The trees surrendered what was left of their leaves to the harsh night wind that wheezed its icy breath along the city’s concrete sidewalk. The small black kitten quickened his pace, eager to reach his warm domicile at the end of the street, where there would surely be a meal waiting for him. His mouth watered at the thought of it; perhaps a fish, or a piece of turkey left over from Sunday dinner, placed in the middle of a plate with a garnish of catnip and a dish of milk or cream on the side. A few drops of saliva spattered the ground beneath his paws.
He saw a light ahead, coming from one of the windows of his house. He strolled through the gate and made his way up the porch steps and to the front door, where he sat and alternately meowed and scratched at the door with his claws. A loud exclamation of disgust was heard within the house, but the door swung open and he was admitted. In he walked, tail held straight and erect, whiskers spread, eyes shining, nose searching for the smell of food.
The kitten was puzzled. He smelled nothing edible; only a strange cardboard scent, and the unmistakable odor of cleaning fluid. He sensed that something was not right, and the fact that there was no furniture in sight amplified this feeling. He meowed and rubbed against the bearded man’s trouser legs.
“Oh, no,” the man scolded. “You’ll be getting nothing from me, cat. This is the last time you’ll mooch in my house!”
A slim woman with short brown hair and a nervous expression descended the staircase. “John,” she said, setting down the box she had been carrying, “couldn’t you give him a piece of liver or something?”
“No, Muriel,” the man said, kicking at the kitten. “I want this cat gone now! We can’t have him following us to the new house. We’d never get rid of him then!”
“New house!” the kitten exclaimed to himself. He suddenly hissed at the man, his fur rising on end. He darted several hopeful, sideways glances at the woman, who only stared at him with a piteous expression on her face.
“See? I told you that cat was no good the very minute he set foot on our porch! Look at the way he turned on me, just like that! And to think we’ve been giving that flea-bitten feline room and board. Why, he doesn’t deserve to have it as good as he does!” With that the man stooped and lifted the kitten, still hissing, by the scruff of his neck. he turned for the door.
“Where are you going, John?” the woman asked. She was wringing her hands and looking desperately at the tiny cat whose imploring eyes pierced her very heart.
“To the pound.” The man must have had a heart somewhere beneath his beardy exterior, for when he heard his wife’s gasp he turned to face her. “Muriel,” he began, “I promise you that as soon as we get moved, you can have any animal you want. I’ll even pay for one with a pedigree. Think about it. A real Persian pussy, instead of a scrawny skunk.” He flung open the door, grabbed his hat from the coat rack beside it, and started off down the street, cat in tow.
This was before cars were really necessary for transportation but were essential for bragging rights, in the time when the grocer’s, laundry, and hardware store were in walking distance from one’s house. However, the wind was so cruel that the man had barely started off before he decided it was worth the trouble to get the car out of the garage. He tucked the squirming kitten under one arm and tried to lift the garage door with the other. It refused to budge, having most likely frozen shut. He used both hands, but the kitten was squeezed between the man’s arm and torso and let out such a yowl that the man sighed, put the kitten down, and resumed trying to open the garage. The kitten decided to save him the trouble, for as soon as his feet touched the ground he was up and running down the street. The man stared after him for a moment, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and uttered a loud curse after the kitten before returning to the warmth of his house.
The kitten cowered in a storm drain for what seemed like an eternity, his muscles tensed to the point of aching. He was utterly miserable. Besides being cold and hungry, he felt unwanted and unloved, rejected and desolate. “I haven’t a friend in the world,” he moaned to himself.
His ears pricked up at the sound of someone singing. The song, one which he was not familiar with, was sung in a deep baritone voice that cracked occasionally on the lower notes, as if it were really a tenor trying to sing bass. “My Wild Irish Rose! The sweetest flowr’ that grows...” the voice boomed, stopping abruptly after “grows.” The kitten noticed a pair of rather large paws outside the opening of the drain. His heart seemed to beat in his throat, pulsating to the rhythm of dog! dog! dog! dog!
“Who’s in there?” the voice said, returning to its normal pitch. A pair of glowing green eyes appeared at the end of the drain, and the cat inside hunched himself into the smallest possible ball at the far end of the drain, as far away from the eyes as he could go. He felt something close around his tail, and then he was outside the drain, laying on the ground and still curled up in a ball. He could feel the wind biting at him through his thin fur.
“Why, if it isn’t little Mistoffelees!” the voice exclaimed. The black kitten opened his eyes and slowly uncurled. He was in the presence of a large orange tabby, a familiar friend of his. He brightened when he realized that the tabby was a friend, and after he’d assumed he hadn’t any!
“Skimbleshanks!” exclaimed Mistoffelees, embracing his friend around the neck and giving him a playful and loving nip on the ear.
“Ay and begorrah, it is!” Skimbleshanks laughed. Then his manner became serious, and he looked the small black tom in the eyes. “Now supposin’ you tell old Skimble why you’re not at home enjoyin’ a meal.”
“They’re moving away,” Mistoffelees sighed. “I was really very lucky. The man was going to take me to the pound, but I ran away the second he put me down.”
“The pound!” Skimble exclaimed. A look of horror crossed his face, and as he shuddered he drew the little kitten nearer. “You’ll be comin’ with me. It’s too cold a night for you to be out on the street, and in the shape you’re in. Why, I do believe you’ve lost some weight!” As if in response, Mistoffelees sneezed loudly.
Skimbleshanks pulled the tired kitten, who was so much smaller and lighter than himself, onto his back and set off for the train station that was his home. He worried to himself along the way. “Where,” he thought, “is this kitten going to stay now that he has no family? Not with me; the guard at the door will let him stay the night, being the kind soul he is, but he canna live with me forever. He is obviously ill. He is skinny as a rail and sneezing, too. I must take him to Munkustrap first thing tomorrow morning. Perhaps he will know what to do.” Mistoffelees sighed in his sleep and dreamed of mice and catnip.