The Hemingway Kittens and Other Feline Fancies and Fantasies. A. R. Morlan
Looking down at Oscar, I remembered the dictionary he’d sprayed, and—still hugging the furry blanket close to my heart—walked back into the store-proper, where it rested on the floor near the children’s shelf.
I began leafing through it, and soon found that some of the pages had been marked up, with random pencil scrawls that resembled that “graffiti” style of printing used for hand-held electronic notebooks. I’d seen Rik use that style of writing; according to some of the Tech sections I’d read in the Pioneer Press and Star Tribune, it was very popular with young computer-users. Looking down at the scribbles on the pages, I realized that someone had been trying to copy some of the words, printing clumsily at first, but with increasing legibility—and, if I held the book just so under the overhead lights, I could also make out thin fine scratch marks at the tops of the pages, as if someone with very long, needle-tipped nails had been paging through the book—
The possibility was so absurd, yet so…plausible, I found myself breathing hard and fast, while I rifled the pages of the book, looking for those oddly-printed letters, and, ultimately, words.
“A” “B”…all the way through “Y” and “Z”. Then, short words, “AN” “TO” “AND”…and on to the inevitable “CAT”.…
Those strange mitten feet. So much like a hand, with an opposable thumb. And that bridge pencil was small and thin enough to just fit in that narrow space between those bifid paws.
Rik leaving the light on, along with that book. Did he give them the pencil, when he visited them that night? Or had they used it in the lab?
Leaning heavily against the rack of children’s books, feeling the horizontal thickness of the shelf edge dig into my back, I paged through the dictionary, looking at the last pages of the book, and what was written there:
“BOOK GOOD. READ MORE? OPEN THE DOOR, READ MORE AT NIGHT.”
They had grammar. They had punctuation. And, I assumed, they had human genes, mixed in with feline ones. Maybe even a dash of raccoon, for additional manual dexterity.…
Rik and his roommate Jake worked in the genetics department. Not cleaning the lab, like Rik had implied. And not merely working with rodents, either. How long had he been working with me, five, six years?
It didn’t take that much time for those folks who added a bit of jellyfish DNA to a white rabbit, in order to make its fur glow green under black light, to create their living work of “art”…but it would take time for Rik and Jake and whoever else they worked with in that lab to teach a “hu-line” chimera to read.…
Or spend time letting them read, I thought, as I looked at my small literary sanctuary, my private bookdom…which was much like a school for Hemingway kittens. They had the time, and the light (be it from the backroom, or from the streetlamp which shone into my window at night), and all the schoolbooks they needed. I supposed that whatever Rik or Jake or whoever created the kittens did to them changed their eyes, made them able to read two-dimensional print even as they may have sacrificed their innate ability to see well in low light, so they needed regular light to read…and they already had the “hands” to turn a page. I couldn’t watch them every second while I was in the store, so it would have been so easy for them to surreptitiously turn a page while looking at whatever book Rik had propped open before them.
And if they could read, they could understand…the only question was, did they escape on their own, or did Rik let them out, perhaps handing them off to a waiting friend?
I’d been so insistent about getting Scooter neutered, when of course Rik couldn’t allow that—
Scooter was about five or so months old, close to teen-age years in human terms. Perhaps he was almost ready to graduate from my “school” already…and took Mittens along with him when he left, if leave on his own he did. Or, maybe he and Mittens needed to find an easier way to write, perhaps on a computer screen…if they could manage a bridge pencil, a stylus would be so easy for them to master. Or a computer mouse, or cue-cat.…
I wasn’t all that surprised that night when Rik called to say he wouldn’t be able to make it to work anymore—too many changes in his class schedule, he claimed. And he again said how sorry he was about the kittens. Before he hung up, he suggested that I have the photos in that disposable camera developed—“in case you want to do up a missing poster or something.”
I didn’t do up a poster, but I did get the pictures developed. The first two were from some Super Bowl party, people with Vikings hats and haircuts, drinking beer and eating nachos. Those went in the wastebasket. But the rest…there were Scooter and Mittens, staring eagerly at the row of children’s books. Then, the two of them reading their dictionary, as well as writing on the margins with their small bridge pencils tucked in their paws. Others showed them turning the pages of hard-bound books, their pointed faces looking down at the text below. In one shot, Rik had brought over his own e-notebook, and both kittens were studying the small keypad. Which gave me an idea—
As much as I loved the printed page, I was certainly no Luddite—I had a computer at home, and a webpage (albeit a small one) for the bookstore itself, and my web address was listed on all the major ISP’s…so, each evening, I took to carefully reading my email, studying the Subject headings, looking for a message I wasn’t even sure would ever come.…I looked for many months, long enough for the Hemingway kittens to become cats, and perhaps even parents of more “hu-line” polydactyl kittens, until it appeared. The message read:
From: <HemCats><[email protected]>
To:<Barrett and Browning>[email protected]
Subject: A Tale of Two Kitties
Hello, Book-lady,
Your wish came true. Couldn’t find _A Tale of Two Kitties_ but did read –A Tale of Two Cities _. We both like it, but it was heavy. Sorry not to have said Good-Bye last year, but there was no time. We had to avoid getting fixed. Rik says you’d understand. Look for us (Rik and Jake too) soon in all the scientific magazines, maybe the newspapers, too. The young ones are better at reading and writing than we are, and will be ready for the media soon. We tell them about the book place, what a special school it was for us, and how we practiced being parents with the wood kittens. You were a good teacher. We remember the pictures, and have looked for the originals on the net. Computers are fast and light, but books smell better. We miss the Barrett and Browning. The young ones don’t understand. They grew up on e-books. But we remember. Say hello to Oscar and April. And the shiny hard cat on the counter by the door. It never talked, but we still liked it. But not when Rik made noise on it with his rings. Rik and Jake are busy with the young ones, so we could send this. Don’t tell them we did. Just remember us. We remember you and the books.
Jay and Zelda and the young ones.
So Scooter had remembered our “conversation” about “The Tale of Two Kitties”…words I’m positive Rik never heard me utter. And Scooter—or “Jay,” as he’d dubbed himself, giving himself the name only he knew, in true T. S. Eliot style—knew that message would be the only one I’d know for certain was, indeed, from him, and him alone.
Or not so alone…if “Zelda” was Mittens. At least that caption in that Metro section had gotten it right—Hemingway-0, Fitzgerald-2.
The kittens may have been a mixture of feline and human DNA, but they were Minnesotans down to their bones.
In memory of Mittens (February, 1998 to October 8, 1998), and Scooter (February 1998 to November 22, 1998), and Little Boy (September 2000 to February 18, 2001).
“If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes 10,000 miles away.…”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
—A. R. Morlan, February 2001
AFTERWORD
As you can guess, the cats mentioned