A Piedmont Porchlight Story
There are three things a sensible man ought never to do.
He ought never argue with a woman who’s holding a cast-iron skillet.
He ought never to tell a barber how to cut hair while the barber’s holding a straight razor.
And he ought never, under any circumstances, attempt to establish his authority over a cat named Napoleon.
Delbert Rhinehart had managed to avoid the first two mistakes for most of his natural life.
The third was proving way yonder more difficult.
Now, when Dink married Ruby Roundtree and moved into her little white house in Piedmont, he understood that certain adjustments would be necessary.
He’d spent forty-six years in New Orleans, where he’d owned a bar on Bourbon Street, dealt with drunken tourists, weathered hurricanes, and once persuaded a man dressed as Marie Antoinette to stop trying to ride a police horse.
He considered himself reasonably well equipped to handle domestic life.
He was mistaken.
Ruby’s house already had a man in residence, thank you very much.
His name was Napoleon.
He weighed fourteen pounds, possessed four legs, and regarded the arrival of Dink Rhinehart as an invasion of sovereign territory.
Napoleon was an orange tomcat of considerable size and even greater self-importance.
Ruby had belonged to him for eleven years.
During that time, he’d established certain customs.
Breakfast was served at precisely six-thirty.
Supper was served at five.
The living room rocking chair belonged to him between the hours of eight in the morning and four in the afternoon.
The foot of Ruby’s bed was his after sunset.
And the kitchen windowsill was reserved for his personal use at all times, regardless of whether somebody had placed a pie there to cool.
Napoleon didn’t consider these privileges.
He considered them his constitutional rights.
Ruby understood the arrangement perfectly.
Dink did not.
His first mistake occurred on a Monday morning when he sat down in Napoleon’s rocking chair.
Napoleon was asleep on the windowsill.
Dink had finished breakfast, poured himself a second cup of coffee, and settled into the chair with the newspaper.
He’d been sitting there approximately three minutes when Napoleon opened one eye.
Then the other.
The cat stared.
Dink turned a page.
Napoleon rose.
Stretched.
And jumped down.
He approached the rocking chair.
Sat directly in front of it.
And stared at Dink.
Dink looked over the newspaper.
“What?”
Napoleon blinked.
Dink returned to his reading.
Napoleon meowed.
Dink lowered the paper.
“What do you want?”
The cat placed one paw on Dink’s slipper.
Then another.
And began climbing.
“Hey! Hold on!”
Napoleon continued upward.
Dink attempted to discourage him.
Napoleon overruled his objection.
Within seconds, fourteen pounds of orange indignation had installed itself across Dink’s lap, covering the newspaper and spilling coffee onto his trousers.
“DAMMIT!”
Ruby appeared in the doorway.
“What’s all that hollering?”
Dink held up his arms.
“Your cat!”
Ruby looked at Napoleon.
Napoleon looked at Ruby.
Then he began purring.
Ruby smiled.
“Aww. He likes you.”
Dink stared at her.
“Ruby, he just attacked me!”
“He’s sitting in your lap.”
“He climbed me like a telephone pole!”
“Well, you oughtn’t have been sitting in his chair.”
Dink looked around.
“His chair?”
“Yes.”
“Ruby, he’s a cat.”
“And you’re a grown man. I reckon you can find somewhere else to sit.”
Napoleon closed his eyes.
The first engagement had ended.
Napoleon, one.
Dink, nothing.
The second incident involved Dink’s slippers.
Now, Dink was particular about his slippers.
They were soft leather, lined with something expensive, and had been purchased at a department store in New Orleans where the sales clerk had referred to them as gentlemen’s indoor footwear.
Ruby called them house shoes.
Dink considered this an unfortunate linguistic simplification.
Every evening, he placed them neatly beside the bed.
Every morning, he quite reasonably expected to find them there.
On Tuesday morning, one was missing.
Dink looked under the bed.
Behind the dresser.
Inside the closet.
Nothing.
“Ruby!”
She was in the kitchen.
“What?”
“Have you seen my slipper?”
“Which one?”
“The left one.”
“Where’d you leave it?”
“Beside the bed.”
“Well, did you look there?”
Dink closed his eyes.
“Yes, honey.”
“Then I don’t know.”
He searched for another ten minutes.
Finally, he found the slipper in the bathtub.
Inside it was a dead moth.
Dink stared.
Then looked toward the hallway.
Napoleon sat at the far end, washing his face.
“You,” Dink whispered.
Napoleon continued washing.
Dink picked up the slipper.
Carried it into the kitchen.
And held it up.
“Ruby, look at this.”
She glanced over.
“What?”
“My slipper.”
“Well, good. You found it.”
“It was in the bathtub.”
“Maybe you left it there.”
“Ruby, why in the name of all that’s holy would I put one slipper in the bathtub?”
She considered this.
“Well, I don’t know everything you do when I’m asleep.”
Dink pointed toward the hallway.
“That cat put it there.”
Ruby frowned.
“Napoleon?”
“Yes!”
“Dink, honey, Napoleon can’t carry a slipper all the way to the bathroom.”
“He’s fourteen pounds of muscle and spite. He could carry a ’55 Buick Roadmaster if he put his mind to it.”
Ruby shook her head.
“You’re imagining things.”
Dink looked at the moth.
“Then explain this.”
Ruby peered into the slipper.
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“Nice?”
“He brought you a present.”
“A DEAD MOTH?”
“Well, you didn’t expect him to buy you a necktie, did you?”
By Wednesday, Dink had begun keeping a record.
He purchased a little notebook at Watson’s drug store.
On the first page, he wrote:
NAPOLEON: INCIDENT REPORT
Beneath that, he listed the offenses.
Monday: Unauthorized occupation of rocking chair. Coffee spilled. Suspected deliberate.
Tuesday: Left slipper relocated to bathtub. Dead moth deposited. Motive unknown.
Wednesday: Breakfast sausage stolen from plate. Witness: myself.
He showed the notebook to Curtis Pope.
Curtis was cutting Earl Ponder’s hair.
He read the entries.
Then looked at Dink.
“You’re keeping a criminal record on a cat?”
“Evidence, Curtis.”
“Evidently.”
Earl chuckled beneath the barber’s cape.
Dink pointed at the notebook.
“Look here, this animal is conducting a systematic campaign against me.”
Curtis nodded solemnly.
“Have you considered notifying the authorities?”
“I have.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call the sheriff just yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because Lyle Booker might arrest you for wasting his time.”
Earl laughed.
Dink frowned.
“Y’all think this is funny.”
Curtis closed the notebook.
“Dink, I’ve been cutting hair for sixty years. I’ve heard about cheating husbands, stolen chickens, church committee fistfights, and a man who tried to divorce his wife because she wouldn’t let him keep a goat in the house.”
“What happened to him?”
“The goat got the house.”
Earl laughed so hard Curtis had to stop cutting.
Dink took back his notebook.
“Well, laugh if you want to. I’m going to catch that cat.”
Curtis smiled.
“Just remember one thing, Dink.”
“What?”
“Napoleon’s named after a general.”
Dink grinned.
“Yeah, and that general lost at Waterloo.”
Curtis nodded.
“True enough. But he won an awful lot of battles before he got there.”
The next morning, Dink discovered that Napoleon had occupied his pillow.
Not the foot of the bed.
Not Ruby’s side.
His pillow.
The cat lay stretched across it, orange fur covering the entire surface.
Dink stood beside the bed.
“Move.”
Napoleon opened one eye.
“Move, I said.”
The cat yawned.
Dink reached down.
Napoleon rolled onto his back.
All four paws rose into the air.
Dink hesitated.
Now, anybody who’s ever owned a cat knows that an exposed feline belly is not necessarily an invitation to affection.
Sometimes it’s a trap.
Dink, having spent most of his adult life dealing with human beings rather than cats, had not yet learned this distinction.
He reached down.
Napoleon seized his wrist.
Not hard enough to injure him.
Just hard enough to establish a point.
“OW!”
Ruby appeared.
“What now?”
“Your cat’s got me!”
She looked at Napoleon.
Then at Dink.
“Well, let go of him.”
“I’m trying!”
“Not you. Napoleon.”
The cat released Dink’s wrist immediately.
Ruby smiled.
“See? He listens.”
Dink stared.
“He listens to YOU!”
“Well, somebody around here ought to.”
Friday brought the incident that nearly ended diplomatic relations altogether.
Dink had been invited to attend a luncheon in Jacksonville.
He intended to wear his good seersucker suit.
His polished shoes.
And his expensive Panama hat.
Now, that hat had been the subject of considerable marital disagreement.
Ruby maintained that it made him look like a retired riverboat gambler.
Dink considered this a compliment.
He’d purchased the hat in New Orleans, paid considerably more than he cared to admit, and treated it with the reverence ordinarily reserved for family Bibles and antique automobiles.
He kept it on the top shelf of the bedroom closet.
In a proper hatbox.
Away from dust.
Away from sunlight.
And, he believed, away from cats.
On Friday morning, he opened the closet.
Reached for the hatbox.
And discovered that the lid was missing.
He frowned.
Lifted the box down.
Looked inside.
And made a sound that brought Ruby running from the kitchen.
“DINK! What’s wrong?”
He stood holding the Panama hat.
Or what remained of it.
The brim was bent.
The crown had collapsed.
And a remarkable quantity of orange cat hair clung to the inside.
Ruby stared.
Then covered her mouth.
Dink looked at her.
“Don’t.”
She made a small noise.
“Ruby.”
Another noise.
“Don’t you dare.”
She began laughing.
Dink held up the hat.
“LOOK AT THIS!”
Ruby leaned against the dresser.
“Oh, Lord…”
“That cat has destroyed a two-hundred-dollar hat!”
Ruby laughed harder.
Dink stared.
Then looked at the hat.
Then at his wife.
And finally said, “Ruby, I am beginning to believe you love that cat more than you love me.”
Ruby stopped laughing.
She looked at him.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then she walked over.
Put her arms around his waist.
And kissed him.
“Dink Rhinehart, don’t you ever say such foolishness.”
He softened.
She smiled.
“I love you more than anything in this world.”
Dink smiled back.
Then Ruby added, “But Napoleon was here first.”
That afternoon, Dink declared war.
He sat at the kitchen table with his notebook.
At the top of a fresh page, he wrote:
OPERATION WATERLOO
His objectives were simple.
Recover the rocking chair.
Protect the slippers.
Secure the bedroom.
And establish himself as a respected member of the household.
He began by purchasing a small cat bed.
It was soft.
Comfortable.
And considerably more expensive than he’d anticipated.
He placed it beside the living room window.
Then he sprinkled a little catnip inside.
Napoleon approached.
Sniffed.
Stepped into the bed.
Turned around twice.
And lay down.
Dink smiled triumphantly.
“Well, would you look at that.”
Ruby glanced over.
“What?”
“He likes it!”
“Of course he does. It’s a nice bed.”
Dink grinned.
“See? All it takes is a little psychology.”
Napoleon slept in the bed for twenty minutes.
Then got up.
Walked across the room.
And climbed into the rocking chair.
Dink stared.
Napoleon settled himself.
Closed his eyes.
And began purring.
Dink wrote in his notebook:
Operation Waterloo, Phase One: Temporary success. Enemy resumed occupation.
Phase Two involved the bedroom.
Dink purchased a little spray bottle.
Not to spray Napoleon, mind you.
He wasn’t cruel.
He intended to use a harmless citrus-scented fabric spray around the bed, having read somewhere that cats disliked the smell.
He sprayed the bedspread.
The pillows.
And the foot of the bed.
Napoleon approached.
Sniffed.
Sneezed.
Then turned around and walked away.
Dink smiled.
“Victory.”
That evening, Napoleon slept in Ruby’s chair.
Dink went to bed satisfied.
At approximately two in the morning, he awoke to discover fourteen pounds of orange cat sitting directly on his chest.
Napoleon stared down at him.
Dink stared back.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Napoleon leaned forward.
And sneezed directly into Dink’s face.
Dink shouted.
Ruby sat up.
“What happened?”
“YOUR CAT!”
Napoleon jumped down.
Ruby turned on the lamp.
Dink sat upright, wiping his face.
“He sneezed on me!”
Ruby looked at Napoleon.
The cat sat beside the bed, washing one paw.
“Well, Dink, maybe he’s got a cold.”
“He did it ON PURPOSE!”
Ruby sighed.
“Go back to sleep.”
Dink pointed.
“He’s doing this deliberately!”
“Dink, honey, it’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“That’s when most military operations occur!”
Ruby turned off the lamp.
“Then surrender and hush.”
By Sunday, Dink was exhausted.
He’d slept poorly.
Lost another slipper.
Found a hairball inside his mangled Panama hat.
And discovered that Napoleon had somehow learned to open the kitchen cabinet where the cat treats were stored.
The animal had eaten half the bag.
Then vomited on Dink’s newspaper.
Dink sat at the kitchen table, staring at his notebook.
Ruby poured him coffee.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
He looked up.
“Ruby, I’m losing.”
She smiled.
“Losing what?”
“The war.”
“What war?”
“Against Napoleon.”
Ruby sat down.
“Dink, honey, you can’t fight a cat.”
“Why not?”
“Because cats don’t know they’re fighting.”
Dink considered this.
Then shook his head.
“That one does.”
Ruby reached across the table.
Took his hand.
And said, “Maybe you ought to quit trying to make him like you.”
Dink frowned.
“What?”
“Just let him be.”
“But he hates me.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“He put a moth in my slipper.”
“That was a gift.”
“He destroyed my hat.”
“Well, you never did look right in that thing.”
“Ruby!”
She laughed.
Then grew serious.
“Dink, Napoleon’s been with me eleven years. He was here when I was alone. He sat with me when I was sick. He kept me company when the house was quiet.”
Dink listened.
Ruby looked toward the living room.
“He was all I had some days.”
Dink’s expression changed.
He hadn’t thought about that.
Not really.
He’d been so busy trying to establish his place in Ruby’s life that he’d forgotten Napoleon already had one.
And perhaps the cat wasn’t entirely wrong to be suspicious of a man who’d appeared out of nowhere and tried to change everything.
Dink squeezed Ruby’s hand.
“Well,” he said quietly, “I reckon I owe him something.”
Ruby smiled.
“Maybe you do.”
That afternoon, Dink went to the grocery store.
He returned with a little package of chicken.
Not fancy.
Just plain cooked chicken.
He cut it into small pieces.
Placed a few in a dish.
And set it on the kitchen floor.
Napoleon appeared.
Sniffed.
Looked at Dink.
Dink sat on a nearby chair.
“Go on.”
Napoleon looked at the chicken.
Then at Dink.
Then back at the chicken.
Finally, he approached.
Ate one piece.
Then another.
Dink smiled.
“Good, ain’t it?”
Napoleon continued eating.
Dink leaned forward.
“You know something, General?”
The cat looked up.
“I reckon we’ve both been acting like fools.”
Napoleon blinked.
“You’re worried I’m going to take Ruby away from you.”
The cat sat down.
“And I’m worried you’re going to take her away from me.”
Napoleon began washing his face.
Dink smiled.
“Well, that ain’t how love works, is it?”
The cat looked at him.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Napoleon walked over.
Rubbed against Dink’s leg.
And purred.
Dink reached down.
Carefully.
Scratched behind the cat’s ears.
Napoleon leaned into his hand.
Dink smiled.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Ruby found them twenty minutes later.
Dink was sitting in the rocking chair.
Napoleon was asleep in his lap.
And Dink was reading the newspaper over the cat’s back.
Ruby stopped in the doorway.
For a moment, she didn’t speak.
Then she smiled.
“Well, would you look at that.”
Dink glanced up.
“Don’t say anything.”
She laughed softly.
“Looks like somebody made peace.”
Dink looked down at Napoleon.
“Temporary ceasefire.”
Ruby walked over.
Kissed Dink on the forehead.
Then scratched Napoleon behind the ears.
“Two of my favorite boys.”
Dink smiled.
Napoleon purred.
And for the first time since Dink moved into the house, all three members of the Rhinehart household seemed perfectly content.
Now, I’d love to tell you that peace lasted.
That Napoleon abandoned his campaign.
That Dink’s slippers remained where he left them.
And that the Panama hat was never again subjected to feline sabotage.
But that would be a lie.
Three days later, Dink found a dead beetle in his coffee cup.
The following week, Napoleon deposited a hairball on his good shoes.
And one afternoon, Ruby discovered the cat sleeping inside Dink’s open suitcase.
But things were different now.
Dink no longer shouted.
He no longer kept an incident report.
And he no longer attempted to establish his authority over the household.
He simply shook his head.
Smiled.
And said, “Well, General, I reckon you’ve won another one.”
Napoleon would blink.
Stretch.
And return to whatever important feline business he’d been conducting.
One evening, Ruby and Dink sat together on the porch.
The November air was cool.
A few leaves drifted across the yard.
Napoleon lay curled between them on a cushion.
Ruby reached over and took Dink’s hand.
“You know something, honey?”
“What?”
“I’m glad you two finally made friends.”
Dink looked at Napoleon.
The cat was asleep.
Or pretending to be.
“Me too.”
Ruby smiled.
“He’s a good cat.”
Dink nodded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And he likes you.”
Dink considered this.
Then said, “Ruby, I reckon that cat likes me about as much as the French liked Napoleon.”
She laughed.
He laughed.
And Napoleon opened one eye.
Just one.
As though reminding them that the treaty remained subject to review.
Now, I reckon there’s a lesson in all this.
And it ain’t necessarily about cats.
It’s about making room.
For new people.
New habits.
New ways of doing things.
Sometimes we get so accustomed to the way life has always been that we forget there’s room for something different.
And sometimes, when somebody new comes into our lives, we worry that loving them means losing something we already had.
But love ain’t a rocking chair.
There isn’t room for only one person.
It’s more like a front porch.
You can always pull up another chair.
Dink Rhinehart spent forty-six years learning how to manage people.
Napoleon spent eleven years learning how to manage Ruby.
And when the two finally stopped trying to manage each other, they discovered something rather wonderful.
There was room enough in that little white house for both of them.
Provided Dink remembered one important thing.
The rocking chair still belonged to Napoleon.
And the slippers?
Well, those were negotiable.
