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I'd just got it from Tom when we were at the beach.

He's at a Y in Brooklyn, so I tell Pop this.

Pop says, "Tell him to call my office and come in to see me on his next day off. Meanwhile, I'll bone up on City educational policies in regard to juvenile delinquents."

He says this perfectly straight, as if there'd be a book on the subject.

Then he goes back to his newspaper, so I guess that closes the subject for now.

"Thanks, Pop," I say and start to go out.

"Entirely welcome," says Pop.

As I get to the door, he adds, "If that cat of yours makes a practice of introducing you to the underworld in other people's cellars, we can do without him. We probably can anyway."

Cat hadn't got me into anymore cellars, but I can't honestly say he'd been sitting home tending his knitting?not him.

One hot morning I went to pick up the milk outside our door, and Cat was sleeping there on the mat.

He didn't even look up at me.

After I scratched his ears and talked to him some, he got up and hobbled into the house.

I put him up on my bed, under the light, for inspection.

One front claw was torn off, which is why he was limping, his left ear was ripped, and there was quite a bit of fur missing here and there.

He curled up on my bed and didn't move all day.

I came and looked at him every few hours and wondered if I ought to take him to a vet.

But he seemed to be breathing all right, so I went away and thought about it some more.

Come night, I pushed him gently to one side, wondering what I better do in the morning.

Well, in the morning Cat wakes up, stretches, yawns, and drops easily down off the bed and walks away.

He still limps a little, but otherwise he acts like nothing had happened.

He just wants to know what's for breakfast.

"You better watch out. One day you'll run into a cat that's bigger and meaner than you," I tell him.

Cat continues to wait for breakfast.

Ch7. Survival

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