Barks and Purrs | Page 4

pity me. Sometimes, when She's come out of
her tub with nothing on her but her skin, her soft hairless skin that I lick
respectfully,--She spills out more warm water, throws in a brown brick
which smells of tar, and calls, "Toby!" That's enough! The soul quits
my body; my legs shake under me. Something shines on the water--the
picture of a window all twisted out of shape--it dances about and blinds
me. She seizes me, poor swooning thing that I am, and plunges me in....
Ye Gods! From that time on I'm lost.... My one hope is in her. My eyes
fasten themselves on hers, while a close warmth sticks to me like
another skin on top of mine.... The brick's all foamy now ... I smell tar ...

my eyes and nostrils smart ... there are storms in my ears. She grows
excited, breathes loud and fast, laughs, and scrubs me light-heartedly.
At last She rescues me, fishing me out by the nape of my neck, I paw
the air, begging for life; then comes the rough towel and the warm
coverlet where, exhausted, I relish my convalescence....
KIKI-THE-DEMURE, (deeply impressed)
Calm yourself.
TOBY-DOG
Jove! The telling it alone!... But--you old sly-boots--didn't I see her one
day armed with a sponge standing over you, holding you down on the
toilet table?
KIKI-THE-DEMURE, (quite embarrassed, lashing his tail)
An old story! The long, fluffy hairs on my legs (which give them the
outline of a Zouave's) had somehow gotten dirty. She insisted upon
washing me. I persuaded her that I suffered atrociously under the
sponge....
TOBY-DOG
What a fibber you are! Did She believe you?
KIKI-THE-DEMURE
'Um ... at first. It was my own fault tho' when She didn't. Turned over
on my back, I proffered the candid belly, the terrified and forgiving
eyes of a lamb about to be sacrificed. I felt a slight coolness, nothing
more. A fear that my sensibilities might be destroyed, took possession
of me. My rhythmical wailings increased, then subsided, then went up
again like the noise of the sea (you know the strength of my voice). I
imitated the calf, the whipped child, the cat in the night, the wind under
the door. Little by little I grew enraptured with my own song, so that
long after She had finished soiling me with cold water I continued

wailing, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. Then She laughed tactlessly and
cried out, "You're as untruthful as a woman!"
TOBY-DOG, (with conviction)
That was annoying.
KIKI-THE-DEMURE
I was angry with her the entire afternoon.
TOBY-DOG
Oh, as to sulking, you do your share! I never can. I forget injuries.
KIKI-THE-DEMURE, (dryly)
You lick the hand that chastens you. Oh it's well known!
TOBY-DOG, (gullible)
I lick the hand that--yes, that's it exactly.--An awfully pretty
expression.
KIKI-THE-DEMURE
Not mine.... Dignity doesn't trouble you any! My word! I'm often
ashamed for you. You love everybody. You take all sorts of rebuffs
without even raising your back. You're as pleasant and as banal as a
public garden.
TOBY-DOG Don't you believe it, you ill-bred cat! You think you know
everything and you don't understand simple politeness. Frankly now,
would you have me snarl at His or Her friends' heels,--well-dressed
people who know my name (lots of people I don't know know my name)
and good-naturedly pull my ears?
KIKI-THE-DEMURE

I hate new faces.
TOBY-DOG
I don't love them either--whatever you say. I love--Her and Him.
KIKI-THE-DEMURE
And I, Him--and Her.
TOBY-DOG
Oh, I guessed your preference long ago. There's a sort of secret
understanding between you two--
KIKI-THE-DEMURE, (smiling mysteriously and abandoning himself
to his reverie)
An understanding, yes--secret and profound. He rarely speaks but
makes a noise like a mouse, scratching his paper. It's for Him I've
treasured up my little heart, my precious cat's heart, and He, without
words, has given me his. This exchange makes me happy and reserved.
Now and then with that pretty, wayward, ruling instinct which makes
us cats rivals of women, I try my power over him. When we are alone, I
point my ears forward devilishly as a sign that I'm about to spring upon
his scratching paper. The tap, tap, tap of my paws straight through pens
and letters and everything scattered about, is addressed to him as well
as the insistent miauling when I beg for liberty. "Hymn to the
Door-Knob," He laughingly calls it, or "The Plaint of the Sequestered
Cat." The tender contemplation of my inspiring eyes is for him alone;
they weigh on his bent head, until the look I'm calling searches and
meets mine in a shock of souls, so foreseen and so sweet, that I must
needs close my lids to hide the exquisite shyness I feel.
As for Her, she flutters about too much,