his fate was to be the only kitten in the world that did not grow up to be a man.

The Tail

M.J. Engh

I blame the birds. I enjoy watching birds as a rule—the stimulation is very pleasant—but at times they are intolerable. It was one of those dry winter days that set the fur a-tingle, and the birds were maddening. They were hopping about on the bare branches just outside the window, bobbing their little heads and flirting their little tails at me, and all the while cheeping insultingly. I felt the fur rising along my spine, my tail twitching, and when one of the little beasts actually made a pass at the window, banking off at the last moment with that titillating motion of theirs, I sprang from the sill in a fury and raced up and down the apartment until I felt calmer. Sitting down again, I lashed my tail once or twice to get rid of the last tingles of rage.

Then, with a sudden spasm, it lashed itself.

I do not think you can understand. Perhaps if your right hand suddenly struck you in the face you would feel something of what I felt. But a hand cannot compare with a tail. At all times, a tail has its own character. It is not a part, like a hand or paw; it is a whole.

Now it lay curled on the floor beside me, and I stared at it. Could my own tail have (to put it so) seceded from me? Perhaps, after all, what had seemed like independent action had been only a violent twitch; certainly the birds had never been so infuriating. Tentatively, gently, I switched it.

Like a mouse in panic it leaped away, flinging itself out at full length. And, panicked too, I raced crazily through the rooms, as if I could escape by flight the second half of my backbone. I took refuge at last under the table where my humans sat at one of their interminable meals. There I lay flat, and beside me the tail lay twitching. It looked just as it always had—or did it? How often I had cleaned and sported with it, my familiar tabby tail; how often snuggled it neatly around my paws, and yet never (I saw now) truly observed it. Its tip was black. I knew that, of course, but exactly how many black rings should it have? I looked along the length of it, turning slowly to see if it was indeed attached to me. Attached, yes, but no longer mine; or mine, let us say, but not me. Faceless and footless it lay, like a blind furred serpent, and nervously twitched. And I realized that I had no sensation in that tail.

With caution, if not with prudence, I laid a paw upon it. At the first touch it grew perfectly still; then violently, it tried to jerk away. Instinctively I clutched it.

It was stronger than I had known. It plunged; it twisted; in frantic struggle we rolled and tumbled, knocking against the feet of the humans, and so burst out into the open again. It had escaped my grasp. We lay prone and watchful, as before.

I became aware that they were laughing at me. One does not expect much understanding from humans, but one all too easily grows fond of them. Hurt, mortified, I collected myself as best I could and stalked away to fight my strange battle in privacy. Behind me, the thing hung and followed stiffly. I shuddered as I walked.

In the hall, with the laughter of the humans still pursuing me, it struck. I felt an actual yank at the base of my spine, as if some rude child had tugged my tail sideways, and then another. It was lashing violently from side to side, thumping hard against my flanks. Like a spanked kitten, I scampered down the hall and bounded into the next room.

But I had had enough humiliation. I turned, at bay, and slashed at it. It was quick—as quick as I—and hard to hold. Round and round we plunged, one way and then another, in mutual flight and attack, a hideous parody of kittenhood tail-chases. And now, with fury it flung itself at me, whipping and pounding about my legs. With a lucky snatch I pinned it down and buried my teeth in its thick fur. But it tore convulsively away, lashed to the other side, fell lightly back, and lay twitching at full length.

Cautiously, I looked over my shoulder at it. A prickling shiver rose along my spine, and I began to feel my tail again. I turned slowly and patted it with my paw, and in paw and tail alike, I felt the touch. With some trepidation I flexed it. My tail—yes, it was mine, my own. Very thoughtfully I began to wash it.

And now I wait. And if sometimes I bite at it with a kind of tentative anger, if more often I lick it with a reluctant gentleness, if long I sit gazing or lie brooding upon it, I have my reasons, yes. You do not understand.

Well Worth the Money

Jody Lynn Nye

"We need volunteers,"