Hate That Cat (3 page)

Yes

I wrote back to

Mr. Walter Dean Myers.

I asked him

why he likes his

CAT

so much.

I asked him

if he ever thought about

getting

a

DOG.

I was standing at the

yellow bus stop

minding my own business

when I heard

mew mew mew

like it was coming from the sky

mew mew mew

and I looked up and saw

a big black cat

all fluffy fur and green eyes

crouched in the tree

mew mew mew

and I thought it was stuck

and so I climbed up the tree

way up high

to the skinny branches

and I leaned way out

and the bus was coming

and I leaned out farther

and grasped the black tail

of that black cat

and I was so glad I'd caught it

I was going to save it

and it would be so relieved

and grateful

and the bus was coming

and that fat black cat

leaped BACKWARDS

onto my head

and it scratched my ears

and my neck

and my face

and it hissed the most awful

spitting horrible
hisssss

as it scratch scratch scratched

with claws as sharp as needles

and I was bleeding all over the place

and the cat scrambled across my back

and onto my legs

and

d

     o

          w

               n

the tree

while I lay there

clinging to the branch

stinging and bleeding

and the bus

passed

right on by.

I hate that cat.

Why did the man

throw the cat

out the window?

He wanted to hear

it say

“Me-OW!”

(I made that up.

I thought it was very funny

but maybe you won't like it.

I will try to stop saying

mean things

about
mean
cats.)

I thought you were kidding

when you said that

Mr. Walter Dean Myers'

grown-up
son
Christopher

had written a book called

Black Cat!

I felt like

Mr. Walter Dean Myers'

whole family

must be in my brain.

When you started reading the book—

Black cat, black cat

cousin to the concrete

creeping down our city streets . . .

—I thought it was going to be about

a mean cat

like the mean black cat

that attacked me.

All the words were

singing in my head

and I was thinking

Wow, that Mr. Christopher Myers

knows about alliteration!

And it turned out not to be

a mean cat.

It was a sauntering and sipping

and dancing and ducking cat

wandering through the city streets

just like a kid

roaming

               and

                    poking

                              around.

I read
Black Cat
to my mother

tapping my fingers

in the rhythm

like you showed us:

HARD-soft HARD-soft

slow and then faster.

She drew a circle with her finger

which means
again

so I read it over, tapping

and then she put her hand up:

Stop

and I watched while she tapped

the same rhythm

as

          she

turned

          the

pages

HARD-soft HARD-soft

slow and then faster

and then she closed the book

and tapped her heart

HARD-soft HARD-soft

slow and then faster.

When you put up that one line

from the eagle poem—

He clasps the crag with crooked hands

—and used all those different colored chalks

to show how Mr. Tennyson

managed to cram in

ALLITERATION

and

ASSONANCE

and

CONSONANCE

all in one line

well

I was impressed

but that doesn't mean

I remember which is which

and

I will never be able to do all that stuff

that Mr. Tennyson does

and did he know he was doing it

when he did it?

I feel stupid.

I am a bad writer.

I'm going to quit.

Thank you for telling me

I could FORGET

those confusing words

and that it isn't knowing the words

that
describe
writing

that is important—

it is the thoughts in our heads

that are most important

and that
feeling
the rhythm

is even more

wondrous

than
hearing
the rhythm.

And

thank you for saying

I am a genius

(even though I know

you are exaggerating).

So much depends upon

a black kitten

in a straw basket

under the Christmas tree.

My parents woke me

so early

and seemed in a hurry

to rush me downstairs

to the Christmas tree blinking

and

the fire crackling

and I didn't see it right away

that little straw basket

tucked to one side

I was on the floor

pawing through the packages

when something moved—

I thought maybe it was a mouse

that had crept inside

and I jumped back

(not that I am afraid of

a mouse

but it wouldn't be my

favorite thing

to encounter in a pile of presents)

—and then I saw

a blur of black fur—

and I thought

Oh no!

No no no no!

It's the fat black cat!

But then:

a pink nose

tiny black paws

and blinking sleepy eyes

a
small
black fur ball

not a BIG fat fur ball

a kitten

stumbling

out of the basket

and wobbling over to me

and crawling up on my lap

and licking my pajamas

and I forgot

that I hate cats

as it crawled up onto my chest

and
purrrrrr
ed

and I was smiiiiiling

all

over

the

place.

So much depends upon

a black kitten

dotted with white

beside the photo

of my yellow dog.

My
               
is like a
               
.

I couldn't think

of a simile.

Brain broken.

Can't even think of a name

for the bouncing black kitten

that's how broken my brain is.

I call her Kitty and Mooshie

and Wiggles and Flopper

but I don't have a real name

for her yet.

Don't tell anyone those goofy

names I use, okay?

They are embarrassing.

“The Naming of Cats”

by Mr. T. S. Eliot

made me laugh.

Munkustrap? Bombalurina?

Jellyrum???

That Mr. T. S. Eliot

(is he alive?)

must like cats.

And do you think it is

true

that cats have their own

secret names

that only they know—

their “ineffable effable”

names?

Okay, I will unfreeze my brain

now

and write a simile

but I am warning you:

it might not be too good.

The chair in my room

is like a pleasingly plump momma.

Go on
?

Tell
why
that chair

is like a pleasingly plump momma?

Hmmmm.

The chair in my room

is like a pleasingly plump momma

big and squishy

with stuffing poking out.

It is over there in the corner

sitting quietly

silently

waiting for me

to come and jump

in her lap

and bring

a book or two

or a blanket

when I'm sick.

That plump momma chair

just sits there

waiting for me

and while she waits

she looks a little lonely

to tell you the truth.

She used to have a dog

to jump into her lap

when I wasn't home

but all that is left

of my good yellow dog

are pieces of his fur

stuck here and there.

And now there is a kitten

but the kitten doesn't like

the yellow chair

half as much

as she likes

my pillow.

After tremendous tugging

at my broken brain

I finally dug up a
metaphor.

It's about the kitten

(who now has a name:

Skitter McKitter

because that's what she does

skitter here

skitter there

skitter every-every-where).

Ready? For the metaphor?

THE BLACK KITTEN

The black kitten

is a poet

L  E  A  P  I  N  G

from

line

             to

                           line

sometimes runningrapidly

sometimes s o o t h i n g   s l o w l y

here and there

up

         and

                     down

d

       o                                       UP

             w                           UP

                   n             UP

                         and

in a silent steady rhythm

exploring

          all

                   the

                            
tiny

     pieces

                   of

                            the

                                     world.

Well, no

don't
put it on the board

because now that I read it again

it doesn't make sense.

I know what I was
trying
to say

But I didn't get it right.

The kitten
is
a poet

it's something I
feel

but I can't get it into words.

A good poet would be able

to paint, with words,

things that you can feel

but don't know how to say.

It's sort of like when

my mother

puts one hand on my back

and one hand on my chest

to
hear
me laughing

or to
feel
me laughing

because

then she understands

what my laughing

sounds like and feels like.

She can see me laugh

and she can sign the word for

laugh

but she cannot hear the laugh.

Yesterday, she put one hand

on Skitter's back

and one hand on her stomach

so she could
hear
the purr.

I cannot explain a purr

just like I cannot explain

why the kitten is a poet

but

she

is

And I cannot explain

how my mother paints

words

with

           her

                    hands

but

she

does

And I cannot explain

how—

when we paint words

with each other—

I hear sounds

but I do not know

if she hears anything—

any strange or amazing

or good or terrible

or sparkling or fizzing

sound

at

all.