The Mostly True Story of Pudding Tat, Adventuring Cat Page 10

  Christmas Day, 1914, Private John Willoughby woke from a doze in his dugout in a Saint-Yves trench. The night before he’d made a bed for the cat, but now the animal was gone.

  It had rained in the night and the water was even deeper in the trench. He doubted a blind cat would get far in these conditions, and he was right. When he looked up, he saw the cat sitting at the top of the trench in full view of the Germans, washing himself.

  John climbed up and, appearing over the top, opened his arms to scoop up the cat.

  How miniscule a flea is! Things we can’t see are quite visible to them. Small things seem huge, no matter how fast they’re moving.

  The flea heard a whine and then some strange code from the past echoed in his head: Dah di dah di, dah dah di dah, dah di di.

  A bullet.

  “Duck!!!” he screamed in Pudding’s ear.

  And Pudding listened.

  The blow sent John flying backward. Pain bloomed like a poppy across his chest.

  * * *

  Violet Jessop was heart-broken when the ambulance brought in this last load of wounded. Among them was her own cat, bloodied and tucked in beside a soldier with a shoulder wound.

  She laid the cat in an empty crate and pushed it into a corner to give him a proper burial later. She didn’t cry. So many men had died, she had no tears left.

  The next time she looked, the cat was gone. She assumed someone had disposed of the body, but when she checked on Private Willoughby, there he was, curled up asleep at the wounded soldier’s feet.

  “How did he end up with you?” she asked when John was conscious again and recovering from surgery.

  John told her of the cat’s mysterious appearance the day before. He described the last moment he remembered, just before he was shot. How he’d raised himself over the edge of the trench.

  “He was in your arms when it happened?”

  “I believe so,” John said.

  “Well, judging from your wound, I’d say he spared you from having your whole shoulder blown off. If that had happened, you would have bled to death.”

  8. Welland County, Ontario, Canada, 1915

  Mrs. Willoughby fussed at the woodstove. She couldn’t stop cooking for Johnny. Oatmeal with fresh cream, griddle cakes, back bacon, applesauce. Just baked bread! A young man needed his own mother’s cooking to heal. That’s what she believed and so had been standing at this stove ever since Johnny got home from the war.

  Farmer Willoughby came downstairs and poured himself a cup of tea.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “Sleeping. Nice color to his face. Won’t be long till he’s up and around.”

  Because of my griddle cakes, Mrs. Willoughby thought but didn’t say. When she turned, she saw a peculiar expression on her husband’s face.

  “Is he still talking in his sleep, the poor lad?” she asked him.

  Farmer Willoughby nodded. “Keeps muttering about the cat.”

  The blind white cat Johnny had brought home from France. Some nurse had given it to him. The hospital mascot turned hospital ship mascot. Johnny believed it had saved his life.

  “It’s the shell shock,” Mrs. Willoughby said, shaking her head. “He never should have left home. I was against it. I told you so. Oxford? Bah!”

  “He’ll get up. He’s strong. Then he’ll be off again. There’s a whole world out there. He should see it. Home will always be here for him.”

  Mrs. Willoughby sniffed and kept on stirring. He was right, but it was a mother’s job to worry.

  “His porridge is nearly ready,” she finally said. “Would you bring up some cream?”

  Farmer Willoughby rose from the table, pausing to take a last swig of tea.

  “Do you remember Old Puddy had an albino kitten once? Years back now.”

  “She’s had a hundred kittens.”

  “But you don’t forget one like that. And it was blind too. I distinctly remember it.”

  Just then the cat appeared in the kitchen doorway as though he’d heard them talking about him.

  “And there’s the very fellow!” Farmer Willoughby cried.

  Mrs. Willoughby glanced at the cat. They’d never allowed an animal in the house before, had certainly never let one sleep in a bed. But the cat had stationed himself at the foot of Johnny’s, as though guarding him. It didn’t seem hygienic. Fleas and whatnot.

  She had to admit, though, that Johnny had improved more rapidly than the doctors had predicted while under the cat’s watch.

  Watch? What was she talking about? The creature was blind.

  Farmer Willoughby made a clicking noise. The cat came and wove himself around his legs, meowing. Then he found the kitchen wall and followed it until he reached the back door. There he sat on the mat with his eyes closed. Waiting.

  “I suppose he’d like some breakfast, too,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Go get that cream.”

  Farmer Willoughby lifted his winter coat off the hook by the door, bundled himself up and stepped out.

  And Pudding Tat walked out with him. The bright sun glittered on the snow, so he kept his eyes shut tight and listened to the flea’s directions.

  “Straight on. He’s stomped out a path there. Now giddy-up because he’s opened the barn door. He’ll close it in a second.”

  Pudding heard the squawking hinges and made a dash for it.

  The rhythmic munching of cud, the quiet huff of the cow as her milk rang out in the metal pail. The buzz-huff-hum-twitter-thrum-scratch-squeak. The purr-mew-nicker-clank. The sweetest music in the wide world.

  And the smells! Hay and the blood of living things. Mice and horses and cows.

  And one cat — Mother Tat.

  Farmer Willoughby sat on his stool. As he bent over his pail, Pudding leapt onto his shoulder.

  “Hey!” He laughed. He would swear the cat knew where he was going.

  Of course he did! Up in the loft Old Puddy was mewing.

  From the farmer’s back, Pudding made it to the top of the milking stall. From the milking stall, to the shelf. There he crouched, aiming for the loft.

  Then he sailed. Sailed through the air.

  up!

  up,

  up,

  Up,

  Home.

  Author’s Note

  I lied. This story isn’t “mostly” true. It’s more like “somewhat” true. Though my original intention in writing this novel was to accurately represent certain historical events, the literal truth kept getting in the way of the “story truth.” Also, making things up is so much fun.

  Nevertheless, I’d like to encourage you, dear reader, to investigate further the real people who appear in these pages.

  Annie Edson Taylor was indeed the first person to ride over Niagara Falls in a barrel. A cat was involved in the stunt, but versions of the story vary. Some report that the cat was sent down the falls ahead of time as a test. It survived. Annie’s manager, Frank M. Russell, really did steal the barrel. Annie spent most of her savings hiring a private detective to try to get it back. She died, penniless, at the age of eighty-two.

  Asa Philip is a made-up character based on the many African American railway porters who worked in unfair, discriminatory conditions for the Pullman Company. I named him after Asa Philip Randoph, who organized the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters in 1925, the first African American labor union in the United States. A. Philip Randolph would only have been twelve years old in 1901.

  Giancarlo Casali is also a made-up character. Like him, many thousands of child street musicians were sent from Italy to London, Paris and New York as indentured laborers in the nineteenth century.

  President McKinley was shot in the Temple of Music at the Pan-American Exposition on September 6, 1901. He died eight days later. Here is a place where “story truth” took precedence over histo
ry. Annie Edson Taylor performed her feat on October 24th of that year, after the assassination, not before.

  Vincent Bryan and Gus Edwards are real. Both went on to have successful careers, Vincent Bryan in Hollywood.

  Jack Irwin was the first person in history to send an air-to-land telegraph message. The crew of the America truly did not know if sending that message would cause an explosion.

  And there really was a stowaway cat aboard, a tabby called Kiddo, whom they did try to lower onto the tugboat. After the aborted flight, Kiddo was displayed in the window of Gimbels department store. He then went to live with Edith Wellman, who was probably a very nice person, unlike the Edith in this book.

  The Wellmans were not on the Titanic when it sank, but Isador and Ida Straus were. Ida could have got into a lifeboat and saved herself, but she refused to part from her husband. Isador was so beloved by the employees of Macy’s that they used their own money to create a memorial plaque to him and Ida. You can ask to see it in the 34th Street Macy’s in New York City.

  Violet Jessop was a stewardess on the Titanic who did later serve as a nurse with the British Red Cross in World War I. However, she worked on a hospital ship, not on the Western Front. She actually survived a second sinking, in 1916, of the ship Britannic.

  Johnny Willoughby is imaginary. However, more than 619,000 real Canadians enlisted to fight in World War I. Approximately 424,000 served overseas and 59,544 died.

  The Christmas Truce of 1914 is true. There are no records of a white cat instigating it, but why not?

  Most fleas only live about two or three months, but this is because they are blood-sucking parasites. Helping others has been scientifically proven to decrease stress, anxiety, depression, blood pressure and the likelihood of dying early.

  Speaking of helping others, I gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts in writing this book, as well as the moral and literary support of my tireless editor, Shelley Tanaka, and the person to whom this book is dedicated, the irreplaceable Sheila Barry.

  Pudding Tat’s Playlist

  “The Ballad of the Thirsty Flea” and “The Bloodless Flea’s Lament,” traditional flea songs (not discernible to human ears)

  “I Love You Truly” (1901), music and lyrics by Carrie Jacobs-Bond

  “When the Train Comes Along,” a traditional African American spiritual

  “La Biondina in gondoleta,” a traditional Venetian song

  Organ Sonatas (1727-30), Johann Sebastian Bach

  “In My Merry Oldsmobile” (1905), music by Gus Edwards, lyrics by Vincent P. Bryan

  “That Beautiful Rag” (1910), music by Ted Snyder, lyrics by Irving Berlin.

  “Dream of Autumn” (1908), music and lyrics by Archibald Joyce

  “Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep” (1853), music by Joseph P. White, lyrics by Emma C. Willard

  “Silent Night, Holy Night”/ “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht” (1818), Franz Xaver Gruber, lyrics by Joseph Mohr (German) / John Freeman Young (English)

  About the Author

  Caroline Adderson is an award-winning author of books for children and adults. Her work for adults has been nominated for the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, two Commonwealth Writers’ Prizes, the Scotiabank Giller Prize, the Governor General’s Literary Award and the Rogers Writers’ Trust Fiction Prize. Her middle-grade novel, Middle of Nowhere, won the Sheila E. Egoff Children’s Literature Prize and was shortlisted for the CLA Children’s Book of the Year Award. She is also the author of the enormously successful Jasper John Dooley series.

  Caroline is program director of the Writing Studio at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity. She lives in Vancouver.