Buster, or the Unclaimed Urn

This is a posthumous collaboration with Barbara A. Holland. It is included in the new Poet's Press book, The Secret Agent.

BUSTER,
or The Unclaimed Urn

An Un-illustrated Book
by
ABADON BARR-HALL

1.

A well-pleased gray cat gave birth

to a litter of fourteen little kittens

whose eyes were as yet unopened,

and who spent most of their days

crawling all over one another

while batting those who climbed over them

with their tiny paws, and sucking

the fresh milk form their mother’s side.

One was a very special cat, not like

a cat that anyone had seen before.

Which one of the fourteen was he? We’ll see!

2.

Then one day the lady who owned

their mother decided she only wanted three,

and would give six away to people

who would love them. And she would drown

the other five, for who would be

expected to take home so many kittens!

Too many, no matter how pretty

they all might be! Was he to be one

of the Chosen, or the Drowned?

3.

So the lady chose which kittens

she wanted. Most you could not tell

what gender they were as yet. Two were girls,

for sure, and one was a boy, and he was a noble

little thing. As pretty as anything could be.

Wasn’t he the lucky one?

The doorbell rang. The visitors came.

They picked and chose and argued.

Even his mother was taken away.

The rest were scooped up. The toilet flushed.

Now he was the only one left! Just one!

4.

A voice in a tall shadow named him “Buster.”

Buster was gray, silvery-gray

on the legs and back, gray on the back

of his head and his ears, but his face

was white, and he was white beneath

the chin and his chest and stomach,

and he wore white socks. What kind

of cat was Buster anyway, all this-and-that?

5.

Buster paid court to the woman,

big hands and shadow, loud voice and all.

He was hungry a lot.

Buster would wake the lady up

in the morning by licking her face

with his tongue. He patted her cheek

just ever so gentle with his paws.

Buster had to pretend to like her,

or he would never get fed.

6.

Then came the day when the lady noticed

that he was fat for a kitten. Some sort of lump

stuck out at each side of his head,

and his forelegs met at two bent shoulders.

“That’s not what a cat

is supposed to look like!” she muttered.

Whatever could be wrong with Buster?

7.

So then one day, when she was playing with him,

her fingers slipped along his sides

and she discovered that he had WINGS,

two little furry wings which fit him perfectly.

They were gray on the backs

and as he flapped them open,

they showed clean white beneath them.

Whoever heard of a cat with WINGS?

8.

Buster’s head drooped on his chest.

She had discovered his secret.

Now she would drown him too,

for she hated everything that was not nice,

anything irregular or lumpy or out-of-shape.

He knew from what she said that he —

he was the only one of his brothers

and sisters and kittens of uncertain

gender, the only one for sure with WINGS!

He had another secret, too. He had WINGS,

and he knew how to use them!

9.

Would she hate him now? Would be be drowned?

The lady seemed delighted. She crowed.

He lifted his head and looked straight at her.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Show me.”

Flapping his wings slowly, he showed her,

how up and out they opened, and flapped.

WINGS were to show you are happy.

10.

Each morning, he would get up,

stand on two legs as tall as he could,

and stretch his wings out, out and up.

He would set them shaking.

“Go ahead!” she encouraged him.

She laughed and he walked and fluttered.

Then down he went, like a common house-cat,

and all he could do was utter a faint meow.

The reward was a pat on his neck

and a trip to the bowl in the kitchen.

“My little eagle!” she crooned. “My little eagle.”

11.

One day the windows were all-the-way open.

He walked to the far wall, then turned

and raced toward them and spread his wings

and FLAP, FLAP, FLAPPED

and he found himself flying out the window

just like the birds who fell by accident

and always seemed to come back up.

Now he knew their secret, too: up and out,

then down and up again! Imagine,

a cat with wings. No one was ever

going to drown him! And he had a world to see,

and his whiskers thrilled and trembled.

12.

Cats are no more curious

than any other animal,

          but a cat’s WHISKERS

are like a personal radar.

Buster’s seemed to feel about in the air.

They looked eager to understand.

Buster let the soft plume

of his tail stand straight up tall.

Now he could fly straight. This little thing

would make a difference.

Wings out, tail up, here comes BUSTER!

13.

He came and went from the house

without the lady knowing it —

she liked the window open,

and so did he. Back in the house

he was hearth-kitten, ears up and ready

for the sound of cat-food, for whatever sounds

were there to be heard, nose twitching for

fresh smells of clean litter and Lysol.

He did his duty when the lady entered.

“How is Buster? How is the little eagle.”

Flap-flap-flutter-meow, he would answer.

He rolled on the floor, this way, that way,

wings tucked neatly under, resting up.

14.

Daytimes, when the lady went to work,

he had all the outdoors to investigate.

One night, on the window-sill, he heard

things he had never heard before,

a far-away fluttering, calling, the night,

the opal eye of the big moon,

so he slipped out the window

         and flew away.

She watched him do it. She ran to stop him.

She cried hopelessly,

for she thought he was gone for good.

No one was safe at night in the city!

Would Buster come back? Would you?

15.

But he was only just down in the garden,

three floors below where the ground-floor tenant

had roses (ouch!) to land on, soft ferns

and a catnip patch much visited by felines

of every conceivable shape and color.

There, he learned new ways to catch food.

16.

There were big ailanthus trees

all around the garden. They smelled terrible,

but up in their spiky leaves a person who flew

could get lost, or stay hidden

where no one would ever find them.

Among the flickering leaves at night,

only the eyes of the ones up there were visible.

Can you see BUSTER in the high trees?

17.

And there, one night, on a high branch,

he met a new friend, The Owl

(What owl? Who? Don’t ask an owl his name

because he’ll never tell you. Who will suffice.)

He doesn’t talk much, anyway,

looks wiser and smarter than he actually is.

Turning his eyes this way, that way,

all he is thinking about is, probably: mice.

And that was just fine with Buster.

Buster loved mice.

18.

Buster knew one way only

to catch a mouse: a slow process

with no promise of getting anything,

just crouching in front of a hole

in the lady’s baseboard, and waiting.

It had been hardly worth the trouble.

Out here, the mice were everywhere.

They ran about like crazy people

looking for their own food. Careless,

they never saw Buster crouching

and certainly never saw The Owl

as he swooped down on them.

19.

Buster and the Owl, the Meow and the Who,

came up with a method to hunt together.

They’d hide among the leaves,

     The Owl, watching

     Buster, with his big ears and radar whiskers,

          listening. They made

a game of it, to see who could slide out

of the twig-end of the low branch first

and land on the back of the prey.

One mouse for you, Mr. Owl. One vole for you,
     Mr. Cat! The chipmunk is on to us.

A rat? A rat we can divide between us!

20.

Exploring the neighborhood by daytime

Buster would see bats like empty bags hanging

from the doors of old garages.

There goes one he frightened with his paw-prod:

no bigger than a mouse

but with a wingspread many times wider

than its little body.

Ah, Buster, marveled. If a cat can fly,

why not a mouse, a flying mouse.

These Buster would not eat:

          he respected them.

21.

Birds! Oh to catch a bird!

Birds, after all, despite their prettiness,

devoured one another. One giant hawk

swooped down and made off with anything

its talons could carry: rabbits and birds,

chipmunks, and even a toy poodle

(to that, Buster said Good riddance!).

Buster wasn’t good at catching birds.

He had been brought up for stalking.

22.

On a long flight

that nearly exhausted him

he came to a pond, and to a bird,

a lordly bird on stilts. The Heron

nodded a little and then resumed

his absolute stillness.

Buster saw fish, red, gold and brown

move aimlessly around the heron’s legs.

How do you catch fish?

     he asked the Heron.

Hours and hours he stood and waited,

     the Heron explained

until the fish ignored him.

Then he’d jab down with his long beak

and come up with a neatly-skewered fish.

Buster did not have a beak,

and the water, which he tried,

was cold and chilling. Pads of his paws

could tread on water, he could dart

and flutter and try to catch fish,

but no, Buster was not getting wet,

the way the lady sometimes had tried

to make him cleaner and fluffier.

No way, Baby, no way

is any self-respecting cat

going to lurk in the water

on four short legs!

23.

He spent the summer

in the trees with all the varied birds

(they finally came to be unafraid

once he announced he couldn’t catch them

and didn’t like the taste of feathers, anyway.

Well-fed on mice, he was growing.

He started to feel that time was passing.

He was bigger, stronger, longer-legged

and sleek, but something was wrong:

Buster’s wings did not grow with him.

They were just the same size

as when he first kitten-flew

and made his great escape.

If this kept up, he would not lift himself

to the treetops anymore.

24.

On one final flight to see how far, how high,

how much of the city he could explore,

Buster flapped up to where a high wind

grabbed him and took him up high

     the dizzy-up where the hawks went.

His mouth wide, his whiskers extended,

tail up to guide him, he soared the skyline.

Towers he saw from above, rooftops and ladders,

windows and fire escapes, twisted iron ropes

of river-spanning bridges. Sharp edges, high

spires jabbed at him. If he fell here,

the city below would skin him alive.

25.

Buster was dizzy. He had gone too high.

No one should see their high places upside-down.

His wings were tired. He dropped

onto a window-ledge some thirty floors

above the street. He looked below

and almost belched a fur-ball. He looked

to both sides: nothing, just other windows

and no way to get to them.

What would become of Buster, thirty floors up?

26.

This was no place for a cat at all.

Changing with three feet like any other cat,

he tapped with one forepaw

     against the window pane.

Buster was frightened now.

He remembered how The Owl had warned him:

Fur is no replacement for feathers.

He had lost his nerve for leaping.

Too high, too far,

        to the unforgiving pavement.

And no time to wonder if The Owl was wrong.

27.

Not every wind is friendly. New ones swirled

around the building, and lashed him.

The pigeons he shared the ledge with

kept nudging him, afraid

he would bother their little nestlings.

Move over, they said, or fly back

     to where you came from.

So Buster’s ledge-hold became

a paw-and-claw tango.

If Buster fell off, could he fly up again?

28.

Inside the window a woman typed,

click-clickedly-clack, all the while Buster

was going tap-tappedy-tap at the window-pane.

He tried his loudest meow. The woman

looked up. She stared at Buster

in wide-eyed astonishment.

He kept one paw up

against the glass, as if to wave.

She didn’t seem to see his wings

outstretched in desperation.

Instinct took over. She raised the window.

Into her two arms he leaped.

“Oh kitty!” she murmured.

“How did you get here, thirty floors up?”

Buster gave her his most

    consoling and grateful purr.

Soon the woman and her boyfriend

went off to the elevator (a car that went up
and down without a step or wing-beat!),

Buster held tight in their hands.

The door opened and closed.
Another man got on.

Cat-whiskers knew they were descending.

What would Buster’s new friends do with him?

29.

Buster shook out his wings, just in case.

The stranger’s voice bellowed, “What’s that?

What are you doing with that huge bird

on this elevator?” “It’s a CAT,” the secretary

told the loud man, lifting up Buster

to the man’s steel-gray eyes and moustache.

“He landed in fright on the window ledge.

We’re bringing him down the street,” explained

the young man. And Buster purred.

30.

Man, woman and cat emerged

into a noonday crowd below.

She petted Buster. The man’s hands

began to tighten around Buster’s

middle. His wings felt squashed.

“We’re going to make a fortune on him,”

the man said. “We need a big cage.

I have a friend at the zoo. We’ll be famous!”

And then in a burst of light and wind

they were outdoors. Buster went limp.

The woman yelled “Taxi! Taxi!”

With teeth and claws and wing-beat

Buster attacked the man and broke free.

He heard them screaming far below.

He was going home. He was fed up with flying.

People were no good, but at least

he had a place to be a hearth-cat.

His little wings had served him well enough.

31.

The lady’s window was open.

When she saw Buster, she was so glad

she even sang a song. Never had he seen

so much milk, so big a bowl of food

(no mice, but what could one expect?).

She held him and held him,

and then she noticed. “Your wings!

They seem to be growing shorter

as your body grows bigger and bigger.

I wonder what a vet would say?”

32.

To say he did not like the “cat carrier”

was putting it mildly. And what did Buster

know about this creature called “The Vet”?

“These are vestigial wings,” the Vet explained

as his gloved hand held Buster expertly.

“This is a full-grown cat you have here,

fully matured. He’s a full-fledged tomcat now.”

The woman paused to take that in.

She wrinkled her nose.

“How can I deal with that?”

“We can remove the vestigial wings,

so he’s less likely to run into danger.
God only knows what he did while he was out there.”

“Remove them? You mean a surgery?”

“Yes. Since he means so much to you.”

“Of course,” she gulped. Numbers they talked,

and then they went aside and whispered.

All Buster heard was, “The other thing

we can take care of while he’s out.”

33.

Babyhood, childhood, adolescence, all

were now in Buster’s past. He was a new thing,

something they called a tom-cat. Did this mean

no more hunting for mice and voles and rats?

no more night-watch in tree-top with Mr. Owl?

Buster waited in a small cage.

Another cat, an orange tabby, howled

and meowed in the next cage.

They talked. The orange fellow — Max

was what his owner called him —

was here for an operation, too.

“Just you wait,” Max said ominously.

I know what they do here. It’s my turn now.

They’re going to cut me down below.

I will no more go out a-prowling. No lady

cats in my future. And I will grow

immensely fat, and be pampered.”

34.

“I’m here for something else,” said Buster.

He flapped his wings to show what he meant.

“Harrumph!” said Max. “That’s fine enough

to have a bird-part removed. Who needs it?

But no one leaves here without being snipped.

It’s a conspiracy, and the Vet is a monster.”

Buster had always wondered

what the she-cats and he-cats did in the alley

that made so much noise. His life as a cat

was about to be terminated.

All the lady wanted was the idea of a cat.

Buster decided he would rather be dead.

35.

Buster was pierced with a needle, and then another.

His vision spiraled down to darkness.

His wings were carved off, the stitches applied.

“While he’s asleep, let’s do the neutering,” a voice said.

He heard it even though he was numb. His legs

no longer answered his call, and his whiskers

told him nothing, either. He even heard them breathe

when they hovered over him.

Buster meowed once, and took a death.

Twice and thrice, he meowed again —

           he had the knack of this dying thing.

Still his heart beat. He twitched and meowed

           life four, life five, life six

               there they go

          (are you sure you want to go through with this,

               Buster, no more mice ever?)

          life seven, life eight,

               meow your lungs out to give up the ninth.

“We lost him, Doctor!” the assistant reported.

“He went into seizures and we lost him.”

36.

The lady was furious

when they told her Buster was dead.

“I’m not paying for that operation,”

she shrieked, “since all you did

was kill my poor kitten.”

“You can come get the body,” they told her.

“What would I do with it?”

“We can cremate Buster. You can have a nice little urn.

There’s a pet cemetery in Queens.”

“That sounds … suitable,” the lady told them.

37.

Buster’s remains went into a furnace.

Black smoke went up, a pile of ash

sank to the bottom,

all that remained of the noble cat.

A small bronze urn, engraved

with BUSTER and the single year

of his birth and departing,

was filled with the ashes.

No one ever came to claim it.

38.

The lady cried a great deal,

but then the winter came,

and she was busy at the office,

and there were the holidays,

and then a trip away,

and come spring

the only thing that bothered her

was that an owl kept coming

to her closed window, tap-

tapping on the glass and looking

at her. She had a dread

of owls and didn’t know why

it kept tapping and peering,

tapping and peering.

After a while.

the owl stopped coming.