The House Guests by John D. MacDonald Read Free Book Online

all the rest of their time together. Geoff would always yell as though he were being savaged to death. When he was the smaller we would separate them when it seemed to get too rough. Eventually we learned, after they were of a size, that Geoff’s vocalized anguish was part of the game. And he started as many incidents as did Roger.
    For years their most predictable time of play-battle was in the morning while we were having breakfast. After a certain amount of chase and flight, it always settled into the same pattern, Geoff on his back, pawsready for defense, while Roger, ears laid back, would make half circles around him, getting ever closer, looking for the chance to either spring in and take a nip at some unprotected place and bounce back out of range, or to find a major advantage, a moment of un-wariness, and come piling on, going for the neck, while Geoff would apparently try to disembowel him with his hind claws. You could hear the thuds as they hit each other with their paws. Little tufts of torn hair would drift in the morning sunlight. And Geoffrey would scream of murder being done. Never once were their roles in this mock battle reversed. Roger attacked; Geoff defended. As they grew older the invitations to battle became more considerate and ceremonial. No longer did one or the other crouch in hiding and spring upon the unwary. The victim cat might not be in the mood. An explosive exhalation, more huff than hiss, was adequate warning to stay the hell off. The rejected cat would walk away, sit, and begin to wash. This indicates awareness of a social error. It is the cat response to inadvertently falling, or being laughed at, or being slung off a chair, or letting a mouse escape. A man might start a tuneless little whistle and rock on his heels and fiddle with his necktie and stare into space. Cats go a little distance away and sit and start grooming themselves, starting with a few licks at the shoulder, never glancing back toward the place where the humiliation occurred.
    As they matured, the invitation to the game was expressed by washing the face and neck of the other cat and, during this process, chancing the tentative bite. If there was no response, the cat making the query could save face by continuing the washing chore as though nothing had happened. If the nip was returned, the game was on.
    As they changed from all the anonymous energies of kittenhood into the gangling specifics of teen-agecats, their personalities and their reactions to people became increasingly perceptible and distinct.
    Roger wanted all relationships to be on his terms. He despised being picked up, and would begin a struggling that increased in intensity until he was put down. He would let you know when he wanted to be stroked, and then his engine-voice acceptance of it was a kind of gluttony. He was incomparably stubborn, egocentric, over-confident, often vile-tempered. But of the two he had the greater curiosity, and figured things out more quickly.
    Geoff was more placid. He accepted what seemed to be expected of him at any time. He was content to be held. There were always children in the house, Johnny and his friends, visiting nephews, children of our friends. I wonder how many times we said, “The one with the white face will bite.” Roger would play with the kids, but when the game got to be a little too much, there would come that venomous huff, claws unsheathed, the ears laid back, and too often the yelp of a scratched child before Roger stalked away. Geoff never once bit or scratched a child, though I can remember once seeing him being used as a sort of roller under a sturdy small boy, with enough pressure on him, I swear, to make his eyes bulge. When Geoff had enough he would quietly and persistently disentangle himself and go away and hide. He seemed to trust children in a way Roger apparently found incomprehensible. Roger did not trust anyone too much but preferred adults.
    In some gradual and unplanned way, Roger became