BUSTER,
or The Unclaimed Urn
or The Unclaimed Urn
An Un-illustrated Book
by
ABADON BARR-HALL
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.
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!),
and down without a step or wing-beat!),
Buster
held tight in their hands.
The door
opened and closed.
Another man got on.
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.”
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.
