“Oh, will somebody separate those cats?” pleaded Stella, shudderingly.
Aunt Jamesina had brought with her not only the Sarah-cat but Joseph.
Joseph, she explained, had belonged to a dear friend of hers who had gone to
live in Vancouver.
“She couldn’t take Joseph with her so she begged me to take him. I really
couldn’t refuse. He’s a beautiful cat—that is, his disposition is beautiful. She
called him Joseph because his coat is of many colors.”
It certainly was. Joseph, as the disgusted Stella said, looked like a walking
rag-bag. It was impossible to say what his ground color was. His legs were white
with black spots on them. His back was gray with a huge patch of yellow on one
side and a black patch on the other. His tail was yellow with a gray tip. One ear
was black and one yellow. A black patch over one eye gave him a fearfully
rakish look. In reality he was meek and inoffensive, of a sociable disposition. In
one respect, if in no other, Joseph was like a lily of the field. He toiled not
neither did he spin or catch mice. Yet Solomon in all his glory slept not on softer
cushions, or feasted more fully on fat things.
Joseph and the Sarah-cat arrived by express in separate boxes. After they had
been released and fed, Joseph selected the cushion and corner which appealed to
him, and the Sarah-cat gravely sat herself down before the fire and proceeded to
wash her face. She was a large, sleek, gray-and-white cat, with an enormous
dignity which was not at all impaired by any consciousness of her plebian origin.
She had been given to Aunt Jamesina by her washerwoman.
“Her name was Sarah, so my husband always called puss the Sarah-cat,”
explained Aunt Jamesina. “She is eight years old, and a remarkable mouser.
Don’t worry, Stella. The Sarah-cat NEVER fights and Joseph rarely.”
“They’ll have to fight here in self-defense,” said Stella.
At this juncture Rusty arrived on the scene. He bounded joyously half way
across the room before he saw the intruders. Then he stopped short; his tail
expanded until it was as big as three tails. The fur on his back rose up in a
defiant arch; Rusty lowered his head, uttered a fearful shriek of hatred and
defiance, and launched himself at the Sarah-cat.
The stately animal had stopped washing her face and was looking at him
curiously. She met his onslaught with one contemptuous sweep of her capable
paw. Rusty went rolling helplessly over on the rug; he picked himself up
dazedly. What sort of a cat was this who had boxed his ears? He looked
dubiously at the Sarah-cat. Would he or would he not? The Sarah-cat
deliberately turned her back on him and resumed her toilet operations. Rusty