“A l-l-little thing like you?”
the squirrel exclaimed.
“Scare the g-g-girl?”
But the mouseling said only,
“Don’t worry.
I know how to scare her.
Just you wait and see!”
And so each of Patches’s friends
did what they had proposed.
The squirrels
pelted the door
with acorns.
The birds
flew at the watching window
and pecked it
with their sharp beaks.
The rabbits,
who had promised
only to hide,
if you’ll recall,
did much more.
They ran up onto the front porch
and thumped
their back feet
loudly
before they ran
back beneath the bright-berry bushes
to hide.
Then they ran
onto the porch
and thumped
and scurried away
again.
And while all this was going on
the little mouseling waited
quietly
by the front door.
What do you think
is going to happen?
Sure enough,
the door flew open,
and the girl,
still holding Patches,
stepped out
onto the stoop
to see
what all the racket
was about.
“Here I come!”
the mouseling squeaked,
and he skittered
up the girl’s leg,
scrambled the length
of her arm,
dashed across her shoulder,
and then
scampered right over the top of her head.
After that,
he
scurried
down
the
other
side
almost
as
fast
as
falling.
Now,
let me explain something.
This girl wasn’t
really
afraid of mice.
Most people aren’t,
if you think about it.
Who lies
in bed
at night
thinking, MICE!
and shivering
the way we might
if we knew
a great black bear
was prowling
about?
But if she wasn’t afraid,
she was certainly
surprised.
(That’s what mice
have going for them,
the surprise trick.)
Because when this girl
stepped out
onto her front porch
to see
what all the commotion was about,
a mouse
was the last thing in the world
she expected
to meet.
And she certainly didn’t expect
to have one,
not even a very small mouseling,
run up one side of her body and down the other.
So,
though she wasn’t
exactly
frightened,
she certainly was
startled.
Seriously startled.
And what do you do when you’re startled?
You jump.
Right?
And if you happen
to be holding something,
even if you’re holding something
very, very close,
what else might you do?
It’s just possible
that you might
throw up your hands
and let
the something
drop.
And that’s exactly what this girl did.
Her hands flew into the air
and released Patches.
Just for a second.
But a second was all it took,
because Patches took the chance
and leaped
out
of
her
girl’s
arms!
She landed on her feet,
of course,
because cats are good at landings—
and she took off running.
She headed back
toward
the post office
and Gus’s yard
and his doghouse
and Gus himself . . .
and her three
brand-
new
babies.
The girl wailed!
She had been so happy
to have Patches back.
And here her little cat was
. . . running
. . . running away!
“Patches!”
the girl cried.
“Stop!”
Patches heard,
but though she loved her girl,
she paid no attention.
At this moment,
she loved no one more
than Moonshadow
and Little Thomas
and Gustina,
because that’s the way it is
with mothers,
even brand-new ones.
“COME BACK!”
the girl called,
running
after.
Patches ran
even faster.
The squirrels,
the birds,
and the rabbits
scattered.
The mouseling,
too.
Now that a human
was involved,
they needed
to be out of the way.
Even the bat
woke
in the comfy attic
where
he
was
hanging
by
his
toes,
listened to the commotion
for a moment,
then
sighed
and
drifted
back
to sleep.
Daytime folks
made so much noise!
As Patches ran,
she kept watch
for the flapping
red, white, and blue flag
in front of the post office
across from Gus’s yard.
She was a cat
of the world
now
and knew
about post offices and
f
l
a
p
p
i
n
g
flags.
When she spied it
at last,
she knew
her babies
were near,
all snug and safe
with her friend Gus.
The girl caught up just in time
to see her cat dash
across the street
and duck under
the corner of the fence
right
into Gus’s yard.
“Patches! STOP!”
the girl cried.
And then,
when she saw her little cat
heading
straight
for
Gus
and his house,
she added,
“Don’t you know?
That’s the meanest dog in town!”
But Patches didn’t stop.
She didn’t even slow down.
She just ran ri
ght up
to the enormous gray dog
who lay,
half-in,
half-out
of his doghouse,
his chin resting
on his great gray paws.
The girl covered her eyes.
She couldn’t bear
to see
what was going to happen
next.
(If you’re scared,
you might want
to cover your eyes
too,
though it is rather difficult
to read
that way.)
When Patches reached Gus,
she stopped
just inches from his nose.
“I’m back, Gus!”
she cried.
“How are my babies?”
She tried to look past him
into the doghouse,
but he was blocking
the way.
Without raising his chin
from his paws,
Gus replied,
sweetly,
“My babies are just fine.
Nice of you to ask.”
As I said,
Gus spoke sweetly,
but Patches couldn’t help but hear
that word,
the small one
that causes so much trouble
in this world . . .
my.
Patches had said
“my babies”—
“How are my babies?”—
and Gus had said
“my babies”
back.
“My babies are just fine.”
As though
the babies
they were discussing
belonged
to him!
Patches licked her nose,
once,
twice,
three times.
(You’ll remember
that cats always do that
when they are unhappy . . .
or scared . . .
or
just
plain
mad.
And Patches was all three.)
Her fine imagination
was sending up warning signals
all
over
the
place.
Lots
and lots
and lots
of warning signals.
Patches spoke again,
but more carefully this time.
“Gus,”
she said,
“where are the kittens
I left with you?
The ones I asked you to watch over
for just
a
little
while?
Where are MY babies?”
“You mean Moonshadow
and Little Thomas
and Gustina?”
Gus asked,
as though there might be
another set of babies
under discussion
here.
“Yes,”
Patches said,
still speaking softly,
carefully.
“I mean
Moonshadow
and Little Thomas
and Gustina.”
Just the taste
of the names
on her tongue
made Patches want to howl,
but she kept tight control
and asked again,
softly,
carefully,
“Where are they,
Gus?”
After all,
who knew
what the meanest dog in town
might do
if she made him angry?
Who knew
what he might
already
have done?
“Such nice babies,”
Gus replied,
still without lifting his chin
from his paws.
“I’ve got them right here.
Warm
as toast.”
And he licked
his great gray lips,
as though the place
that kept
the babies warm
might be inside his belly.
The fur stood up
all along Patches’s spine.
Her tail puffed, like a bottle brush.
But she tried to stay calm.
“Gus,” she said,
using her best mother-voice,
the kind
everyone listens to,
even enormous dogs.
(You know
exactly
the mother-voice I mean.)
“Gus,” she said
again.
“I want to see Moonshadow
and Little Thomas
and Gustina . . .
now.”
“Certainly,”
Gus replied.
And he lifted his enormous head
so they both could gaze
at the pile
of kittens,
black and orange tabby and calico,
curled into a furry ball
between his paws.
Then he looked into Patches’s eyes,
his brown eyes
into her golden ones,
and said again,
this time
in a deep, deep growl,
“MINE!”
Now,
you’ll remember
I’ve told you
that Patches,
while grown,
was a small cat.
And you’ll remember,
too,
that Gus was a very large dog.
But Patches was also a mother,
and mothers
across the world
have a way about them
when their babies
are threatened.
So Patches didn’t think once
about size.
A hiss rose in her throat,
and her claws pressed
beyond the soft pink-and-black pads
of her paws.
She pulled the curving claws in
and let them slip out again,
feeling how sharp they were,
how they could cut,
how they could slash,
how they could tear.
Her fine imagination
could see
an enormous black nose,
the one right in front of her,
for instance,
decorated
with bright-red lines.
But while being a mother
can make a creature
fierce,
it can also make her wise.
Even a small cat.
So Patches tucked the hiss
away
and slowly retracted her claws.
Who knew
what might happen
to her babies
if she hurt Gus?
So she said
very reasonably,
“You know you can’t keep them,
Gus.”
Gus,
however,
was too busy
licking her babies,
one at a time,
as thoroughly
and lovingly
as a child might lick
a lollipop,
to seem to hear.
“Babies must have milk,”
Patches explained.
“They can’t live
without it.
And you have
no
milk.”
“I know,”
Gus replied.
And Patches
breathed easier.
He understands,
she told herself.
He’ll let the kittens
come home with me,
because
he understands.
But then Gus said,
“That’s why you have to stay
too.”
And he reached a great gray paw
and laid it on Patches’s back,
pressing her
flat to the grass.
“MINE!”
he said,
a single, sharp bark.
And he smiled
a huge doggy smile
that showed every one
of his long
yellow
teeth.
Through all this,
the girl had been standing
frozen
on the corner
by the post office.
She didn’t dare go closer.
She had always been told
to stay away
from the enormous dog
ran and the fence,
who up down chain-link
saying mean things
to everyone who passed by.
Every child in town
had been told
the same thing.
Still,
that didn’t mean
she could do
nothing.
So she stood right where she was
and cried, “HELP!
POLICE!
SOMEBODY!”
Now, if you stand
on a busy corner
and cry,
“HELP!
POLICE!
SOMEBODY!”
it’s very likely
that somebody will notice.
And somebody did.
Several somebodies,
in fact.
Three mail carriers came running
from the post office.
Two clerks
and four customers came
from the Piggly Wiggly.
Joe,
from Joe’s Gas and Grill,
left his gas pumps
and his grill
and came
too.
And the boy
who loved Gus,
though he didn’t spend
enough time with him
since he’d been banished
to the yard,
came running out of his house.
With
every
step
he shouted.
“Gus!”
“Bad dog!”
“What are you doing?”
“Let that cat go!”
“Right now!”
Now, Gus had always been fond of his boy,
and he was fond of him still,
but . . .
release Patches?
If he did that,
he would lose her
and the kittens,
too.
Even the one named Gustina.
And he wasn’t about to do that!
So he pressed
just a little more firmly
on Patches’s back
and narrowed his eyes.
He glared at everyone gathered around:
the mail carriers,
the clerks
and customers
from the Piggly Wiggly,
Joe
from Joe’s Gas and Grill.
Gus even glared at his boy
and folded his great gray lips
back from his long yellow teeth.
It was a look everyone understood.
It said,
“Make me!
I DARE YOU!”
“HELP!
POLICE!
SOMEBODY!”
the girl kept crying
even after the crowd
had gathered.
Gus ignored her.
He ignored the crowd of mail carriers