I am a cat. As yet I have no name.
I do not know where I was born. All I remember is that I was crying “meow, meow” in a dim, damp place. It was there that I saw a human being for the first time. Later I heard that he was a student—the most ferocious of all the human races. They say this student would sometimes catch us and boil and eat us. But at the time I had no such thoughts and was not especially frightened. I only felt a sort of floating sensation when he placed me on his palm and lifted me up. The first time I settled a little on his palm and looked at the student’s face was probably the beginning of my seeing what is called a human being. The strange impression I had then still remains. First of all, the face that ought to be adorned with hair was smooth and bare, exactly like a kettle. Since then I have met many cats, but never once encountered such a deformed creature. Moreover, the center of the face protruded too much. And from the hole in it he would now and then blow out “puff, puff” smoke. It was rather suffocating and truly distressing. It was only quite recently that I learned this was what humans call smoking tobacco.
I sat pleasantly for a while in the student’s palm, but before long he began to move at a terrible speed. Whether the student was moving or only I was moving I could not tell, but my eyes spun round and round without reason. My stomach turned sick. Just as I thought I was done for, there was a thud and sparks flew from my eyes. I remember up to that point, but after that, no matter how hard I try to recall, I know nothing of what happened.
When I suddenly came to, the student was gone. Not one of my many brothers was to be seen. Even my beloved mother had hidden herself away. Besides, unlike the place before, it was absurdly bright. So bright I could hardly keep my eyes open. “Well, something is strange,” I thought, and crawling out slowly, I found it extremely painful. I had been thrown from a pile of straw right into a bamboo grass thicket.
Having with great effort crawled out of the thicket, I saw a large pond before me. I sat in front of the pond and thought what I should do. No particular wisdom came to me. After a while I hit upon the idea that if I cried, the student might come fetch me again. I tried “meow, meow,” but no one came. Meanwhile a breeze swept over the pond and the sun began to set. I grew very hungry. I wanted to cry but no voice came. There was no help for it; I resolved to go somewhere, anywhere, where there might be food, and began to creep slowly, slowly around the left side of the pond. It was truly miserable. Enduring, I forced myself to crawl, and at last somehow came out to a place that smelled of humans. Thinking that if I went in there, something might be done, I slipped through a broken hole in a bamboo fence into the grounds of a certain mansion. Fate is a strange thing; had this fence not been broken, I might have starved to death by the roadside. Well said is the saying about the shade of a single tree. To this day that hole in the fence remains the passage I use when visiting the tricolor cat next door. Now, though I had sneaked into the mansion, I did not know what to do next. Soon it grew dark, my belly ached with hunger, it was cold, and it began to rain—there was no moment to spare. With no choice, I walked toward whatever seemed bright and warm. Thinking back now, I had already entered the house. There I encountered a human other than the student. The first I met was the maid. She was rougher even than the former student; the moment she saw me she grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and flung me out the front. “Ah, this won’t do,” I thought, and closed my eyes, leaving my fate to heaven. But I could not endure the hunger and cold. I watched for a chance and crawled back into the kitchen. Then before long I was thrown out again. I remember being thrown out and crawling back, crawling back and thrown out, repeating the same thing four or five times. By then I had thoroughly come to hate the maid. The other day I stole her dried sardines and took my revenge, and only then did the lump in my chest subside. As I was about to be pinched out for the last time, the master of the house came out, saying what is all this noise. The servant girl held me dangling and turned toward the master: “This homeless kitten keeps climbing into the kitchen no matter how many times I throw it out, and it is a nuisance.” The master twisted the black hairs under his nose and gazed at my face for a while, then said, “Then keep it inside,” and went back into the inner rooms. The master seemed a man of few words. The maid, looking vexed, tossed me onto the kitchen floor. Thus I finally decided that this house should be my home.
My master seldom showed his face to me. His occupation, I hear, is that of a teacher. When he returns from school he goes into his study and hardly ever comes out all day. The household thinks him a great scholar. He himself puts on the appearance of being a scholar. In truth, however, he is not the diligent man the household takes him for. I sometimes peek into his study on tiptoe and find him often fast asleep in broad daylight, now and then drooling on the half-read book. He has a weak stomach, and his skin has a yellowish tinge, showing the limp, inelastic signs of sluggishness. Yet he eats hugely. After eating hugely he takes Takadiastase. After taking it he opens a book. After reading two or three pages he grows sleepy. He drools on the book. This is the nightly routine he repeats. Though a cat, I sometimes think: the teacher’s lot is truly an easy one. If born human, one should by all means be a teacher. If the work can be done while sleeping like this, even a cat could manage it. And yet, according to my master, there is no profession as wretched as teaching; every time a friend visits he grumbles on and on about it.
When I first took up residence here, I was highly unpopular with everyone but the master. Wherever I went I was kicked away and no one would have anything to do with me. How little I was valued may be seen even now in that no one has given me a name. With no choice, I made it my business to stay by the master, who had taken me in. In the morning, when he reads the newspaper, I always ride on his knee. When he naps, I always ride on his back. This was not so much because I liked him, but because there was no one else to bother with, and I had no alternative. Later, from various experience, I decided to sleep on the rice chest in the morning, on the foot warmer at night, and on the veranda when the weather was fine at noon. But the most pleasant was at night, slipping into the children’s bed and sleeping with them. The children are five and three; at night the two get into one bed and sleep in one room. I always find a space for myself between them and somehow squeeze in, but if by ill luck one of the children wakes, it becomes a terrible affair. The child—especially the younger, of worse disposition—cries out loud, “Cat’s here, cat’s here,” even at midnight. Then the neurotic, weak-stomached master is sure to wake and come flying from the next room. Indeed, the other day I was severely smacked on the buttocks with a ruler.
The more I observe humans, living among them, the more I am driven to declare them selfish creatures. Especially the children I sometimes share a bed with are beyond words. When it suits them they turn others upside down, put bags over heads, fling them away, shove them into the hearth. Yet if I so much as lift a paw, the whole household joins to chase and persecute me. The other day I merely sharpened my claws on the tatami and the mistress was furious, and since then I am rarely allowed in the parlor. Even if others shiver on the kitchen boards, she is perfectly indifferent. My respected acquaintance Miss White across the way says every time we meet that nothing is so heartless as humans. Miss White the other day gave birth to four jewel-like kittens. But the student at that house, on the third day, took them to the pond behind and threw them all away. With tears she told me the whole story, then said that for us cats to complete parental love and live a beautiful family life, we must fight and exterminate humans. I think it most reasonable. And the tricolor next door is much indignant, saying humans do not understand the concept of ownership. Among our kind, whoever first finds the head of a sardine or the navel of a gizzard has the right to eat it. If the other does not observe this rule, one may well appeal to force. Yet humans, seeming to have no such notion at all, always rob us of the delicacies we have found. Relying on their strength, they calmly take what we ought rightfully to eat. Miss White lives in a military man’s house, and the tricolor has a lawyer for a master. I, merely dwelling in a teacher’s house, am rather more easygoing about such matters than those two. It is enough if each day somehow passes. However human they are, they cannot prosper forever. Let us be patient and await the cat’s season.
Speaking of selfishness, let me tell of how my master failed through his own. He is not especially superior at anything, but likes to dabble in everything. He sends haiku to the Hototogisu, new-style poems to the Myōjō, writes English full of mistakes, and at times takes up archery, learns nō chanting, or now and then squeaks on the violin—but sadly, none of it amounts to anything. Yet when he starts, weak stomach and all, he is absurdly earnest. He chants nō in the privy, and though the neighborhood nicknames him “Privy Master,” he is quite unbothered and still repeats “I am Heiji no Munemori.” Everyone laughs, “There goes Munemori again.” For some reason, about a month after I moved in, on a salary day, he came home in a fluster carrying a large package. Wondering what he had bought, I saw it was watercolor paints, a brush, and Whatman paper; from that day he had resolved to give up nō and haiku and paint. Sure enough, from the next day for a while he did not even nap in his study, but painted all day. Yet looking at his finished works, no one could tell what they were. Perhaps he thought them not so good, for one day when a friend who studies aesthetics visited, I heard him say:
“It is by no means easy. Others’ work looks like nothing, but when I take the brush myself, it feels strangely difficult.” This was my master’s reflection. Indeed, no lie. His friend, peering at the master’s face over gold-rimmed glasses, said, “One cannot be skilled from the start. Above all, one cannot paint from mere indoor imagination. Long ago the great Italian Andrea del Sarto said: if you would paint, copy nature itself. In heaven are stars, on earth dew on flowers, in the air birds that fly, on the ground beasts that run, in the pond goldfish, on the bare tree a cold crow—nature is one great living picture. Well, if you would paint a proper picture, try a little sketching from life.”
“Eh, did Andrea del Sarto say that? I had no idea. Indeed, that is most true,” the master said, admiring blindly. Behind the gold rims I saw a mocking smile.
The next day, as usual I was napping pleasantly on the veranda, when the master, unusually, came out of his study and busied himself behind me. I woke and, peeping through half-closed eyes for about a minute, saw he was diligently embodying Andrea del Sarto. Seeing this, I could not help a silent laugh. As a result of his friend’s ridicule, he had begun by sketching me. I had already slept enough and could hardly stifle a yawn. But thinking it a pity to move while the master was so earnestly at work, I endured still. He was now finishing my outline and coloring about the face. I confess: as a cat I am by no means of superior make. In back, in coat, in facial features, I never think myself above other cats. Yet plain as I am, I cannot think myself the strange figure my master was depicting. First, the color is wrong. I have a Persian-cat-like pale gray with lacquer-black patches—this, I think, none can doubt. Yet his coloring is neither yellow nor black, neither gray nor brown, nor any mix of these. It is a color one can only call a single peculiar color. Stranger still, there are no eyes. To be sure, he sketched me sleeping, so it is understandable, but since not even a hint of eyes shows, one cannot tell if it is a blind cat or a sleeping cat. Secretly I thought, even Andrea del Sarto could do nothing with this. Yet his earnestness compelled admiration. I wished to stay still for him, but from a while back I had felt the need to urinate. My muscles twitched; there was no moment to spare. With regret I excused myself, stretched my forelegs forward, lowered my head, and gave a great “ah-ah” yawn. Once that was done, there was no use staying quiet. Since I had already ruined his plan, I thought to go out back and relieve myself, and slowly crawled away. Then the master, in a voice mixed with disappointment and anger, shouted from the room, “You damn fool!” It is his habit, when abusing someone, to say “you damn fool”—he knows no other insult, so it cannot be helped, but without a thought for one who had endured so long, to cry “damn fool” at random is impertinent. Had he ever shown a kindly face when I rode his back, I might have borne the abuse, but he has never done me a single favor, yet to call me “damn fool” for going to urinate is cruel. Humans are puffed up with their own power and all grow arrogant. Unless something stronger than man comes to chastise them, who knows how far they will swell.
If this is the extent of selfishness, I can bear it, but I have heard news of human immorality that grieves me several times more.
Behind my house is a tea garden of some ten tsubo. Not large, but neat and pleasant, with good sun. When the children are too noisy for a peaceful nap, or when I am bored and out of sorts, I go there to nurture a lofty spirit. One mild little spring day, about two in the afternoon, after a pleasant post-lunch sleep, I walked to the garden for exercise. Sniffing each tea root, I came near the west cedar hedge, where a large cat lay utterly unconscious atop crushed chrysanthemums. He seemed not to notice my approach, or if he did, to care nothing; he snored, stretched long, and slept. That an intruder in another’s garden could sleep so unconcernedly—I could not but marvel at his boldness. He was a pure black cat. The sun, just past noon, threw clear rays on his skin, and from among the glittering soft fur seemed to kindle invisible flame. He had a stature fit to be called king of cats, surely twice mine. I, forgetting myself in admiration and curiosity, stood before him and gazed. A calm little-spring breeze lightly stirred the paulownia branches above the hedge, and two or three leaves fluttered down into the chrysanthemum thicket. The king opened his round eyes wide. I remember it still. His eyes shone far more beautifully than the amber humans prize. He did not move. Gathering from deep in his twin orbs a light that seemed to shoot, he fixed it on my small brow and said, “Who the hell are you?” For a king, the language was a bit low, but in his voice lay a force to crush even a dog, and I felt no small fear. Yet thinking it dangerous not to reply, I answered as calmly as I could, “I am a cat. I have no name yet.” But my heart then surely beat harder than usual. In a tone of great contempt he said, “What, a cat? Cats should have more sense. Where the devil do you live?” Quite overbearing. “I live in the teacher’s house here.” “Knew it’d be something like that. Skinny little thing, ain’tcha,” he puffed, king that he was. From his speech he seemed no cat of good family. But from his sleek, fat body, he clearly ate well and lived richly. I could not but ask, “And who are you?” “I’m Kurō the cartman’s cat,” he said, proud. Kurō the cartman’s cat is a rough cat known to all around, but being a cartman’s cat, strong but uneducated, none care to associate with him; he is the object of a silent boycott. Hearing his name, I felt a slight prick of embarrassment, and at the same time a slight contempt. Wishing to test his ignorance, I put this question:
“Which is greater, the cartman or the teacher?”
“The cartman’s stronger, that’s for sure. Look at your master—nothing but skin and bone.”
“You look strong, being a cartman’s cat. I suppose you eat well there.”
“Hell, I’d never lack for food wherever I went. Unlike you, hanging round the tea patch—come tag along behind me a bit. In less than a month you’d fatten up unrecognizable.”
“I may take you up on that. But the teacher’s house seems bigger than the cartman’s.”
“Damn fool, what good’s a big house to the belly?”
He was much offended, flicking his bamboo-split ears, and stalked off roughly. Thus began my acquaintance with Kurō the cartman’s cat.
After that I met Kurō often. Each time he puffed the cartman’s worth. The immorality I spoke of I heard from him.
One day, as usual, Kurō and I lay in the warm tea patch chatting, and after repeating his usual boasts as if new, he asked me: “How many mice you caught in your life?” Though I thought my intellect better developed than his, I knew my strength and courage were no match, yet facing the question I was ill at ease. But facts are facts and cannot be lied; I answered, “I have not caught any yet, though I mean to.” Kurō trembled his long whiskers, stiff from his nose tip, and laughed hard. He is the type who, for all his boasting, has some lack; if you listen reverently, throat rumbling, he is easy to handle. Having learned this soon after we grew close, I thought it foolish to defend myself and worsen things; better to let him tell his tales and muddle through. So I asked innocently, “You, being older, must have caught many.” Sure enough he cried like a breach in the wall: “Not countless, but thirty or forty, sure.” Proudly he went on: “I can handle a hundred, two hundred mice alone, but the weasel’s a different fight. Once a weasel gave me a terrible time.” “Oh, indeed,” I chimed. Kurō widened his big eyes: “It was last year’s big cleaning. The master took a lime bag and crawled under the veranda, and out pops a huge weasel, flustered—can you believe it?” “Hmm,” I admired. “A weasel’s just a big mouse. Thinking ‘you brute,’ I chased it and drove it into the mud ditch—see?” “Nicely done,” I cheered. “But then, at the end, the bastard let a fart. The stink, I tell you—since then just seeing a weasel turns my stomach.” Here he lifted a forepaw and rubbed his nose two or three times, as if still smelling last year’s stench. I felt a bit sorry. To cheer him I said, “But a mouse under your glare is done for. You’re such a famous mouser, eating only mice, that’s why you’re so fat and glossy.” This question, meant to please, brought the opposite. He sighed deeply: “Think of it, it’s dull. No matter how many mice I catch—humans are the brazenest thieves alive. They take every mouse we catch and bring it to the police box. The box, not knowing who caught it, gives five sen each time. My master’s made about a yen fifty off me and never feeds me decent. Humans are nothing but polite thieves.” Even unlettered Kurō understood this much, and he bristled his back fur in great anger. I felt uneasy and made some excuse to go home. From that day I resolved never to catch mice. Nor did I become Kurō’s follower to hunt other delicacies. Sleeping is easier than eating well. Living in a teacher’s house, even a cat takes a teacher’s nature. Take care, or I may grow weak-stomached yet.
Speaking of teachers, my master too, seeming to have realized by now that watercolor held no hope for him, wrote this in his diary on December first:
