Read Online A Tabby-cat's Tale by Hang Dong - Free Book Online

1
    Tabby was the prettiest kitty I’d ever seen. He was scarcely weaned when he arrived at our home, in a shoe box which served him as a king-size bed. He was a lively little thing who, at that stage, didn’t seem different from any other cat. Just rather more attractive than most.
    Looking at him, you might have assumed that Tabby was female, but you'd have been wrong. He was a tom, with none of the sweetness of a she-cat. He was imposing, with an acute gaze that no one dared to meet, although he seemed unaware of the effect he had on people. If he’d been a man, one would have looked at him sidelong, to avoid catching his eye. But Tabby was a cat, so there was no need to be so circumspect. When we felt intimidated, we could tell ourselves: He’s just a cat, a bit of an odd cat, that’s all. After all, we’d known him ever since he was a kitten.
    When Tabby was little, there was nothing unusual about him. He liked playing with bits of string and little balls and skittering around the room. He’d go looking for fish bones under the dining table, and sometimes, if we accidentally stepped on him, he’d give an agonized, almost human cry. He was so small, it was easy to miss him, and he had none of the prudence he acquired later. He was carefree, even reckless, knowing no fear as he frolicked around and between the trunk-like legs of his human family.
    I often lay in bed, my legs tucked up, making a mountain under the bedding. Tabby would make a mad rush at the mountain top or lie stock-still at its foot, as if he were a big cat on the African savannah. If I put my hand underneath the covers, Tabby would pounce and retreat, leap in the air and land, behaving as if my hand were some bizarre manifestation of nature. He was completely earnest and never gave up. Eventually, he made the connection between me and my hand and understood that I bore no ill will towards him, in fact I was fond of him. He and my hand were comparable in size, so he made it into a toy. When he was in a good mood, he played with it for a while, before apparently losing interest. At that point, however much my hand teased him, it was no good. Even if I collapsed the mountain of my knees, he wouldn’t show any interest. He would extricate himself from the convulsing sheets, give a little shrug and a shake, and stalk off.
    Tabby gradually grew into an adult cat and lost his kittenish curiosity about the world. He still liked to be on the move, but the difference was that now he paced himself.
    Then, at some indefinable moment, he changed. Something must have happened to cause this change, but we never knew exactly what. It was a pity that I was away from home for some months around that time. However, the truth is that even if I’d been at home, I couldn’t know everything that happened to Tabby. He was just a cat, to be found under the bed or along the walls, living a life that was completely separate from mine. Besides, he couldn’t speak our language, and a cat’s thoughts and needs can never fully be understood by humans, no matter how carefully they pry. Be that as it may, by the time I got back home, Tabby had become extremely, inexplicably strange.
    I’d only been away about three or four months, certainly no more than six, but in feline terms this amounted to years, and this absence came at a crucial time in Tabby’s life, an important stage in his personal development (if he’d been a human). As the old saying goes: Look at a seven-year-old boy and you see the man. It just so happened that at the moment when Tabby’s personality was forming, I wasn’t there with him. That was the point at which something happened, something that was vital to him but insignificant to us. That it had happened was beyond doubt. But quite what it was, we never found out.

2
    Our suspicions focussed on the time when Coco, the kid from downstairs, came to borrow Tabby.
    Coco was at an age when children