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For the storytelling class, I had to tell a story, tell its history, and tell a personal story that related to it. I did King of the Cats, which you’ll find in the previous post. This is the personal story I told:
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The Secret Lives of Cats

I’ve always wondered what my cats do when I’m not home. Are they just moping around, waiting for me? Or are they plotting to take over the world? A few years ago, my cat Stripe escaped out the back door and didn’t come back for seven days! We searched the neighborhood, and hung Missing Cat signs on all the telephone poles. We searched animal shelters—looking in all the cages for Stripe. Every day, we walked around the block with a can of cat food, calling his name. And finally one morning, he meowed at our bedroom window. We asked him where he was, but he wouldn’t say. And ever since then, Stripe tries to escape… and when he does, he is gone at least a few days. One time he was missing during a hurricane. And when he returns, he never tells us where he has been… one of life’s mysteries is the secret lives of cats!

——

Stripe, pictured in the previous post, was once called the Cat Who Would Be King. However, since we moved to this house, and we’ve limited his outside time (since whenever he goes out, he’ll go out for days), he has gotten kind of soft. In 2006, his left ear blew up with a hematoma and is now a shriveled stump. A few weeks ago, the same thing happened to his right ear. His breath is horribly stinky. He likes to lay on the dining room table, and shake his slobbery mouth all over everything. I was sitting on the couch (a futon), and it STANK of Stripe, so I pulled off the futon cover to wash it. In doing so, I found Lilia’s Phillies hat wedged under the futon mattress– it had has been missing for almost a month! So, Mr. Stripe, although your stinky slobberiness is annoying, I guess it was useful for something! I still love this darn cat!

On a dark October evening, the gravedigger’s wife was sitting by the fire with her big black cat, Old Tom. They were waiting for the gravedigger to come home. They waited and they waited, but still he didn’t come. As the fire grew dimmer, the gravedigger’s wife and Old Tom started nodding off to sleep.

Finally, he came rushing in, and in a wild manner, called out, “Who’s Tom Tildrum?”

Startled, his wife and cat stared at him in fright. “Why, what’s the matter?” said his wife, “and why do you want to know who Tom Tildrum is?”

“Oh, I’ve had such an adventure. I was digging away at old Mr. Fordyce’s grave when I must have fallen asleep. I woke up when I heard a cat’s Meow.”

Old Tom looked up and answered, “Meow!”

“Yes, just like that!” said the gravedigger. “So I looked over the edge of the grave, and what do you think I saw?”

“Now, how could I know?” said the gravedigger’s wife.

“I saw nine black cats, all like our friend Tom here, all with a white spot on their chests.
And they were carrying a small coffin covered with a velvet cloth, and on the cloth was a small gold crown, and they walked like this, one, two three, and at every third step they took they cried all together, Meow — “

“Meow!” said Old Tom again.

“Yes, just like that!” said the gravedigger; “and they came nearer and nearer to me, and their eyes were shining out with a sort of green light. They all came towards me, eight of them carrying the coffin, and the biggest cat of all was walking in front, and he looked for all the world like…”

Suddenly, the gravedigger stopped. “Just look at our Tom, how he’s looking at me. You’d think he knew all I was saying.”

“Never mind Old Tom,” said his wife, “Go on, go on.”

“Well, as I was saying, the nine cats came towards me slowly and solemnly, and at every third step crying all together, Meow –”

“Meow!” said Old Tom again.

“Yes, just like that!” said the gravedigger.

“The came and stood right opposite Mr. Fordyce’s grave, where I was. They all stood still and looked straight at me. I did feel odd, that I did! But look at Old Tom; he’s looking at me just like they did.”

“Never mind Old Tom,” said his wife, “Go on, go on.”

“Where was I?” The gravedigger continued. “Oh yes, There they all stood, looking at me, when the one that wasn’t carrying the coffin came forward. Staring straight at me, he said to me — yes, he said to me, in a squeaky voice, ‘Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toldrum’s dead,’ and that’s why I asked you if you knew who Tom Tildrum was, for how can I tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toldrum’s dead if I don’t know who Tom Tildrum is?”

Just then, his wife screamed out, “Look at Old Tom, look at Old Tom

And he couldn’t help but look, for Tom was swelling and Tom was staring, and at last Tom shrieked out, “What — old Tim dead! Then I, Tom Tildrum, am King of the Cats!”

And Old Tom rushed up the chimney and was never seen again.
————
From:
Galdone, Paul. King of the Cats. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1980.

Jacobs, Joseph. English Fairy Tales and More English Fairy Tales. Ed. Donald Haase. Santa Barbara: ABC-CLIO, Inc., 2002.

Shepard, Aaron. King o’ the Cats. New York: Atheneum Books for Young Readers, 2004.

Notes: Joseph Jacobs wrote this English folktale down in 1894. I like the Paul Galdone version best—it’s almost word-for-word the same as the Jacobs’ version, except he changes sexton to gravedigger (probably for definition problems and to make it spookier). It could be used as a picture book read-aloud. Shepard’s version is expanded, and there is a video of him reading it on his website.