Thomasina - The Cat Who Thought She Was God by Paul Gallico Read Free Book Online

itself suddenly stared at by that single eye of ours is absolutely tremendous. I am not sure what it is exactly, unless it is to be confronted with the evidence that you actually need only one eye to watch while the other one sleeps that is so upsetting to the mouse, but there it is. A few doses of that and it is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Its nervousness soon communicates itself to its family; they hold a consultation and decide to move away.
    This is the manner in which any responsible member of our species handles the mouse problem in the household, but as you can see, it calls for technique, practice, and time; above all, time. I managed to keep the house reasonably clear in spite of all the other things I had to do, room and parcel inspection, washing, exchanging news with the neighbors, and looking after Mary Ruadh, for which of course I got no thanks or appreciation at all from Mr. MacDhui, and little more from Mrs. McKenzie, from whom I had to listen to such complaints as, “Och, ye lazy Thomasina. The mice have been at the larder again. Do ye then no’ ken a moosie when ye see yin?” which was supposed to be very cutting and sarcastic, but of course rolled right off my back.
    So there I was, just settled down to put the cap on three solid days of nerve war, when Hughie Stirling came whistling outside the house, and the next thing I knew, Mary Ruadh in a blue pinafore with blue socks and blue shoes was picking me up and carrying me off through the town down to the quay. I had never been there before at steamboat time.
    Hughie Stirling was the laird’s son. He was almost ten, but already tall for his age. He lived in the manor, whose grounds reached almost to the back of our house, and he was a great friend to Mary Ruadh.
    You can have boys, for my part. I find them nasty, dirty, cruel in the main, and unkind and heartless to boot, selfish little beasts, but I must admit that Hughie Stirling was different. He managed to keep himself clean and had a kind of noble look about him, with a lean face, dark, wavy hair, and light blue eyes, the farseeing kind.
    Mary Ruadh tagged after him whenever she could, or he would let her, which was quite often, for he seemed to like to look after her. Most boys of that age will have no part of little girls at any price, but a few, like Hughie, seem to like having them about, particularly if they have no sisters, watching over them, picking them up, brushing them off and wiping away their tears when they fall or hurt themselves, and seeing to it that their noses were blown when it was necessary. Like Mary Ruadh, Hughie was an only child and so he liked to borrow her occasionally, and of course I went along over Mary Ruadh’s arm, for she would not go without me. Hughie never seemed to mind this and appeared to understand it and not think it curious. Perhaps he appreciated my worth. I am not surprised to find this attitude in one of the aristocracy.
    If I could live my own life, that is to say, if I were not “house,” I should move to the water front and spend the days sitting on the jetties in the sun, sniffing the tar in the ropes with which the boats are made fast, and when the fishermen’s skiffs came in, I would strut along the granite flagstones of the quay, with my tail aquivering in the air, and go down to greet them and see what they had brought in from the sea.
    Next to lavender, I think the smells I like best are those of the sea, boats and heaps of old oilskins, sweaters, gear and tackle and rubber boots piled up in the boathouse, and the beautiful odor of fish; fish and seaweed, crab and lobster and the green sea scum that fastens to the gray-stone landing steps. And there is a wonderful odor by the sea in the very early morning, too, when the sun has not yet pierced through the mists and everything is soggy with damp and dew and salt.
    And so once I was there with the children in the square by the quay where the statue to Rob Roy stands, I was not too