The Painted Ponies of Partequineus and The Summer of the Kittens Page 9

  “Who’s Paul Gallico?” Dad interrupted.

  “And cats that have always lived with people don’t know how to take care of themselves, they can’t catch mice or anything, and unless somebody teaches them, like the way Jennie taught Peter, they starve to death, or get hit by cars, or get beat up by other cats or eaten by wild animals, or… or…” I was sort of running down, and so mad I couldn’t think of what else I wanted to say.

  “What is this child talking about?” Dad said.

  “It’s in a book she’s been reading,” Mom said. “Hanna, let’s just calm down a minute and think this through. We could take her to the animal shelter downtown.”

  “Yeah, right, and if nobody adopts her, sooner or later they’ll just kill her.”

  “They don’t kill healthy animals.”

  “Mom, they do! They get like hundreds of stray cats, the lady told me so, and when they run out of enough cages they have to kill the ones who’ve been there the longest.”

  “What lady?” Mom said.

  “At the animal shelter! Aren’t you listening to me?”

  “When have you been going to the animal shelter?”

  “I go all the time. I help them clean out the cages, and they let me put food in the bowls and pet the cats and stuff. And I know they kill them sometimes, ’cause they disappear, and I know nobody adopts them ’cause almost nobody wants a big cat, only kittens.”

  “They euthanize them,” Dad said. “It’s painless.”

  “I don’t care how they do it! They end up dead just the same!”

  “All right,” Mom said, “since you’ve already started to feed it, even though you know you shouldn’t have, I guess we could…”

  “No!” Dad said, and Mom said “Wait a minute!” and all of a sudden they were yelling at each other instead of at me, and Mom was saying how Dad was never home anyway, and it wasn’t his business what went on here, ’cause he was taking his business someplace else. Mom said things like “Hanna lives here too!” and Dad said, “I still pay the bills around here!” They went on like that for a long time, at least it seemed like a long time to me, and Dad got real mad and ran downstairs and got his car keys and went roaring out of the driveway like he always does when they fight.

  Mom sat down on my bed and I sat down too. I was pretty upset, and she put her arm around me until I settled down.

  “You know what you did was wrong,” she said at last.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. I was still mad. “You can’t just let an animal starve to death.”

  “What I mean is, it was wrong not to tell me.”

  “You wouldn’t have let me feed her.”

  “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “Yes I do.”

  Mom sort of sighed. “Okay, you’re probably right, but the damage is done now. The cat probably thinks it lives here, and…”

  “She,” I interrupted. “Her name’s Maggie.”

  “Okay, she. Is she trained? Does she mess on the floor?”

  “She only did that once, ’cause the window was closed when she had to go. I cleaned it up, and now I always make sure the window is open when I’m not home.”

  “That explains why I found it open yesterday,” Mom said. “Okay, here’s how it’s going to be. You can keep her, only she has to stay outdoors most of the time, especially when your father’s home. And you’ll have to train her to use the door. We can’t be leaving the window open all the time.”

  “So she can come downstairs?”

  “Yes, but only to eat and to go in and out. You can feed her in the kitchen. But you have to take care of her yourself. And if she makes a mess or scratches the furniture, we’ll have to get rid of her.”

  “She won’t. And I’ll clean up after her and everything. Thanks, Mom.” I gave her a hug.

  “This is probably going to cause a lot of trouble,” she said. Then she smiled at me. “No more leaving the window open, now.”

  “But she’s used to it.”

  “Okay, the next time she wants to come in, you can let her, but then you have to show her where the door is. The back door. Oh God, I must be out of my mind.”

  “Maggie’s a good cat,” I told her. “It’ll be fine.”

  May 30th

  Hey, Diary!

  My favourite book in the whole world is The Abandoned, by a man named Paul Gallico. It’s all about this boy named Peter who wanted a kitten, only his mother and father wouldn’t let him have one, and he got in an accident and when he woke up he was a cat, only he wasn’t really awake, just in a coma and dreaming, only you don’t find that out until the end of the book, and because he was really a boy he didn’t know anything about how to be a cat, and because he was a stray and it was a really dangerous world, this other cat named Jennie Baldrin taught him how to be a cat, what to do, how to find food and stuff, so he wouldn’t get into trouble or get killed. I’ve read it four times.

  I loaned it to Jimmy once. About a week later I asked him if he’d read it yet, and he said, “I’m working on it,” only I could tell he didn’t like the story much. He was only reading it because he knew it was important to me, and like I said, I’m his best friend.

  Maybe I’m important to him, too.

  Anyway, he was pretending to like it ’cause he just didn’t want to hurt my feelings, on account of he knew how much I loved that book. And so I didn’t mention it again for about a month, but then I wanted it back so I could read it again, and I asked him if he’d read it yet.

  “Most of it,” he said. “You can have it back now.”

  “How come you didn’t finish it?” I asked.

  “It made me too sad.”

  “How come?” I said, but he just shook his head. I guess he didn’t like reading about anybody, even a cat, who couldn’t take care of himself without help.

  I didn’t mean to make him sad. He’s important to me, too, just like I’m important to him.

  At least I’m important to somebody.

  We got our class pictures back today. They’re pretty good. I’m sitting in the front row, second one in, next to Jimmy who’s on the very end, only if you don’t know him, you wouldn’t pay any special attention, ’cause he looks just like everybody else. Our homeroom picture is the only one where there’s a row of kids sitting in the front, with the others standing behind. In all the other class pictures, everybody’s either standing up or kneeling down in front.

  How that happened was, the photographer lined us all up in front of the stage in the gym, and he had Jimmy wheel himself right into the centre, like he was special, only I could tell Jimmy didn’t like that, and I didn’t either. When the man was all ready to take the picture I stepped out of line and tugged on Mrs. Crawford’s arm - Mrs. Crawford is our teacher, I guess you know that - and she leaned down so I could whisper to her. I told her what I thought should happen, and she shook her head and told me to get back in place, only I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t be in the picture the way things were.

  Mrs. Crawford is nice. She really listens to kids, you know? Not like some teachers who are all like do-as-I-tell-you all the time. She asked the photographer to wait a minute, even though he looked really impatient, ’cause he had a whole bunch of homerooms to take pictures of, and she had me walk away from the class so the other kids couldn’t hear what we were saying. She’s really good about that kind of thing, not embarrassing anybody in front of the whole class.

  “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” she asked me.

  “Jimmy spends his whole life being different,” I said. “Just this once, why can’t he be like all the rest of us?”

  “Hanna, I wish he wasn’t in a wheelchair, too, but that’s the way it is.”

  I guess I was getting upset, ’cause I didn’t usually talk to Mrs. Crawford the way I did next. “But don’t you see, it’s like he’s some kind of freak, sitting in that chair when everybody else is standing up.”

  “He’s not a…” she started to say, bu
t I interrupted her. Mom would have been mad if she’d known I did that.

  “People won’t see Jimmy when they look at the picture. All they’ll see is that stupid chair. You know I’m right. It’s like you taught us in history class, about the American President, Mr. Roosevelt, during World War II when nobody knew he had to use a wheelchair, ’cause nobody ever took his picture in it. Everyone thought he was strong like everybody else, and he was. He helped win the war, didn’t he? Well, Jimmy’s strong too, only he just can’t walk, and if he’s in the wheelchair for the picture, that’s all people will see, and they’ll think he’s weak or something. That’s not fair!”

  I expected Mrs. Crawford to say something like, “That’s just the way it is” again, only she didn’t. What she did was, she looked at me for the longest time, and I guess I was crying a little, because she dabbed at my face with her handkerchief, and then she walked over and talked to the photographer. He looked kind of disgusted and pointed to his watch, but I guess she won the argument. She told some of the boys to get nine chairs out from under the stage, where they store them on those big rolling racks. It didn’t take long. They set them up in a straight row, and Mrs. Crawford chose seven kids and me to sit there, and then Jimmy raised himself up out of the wheelchair and onto the end seat, and Mrs. Crawford pushed his wheelchair away. The rest of the kids lined up in two rows behind us, tallest ones in the back with Mrs. Crawford, and the photographer took our picture.

  Jimmy says he’s going to put his in a frame and keep it on his desk.

  June 1st

  Hey, Diary!

  Everything’s working out pretty good, except Maggie still thinks my window is her own private door, so I have to let her go in and out that way sometimes. Dad hasn’t fixed the screen yet, so I don’t leave it open most of the time because of the bugs, and when she has to go out when it’s closed she knows enough to go downstairs and meow at the door. It’s all okay with Mom now. She even pets Maggie some-times, but Dad just ignores her. He hates her, I guess.

  Jimmy likes her, though, and Maggie likes him, too. Sometimes she jumps up on his lap in the wheelchair and lets him give her rides up and down the sidewalk. The only one who doesn’t like Maggie, except for Dad, I mean, is Mr. Harding. Today after school when I was sitting up in my tree and talking to Jimmy down on the ground, I heard Mr. Harding yelling something from his front porch, and a minute later Maggie came running through the loose board in the fence and disappeared under the back steps. A minute later Mr. Harding came limping around the front of the fence into our yard, leaning on a cane. He’s never come into our yard before. He spotted Jimmy right away.

  “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from that cat?” he said, acting really mean. “What did you do, feed it so it’ll hang around?”

  “Jimmy didn’t feed her, I did!” I shouted down at him, and Mr. Harding looked up at me, and I think he was kind of surprised to see me up there.

  “You’ve got no business keeping a stray cat,” he said, waving the cane at me.

  “She isn’t a stray any more,” I said. “She’s my cat now.”

  “You should keep her indoors, then. Don’t you know what can happen to cats that run around loose? They get diseases, or they get run over in the street. They kill birds and dig up people’s gardens, too.”

  “She has to go outside sometimes to pee and stuff.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of kitty litter? And you have to get her vaccinated so she won’t get feline leukemia. People like you, you think all you have to do is feed a pet and that’s it, that’s the end of your responsibility.” He sounded really angry. “Well, it isn’t! You should take her to a vet and have her spayed, too, before she has a bunch of kittens that nobody wants.”

  “How come you know so much about it?” I was really annoyed.

  “You tell your mother what I said. You have to take care of that cat properly. And you leave my fence alone, too. I know what you’ve been up to, sneaking into my yard. I’m going to nail that board shut, and you keep away from it from now on. You hear?”

  “I’ll stay out of your old yard. And you leave my cat alone. You’d better not hurt her!”

  “Hurt her?” He got a strange, surprised look on his face. Then he shook his head and turned to go back to his own property, but just as he reached the corner of the fence he shouted back at me.

  “What are you doing up in that tree? Have you been spying on me?”

  Even though Mom always says I have to be respectful to adults, I was getting really mad. “This is my tree, and I can sit in it if I want to!”

  “Well, it’s sick. You better tell your mother to get rid of it before it falls down and causes some damage to my place.”

  “What’s wrong with my tree?” I shouted.

  “It’s got the Dutch elm disease, just like most of the other elms in town. If you don’t get rid of it, branches will start falling off, on your roof, or on my roof, or maybe even fall on your little friend there and hurt him before he can get out of the way.”

  He limped away and disappeared behind the fence, and I looked up at the branches of my tree. They looked a little bit bare, not full and green like they’ve been most years. I hadn’t noticed that before. Some of the leaves were sort of yellow and curled up. There was another big elm in a yard across the street, and that one looked a whole lot better than mine.

  “You think he’s right?” I asked Jimmy.

  “It does look kind of sick,” he said.

  “I didn’t know trees could die.”

  “Sure they can. Anything that’s alive has to die sometime. Trees get diseases just like people do.”

  “I don’t want my tree to die.” I was getting really worried. “Are there doctors for trees like there are for people?”

  “I don’t know,” Jimmy said. “Ask your Dad.”

  “I don’t talk to him much.”

  Right then I heard a pounding noise by the loose board in the fence. I climbed down out of the tree, and Jimmy followed me into the back yard, only I got there first, ’cause it’s kind of hard for Jimmy to roll through the grass. The board was back in place, and I could hear Mr. Harding hammering nails into it. I ran back around the front of the fence and into Mr. Harding’s yard.

  “Hey!” I called out.

  Mr. Harding looked up. “I told you to stay out of my yard.”

  “I want to help you fix the fence,” I said. I didn’t really, but I wanted to find out if what he said about my tree was true, so I needed an excuse to talk to him. But he just sort of waved his hand at me, like he was shooing me away. I didn’t leave, though. I walked right up to where he was hammering and stood there watching him, so he couldn’t ignore me. When he finished fixing the board, he took his hammer and box of nails in one hand and leaned on his cane with the other and stared at me.

  “Well?” he said.

  “How come you know so much about trees?” I insisted.

  “Why shouldn’t I know about them? I may be old, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Are you a tree doctor or something?”

  And then the most amazing thing happened. He smiled. At least it was sort of a smile, ’cause the corners of his mouth turned up and he kind of snorted through his nose, almost a laugh, only it wasn’t very nice to watch.

  “No, child, I’m not a tree doctor,” he said. He didn’t sound so mad any more. “And you can’t save that tree, anyway. Once they get the Dutch elm, nothing can help.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  Mr. Harding sighed and leaned hard on his cane. I could tell he didn’t want to bother talking to me, but I really wanted to know what was wrong with my tree.

  “It has a fungus,” he said, sort of gruff. “There’s a beetle that spreads it from diseased trees to healthy ones. Most of the elms up at the university have it, so it’s just a matter of time until all the trees in town get it.”

  “Can’t somebody give my tree a shot or some-thing?”

  “No, it’s too late to
do anything. You just have to get someone to come and cut it down. Go on home, now, and tell your mother what I said.”

  He sounded a little bit sad, not mean and angry like before. He turned away from me and carried his hammer and nails into his garage. I stood there waiting for him to come out again but he didn’t, so after a while I went back to where Jimmy was waiting for me.

  “He says my tree has a fungus,” I told him.

  “Can’t you scrape it off or something?”

  “I guess not. He says it’s too late. And he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.”

  “Are you gonna tell your Mom?”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  Jimmy followed me to the house and backed his chair around so he was facing away from the porch like he always does when he comes to visit me. I went inside.

  “Mom, can Jimmy come in?” I called out. She walked out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, and followed me to the door. She didn’t say anything. She never has much to say lately, even to me. She reached out for the handles on the back of Jimmy’s wheelchair and tilted it back, and I helped by lifting up on the footrests at the front, and we got Jimmy up onto the porch and into the house. Jimmy doesn’t get to visit very many of the kids in school, ’cause nobody has a ramp like he does to get into his own house, but Mom always helps bring him in at our place. Mom likes Jimmy, too. She doesn’t treat him any different than the rest of my friends.

  “Hanna’s got some bad news,” Jimmy told Mom. “The old man who lives next door says her tree’s dying.”

  “Mr. Harding?” Mom said.

  “Uh, huh,” I said. “He says it’s got a disease, and we have to take it down.”

  “That can’t be true,” Mom said. “That tree’s been here since long before the house was built.”

  “I think he’s right, Mom,” I said. “It looks like it’s sick, and some of the leaves are all curled up and kind of yellow. And there aren’t as many leaves on it this year anyway, not like the one across the street.”