Appetizers

Totor's Sorrow

Totor is a cat. If man were an intelligent animal, the cat would be a very friendly animal to man: the cat does not bark stupidly at all harmless passers-by; the cat does not viciously bite the calves of people who do not have a stick in their hand; the cat does not cowardly form a pack to pursue to death a poor, innocent and outlawed being; the cat is neither flattering nor servile; the cat does not always stick its nose into other people's affairs... But man loves dogs, because dogs are like men.

But the cat has a bad press among humanity. He is accused of being sneaky and selfish, because he is proud, shy and independent. We distrust him, as we distrust other dreamers (perhaps because we do not know what they are thinking, perhaps simply because they are thinking about something).

The cat does not brood over naughty plans; no one has ever had any malice to reproach a cat with; When a cat is unhappy, it leaves. A young cat has all the graceful cheerfulness that befits youth; an old cat has all the ironic and facetious gravity which compensates for the disadvantages of age;

cats only fight for love, on the roofs, and love is the only reason that legitimizes or excuses a fight... Finally, when a cat has tangled a ball of thread, it is not because malice; it's because he thought he could sort it out; thus, he acted as a lawyer, a politician or an administrator of something.

Against the cat here is the traditional slander which denies it any faculty of sentimental attachment: the cat does not attach itself to beings, but to the owners of the house.

I knew a cat named Kiki. Every morning and evening, Kiki kissed all the members of the family; he didn't do it as a trick that one would have taught a dog, but out of spontaneous affection. When there were strangers mixed with family members, he was not mistaken; he only jumped on familiar shoulders, rubbed his nose against friendly cheeks, and you could offer him any treat, he didn't kiss just anyone.

I knew an old cat called Orange. When I knew her, she shared her affection between her master, who was an austere scholar, and her brood of little cats. The brood was installed in the scientist's study. When Orange was forced to leave for a moment, she attracted her master's attention by lightly scratching the bottom of his pants. Then she would say: “Mia?” The master then replied: “It is understood, Orange; I'll watch over your kids while you're gone. » Then Orange came out. If the master, distracted or busy, did not respond, Orange waited patiently. But, in the absence of the scholar, there could be anyone in the study; Orange would never have had the idea of entrusting her children to a third person.

It's Totor that I want to talk to you about today. Totor was my concierge's cat. I express myself badly: Totor is still a cat; It's my concierge who is no longer a concierge. She retired and moved to a distant province... To the person who succeeded her she said: “I leave Totor to you; You will take great care of it, won't you? »

The new caretaker takes care of Totor like her son... But it's not enough to say that Totor is blue. Totor has mad grief, a visible and moving despair. When he is sure that his mistress is not in the dressing room, he has the idea that she is perhaps on the stairs; he is found on every landing, weeping and moaning; we find him in the cellar, bristling with anguish; we see him on the steps of the carriage entrance, craning his neck towards the street, in the vain hope that perhaps She has lingered at the market. He scratches at the kitchen doors, on the back staircase; he has himself opened, refuses the good things to eat that are offered to him, and, suspicious, carries out visits in the apartments. residence halls to ensure that she has not been kidnapped.

In twelve days, Totor, who was the fattest of the janitor cats, became the skinniest of the alley cats. Every day and especially every night, the manifestations of his pain become louder.

So, there it is: the tenants of the house have decided that Totor should die. But yes; If the pharmacist will give us what we need, we will poison Totor, for pity's sake.

G. DE LA FOUCHARDIÈRE.