Excerpt from THE INCREDIBLE JOURNEY
by Sheila Burnford
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The cat by himself was a swift and efficient traveller. He had no difficulty at all in picking up the trail of the dogs from the point where they had turned off in a westward direction from the river, and the only thing that held him back was rain, which he detested. He would huddle miserably under shelter during a shower, his ears laid flat, his eyes baleful and more crossed than ever, waiting until the last drop had fallen before venturing out again. Then he would pick his way with extreme distaste through the wet grass and undergrowth, taking a long time, and stopping often to shake his paws.
He left no trace of his progress; branches parted slightly here and there, sometimes there was a momentary rustling of dried leaves, but never a twig cracked, and not a stone was dislodged from under his soft, sure feet. Without his noisier companions he saw everything and was seen by none, many an animal remaining unaware of the cold, silent scrutiny in the undergrowth, or from up a tree. He came within touching distance of the soft-eyed deer drinking at the lake’s edge at dawn; he watched the sharp, inquisitive nose and bright eyes of a fox peer from the bushes; he saw the sinuous, twisting bodies and mean, vicious faces of mink and marten; once he looked up and saw the otter-like head of a fisher high above him, framed in the leafless branches of a birch, and watched the beautiful tail stream out behind when the animal leaped a clear fifteen feet through the air into the swaying green obscurity of a pine; and he watched with disdain the lean grey timber wolf loping quietly along the trail beneath him as he rested on the limb of a tree above. Those that he encountered face to face would not meet his eyes and turned away. Only the beaver went about their business and paid him no heed.
Age-old instinct told him to leave no trace of his passing; the remains of the prey he killed with such efficient dispatch were all dug into the ground and covered over; any excreta were taken care of in the of in the same fashion, fresh earth being carefully scraped over. When he slept, which was seldom, it was a quick “cat nap” high in the thick branches of evergreens. He was infinitely cunning and resourceful always, and above all he feared nothing.
On the second morning of his travels he came down at dawn to drink at the edge of a reed-fringed lake; he passed within a hundred feet of a rough, concealing structure of reeds and branches on the lakeshore, in which crouched two men, guns across their knees, and a Chesapeake dog. A fleet of decoy ducks bobbed realistically up and down in the water in front of them. The dog stirred uneasily, turning his head and whining softly when the cat passed by, silent and unseen, but one of the men bade him be quiet, and he lay down, ears pricked and eyes alert.
The cat stayed staring at him from behind some bulrushes for a while, then raised his tail so that it alone was in sight and twitched the end, enjoying the dog’s silent frustration. He turned and stole silently down to the lakeshore, where presently his long, slim body, crouched on a rock, was seen in the binoculars of one of the men.
“Here, kitty, kitty!” called an uncertain voice, after a moment’s silence. Then “Puss, puss . . . here, puss!” it tried, in gruff embarrassment — ignored by the cat, who curled his pink tongue down to the water and drank slowly and deliberately. Two voices called now, with an undertone of laughing disbelief. He raised his head and looked directly at the two figures standing up, black against the sky.
He heard their excited argument, and then, an intentional poseur, he shook each paw daintily in turn, stepped delicately down from the rocks, and vanished from the men’s sight. Behind him he heard a burst of incredulous laughter, and continued on his way, well satisfied.
From The Incredible Journey. Text copyright © 1960 by Sheila Burnford. All rights reserved.
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