Veronica Kuzminishna Had a Deep Affection for Cats… How Could She Not, When She Believed She Was One of Them, Despite Being a True Blue Dog?

I often think back to those days in the little village of Bramley, when young Ethel Whitby fancied herself a cat, though she was, in truth, a proper English dog. Not a tiny spaniel but a sturdy, mediumsized beast of solid build, with teeth that would have made even a crocodile blink. And if anyone envied her, she never minded; Ethel had always been a gentle soul and never minded letting others be jealous.

Her love of cats did not arise at birth but about a month and a half later. It was a dreary spring morning when little Nellthen an unnamed pup of an odd sortfound herself crying in a puddle. The rain, not she, had filled the shallow pool. Nell, with the last of her strength, whined mournfully about her fate to the whole world.

Only one creature heard her: Morris the cat. He padded to the edge of the puddle, tucked his paws beneath him, wrapped his fluffy tail round himself and stared at the tiny, plaintive creature. Then he noticed a white spot on Nells front paw, a spot identical to the one on his own nose.

Whats this? thought Morris. Who could have sired such a child? Had he roamed with Muriel? With Lily? Had he perched on the loft with Matilda? He wondered who the mother was and why shed abandoned her pup in a puddle.

For a breath, Nell fell silent and sensed a warm, compassionate presence nearby. Fearful that it might vanish, she lunged toward it, only to tumble back into the water, whimpering. Morris snorted disdainfully, yet he was certainthis was his own daughter, for he too had once tangled his paws.

The cat stepped forward, slipped through the water, loomed over Nell, sighed heavily and lifted her by the scruff. A fathers duty weighed heavily on him, but he would not shirk. If a mother had cast away her child, he would not abandon hers. He carried her into his cottage.

Mrs. Whitby, upon seeing the damp newcomer, clapped her hands in surprise. Frederick, come and see! Our cat has fetched a doga stout, sturdy one! Shell make a fine guardian! Frederick, the master of the house, approved of Nell as well. Little did they know that Ethel Whitby would never wish to guard anyone, for she was truly a cat at heart, the very offspring of Morris.

Raised by a cat, Nell kept herself immaculate, chased mice and birds, and tried to climb trees and fences, though her rotund rear kept her grounded. Over two years she outgrew her feline father many times over, wrestled with other cats and dogs, yet Morris always intervened.

Ill handle strangers myself, he would growl. It would be unbecoming for such a fine lady to have her coat soiled! He denied ever that Nell was a dog, for admitting it would mean she was not his own, and he could not bear such a thought. Those who claimed otherwise met with his fierce correction.

One night Morris failed to return homean occurrence never before seen. Nell waited, her heart thudding, trying to scramble onto the fence, nudging her nose into every crack for a hint of his scent. The fence was slick, her claws slipped, and no trace of her fathers aroma reached her. Anxiety gnawed at her.

The yards other dogs barked, and the lady of the house shouted, Let her out! She wont let anyone sleep until Morris is home again. Find him, and theyll both return! Like a loosed arrow, Nell leapt over the gate, paused, covered her eyes and listened to the whisper inside her. Something deep guided her, and she sprinted toward the place where Morris had first found her.

Her instincts were not deceived. There, on the damp ground where the puddle had only recently dried, lay Morristorn, exhausted, barely clinging to life.

Father, she gasped, her voice trembling. She approached as gently as a kitten would, pleading with the universe to spare him. Her canine nose caught two familiar scents on his furones she would remember for a lifetime.

Morris! she cried.

The owners scooped the cat into a blanket, thrust him into the carriage, and sped off toward the best veterinary surgeon in the neighboring town. Nell chased after them, running until the carriage vanished from sight. She fell to the roadside, waiting, fearing that Morris would never again cross the threshold of their cottage. Her dread proved true: the people returned without him.

Nell searched the vehicle, sniffed the medicated air, and wept softly, then louder, until tears streamed down her cheeks. For three days she ate naught but water, her soul burning with hatred for the strangers who had torn her father apart. Why would foreign dogs do such a thing? Her own kin would never be harmed; she could recognise them by scent alone.

That hatred boiled within her, a fire that made her restless. Slowly she began to eat again, glancing often over the fence. Ethel Whitby kept watch, biding her time for an escape.

After two weeks the chance came. The owners flung the gate wide and drove off. Nell bolted from the yard and rang the whole village with her frantic search. At the roads edge she found two stray hounds feasting on a goose they had claimed.

She lay low, remembering Morris lesson that silence is the hunters ally. Patience, then the sudden strikevictim in the jaws.

Ethel Whitby still believed herself a true cat. She did not bark without cause, nor fuss unnecessarily. She crept silently, her growl barely a rumble, until the moment to pounce arrived.

When she leapt, bone cracked, fur flew, skin tore beneath her sharp teeth and claws. She fought like a raging feline, never taught to brawl like a dog. The two hounds squealed, but they stood no chancenone had ever faced Morris that fateful night. Nell triumphed, tearing both asunder, when a sudden tug at her collar flung her backwards.

She was seized by the ladys strong arms, while the master drove the mangled dogs away.

Calm down, Nell, he said. Did they bite Morris? You gave them a good lesson! We almost missed you, but Morris saw you, and we rushed to help.

Hearing her name, Nells ears drooped and she turned. From the carriage came Morris himself, alive, his eyes bright.

We left him at the clinic, stitching him up, giving him drips and medicine, the lady explained. You were so mournful you could hear nothing.

Ethels voice rose again, as it had two years before, and she ran to the carriage on trembling legs. Morris, stern as ever, shook off the drool of his delighted daughter and growled, Youve gone mad, fighting them alone? How could you wait for me?

Then, with pride, he added, No one has ever seen my mother, but now all shall know who the daughter of Morris is the finest cat in all of England!

Ethel Whitby carefully sniffed the stitch on Morriss back, regretting that she had been halted so early. Yet Morris was rightshe truly was a cat, and a cat knows how to wait patiently.

Now, with a whine of overflowing emotion, Nell once more began to lick her beloved father, remembering the old days in Bramley and the strange, tender truth that she was a dog in spirit but a cat at heart.