Old One Ear

I watched as Old One Ear sat on the curb in front of San Kata's finest eating establishment and scribbled furiously in a beautiful grey silk-covered journal. He was the local homeless tom, and I eyed him with some resentment and a lot of bewilderment. No one was really sure of One Ear's real name. In fact, we knew little about him. He was a funny looking old cat with sparse, coarse fur more like a brush than the soft beautiful fur that we had. He could have been any age, from one to twenty-one, and because he had only the stub of a left ear, everycat just called him One Ear. It was a way of identifying him, and it somehow made him ours. Our homeless tom.

I remembered well the day One Ear had first gotten that Journal, that beautiful journal covered in the softest, shiniest pearl-grey silk. It was I, Little Hat, the pampered, spoiled daughter of San Kata's largest landowner, who had given it to him. Yes, I, who had never known want, nor hunger, nor cold. I had decided one day that I would generously go out and help one of my poor, unfortunate fellow-cats.

Oh, I admit, I had delusions of grandeur. I would magically bestow a token meal or a night off the street on one of these 'cases', as I called them. And who better than old One Ear, who had so resolutely refused all help. He presented a certain challenge, and helping him would surely give me at least a few points in the eyes of 'those that mattered'. So I gathered up my courage and marched downtown and said to him, "One Ear, what would you like more than anything in the world?" By that time nothing would have been too much. A meal, a year's worth of meals, a home, a ticket out of town. Oh, I was ready to make my token gesture look very good.

So you can imagine my utter surprise at his answer. "Well, Miss Hatshepsut", he said very softly and politely and formally, "I think I would really love that pearly grey silk-covered journal which sits in the window of the Writer's Paw. Yes I would like that a whole lot."

Now the Writer's Paw was a local coffee house and bookstore, which carried a fine line of beautiful stationery and journals. And that particular journal was one of the most beautiful I had ever seen with that silky cover, and pages as black as midnight. I had looked at that journal long, and had thought to ask my Pawpa for it as a birthday gift. It was a wonderful thing, to be possessed and to be brought out when my friends came over. I could already hear their ooohs and aaahs as they gazed upon its splendour. Yes, in my heart that journal was already mine. I guess it really surprised me that this dirty, hungry old cat would covet such a thing. "What are you going to do with a journal, you old cat?", I thought uncharitably to myself. "Do mew even know how to read and write?" But what could I say. I had made the commitment, and I must follow through with it.

So the journal was bought and presented, along with a fine pen, for I was not one to scrimp on my gifts. And I was rewarded with a toothless, drooling grin. "Oh thank you, thank you, Miss Hatshepsut," he said, as he clutched the journal to his dirty, shabby fur. "I will treasure this always." I bestowed my best syrupy-sweet smile on him and wished him luck. Then I flew back to my ivory tower to bathe the dust from my paws and to dine on lobster and fine wine, on salmon cakes and sugared mouse-tails. And I was most assuredly cured of my idealism. Oh, I was still charitable. I was very busily charitable, helping my Pawpa one day to open a new wing to a hospital, or helping my Mewma fill baskets for the needy. But I never again wanted to dirty my paws with reality. I filled my hours and days with a thousand busy useless things, and my heart was as empty as the acts themselves.

In the days and months that followed I often saw old One Ear with the journal. But no cat ever knew if he actually wrote anything, just pretended to write, or just plain scribbled. Almost a year passed and one cold dark January morning old One Ear was found dead by the railroad tracks, frozen stiff, with a toothless grin on his old face and the journal clutched to his chest. He didn't have anyone, so they buried him in a pauper's grave, and brought the journal to me.

No longer was it a beautiful pearly grey. It was dingy and smudged and yes, it was dirty like its owner. But my curiosity got the better of me, and I took one paw and gingerly opened it, even now not wanting to dirty my paws. I turned the pages carefully and was astonished. Long, flowing letters written in a beautiful paw had penned beautiful words that flowed across the page. I found a bit of sorrow here, a snatch of laughter there. Indeed the book was filled with writing and poetry, and before long a beautiful story of love unfolded before my eyes. It was the story of a handsome and charming Prince, and his beloved Princess, who had lived in a kingdom by the sea many, many years ago. It was One Ear's story. And it at once captured my heart.

In his mind's eye the old cat was a young cat again who was filled with joy as he and his Beloved picnicked on a deserted strand of beach, or raced so gloriously fast in his pink Cadillac that their ears were pinned back. Their hearts entwined as they sat safe and snug in their hideaway watching the stars fall beneath a summer moon, and listening to the laugh of Mr. Kookaburra. He was the handsome prince dancing softly beneath the stars with his true love at the Midnight Moonlight Ball. They had floated through the evening with paws that barely touched the ground, and the stars in their eyes lit the night.

But tragedy struck, and he became that wonderful caretaker who so gently cared for his Princess when she became ill. You could hear his laughter ring out even as his heart caught in his throat when his Beloved came out one day with her ears pinned back by a scarf, and a smile on her furry face. With sorrow in his heart and a tender smile for her he had tucked her gently in a soft warm blanket, and drove slowly through the countryside so as not to cause her any distress. It was on that day they had discovered a beautiful garden where magic reigned, and where leaves floated down into a fountain which sang to them alone.

And at last it was he who became the heartbroken young prince who mourned long when his Beloved crossed the Rainbow Bridge too soon. Devastated by her loss, he had lost his will to live. Soon the kingdom was overtaken by the Blight Dragon, and though he fought valiantly to overcome it, he could not.

"Oh, how sad!" I cried as the last battle was fought and the kingdom was lost, and the handsome Prince became a weary outcast in the world. And as I read, I came to understand the importance of this journal. To I, who had so much, it was just a thing. But to him who had lost all, this journal had become the most important thing in his life. It sustained him through days of hunger and nights of bitter cold. And it drained him as his story was told.

It was many hours later when I finally reached the end of the journal and read the last entry on the last page. A beautiful poem entitled 'To My Beloved'.


'To My Beloved'

At last the time comes
When reunited with you I shall be,

I walk now across that bright and beautiful bridge
And into your welcoming paws I flee;

Oh, my love, how long I have waited
To be filled with your love and at last to be sated,

So take my paw now and lead me softly
Over the bridge that crosses life's sea,

Oh my love, no more let me roam,
Come lead me gently, gently home.


With tears in my eyes I gently closed the journal and ran my paw over the smudged and tattered cover. And suddenly I realized it was like old One Ear himself, so worn and weary on the outside, but so beautiful inside. I longed to reach out and touch him, to smooth his thin fur and to ease his pain. But it was too late for that. His pain here on earth had ended, and he had entered a beautiful realm where he was young and handsome again, and where, no doubt he and his Beloved were together again.

But there was something that I could do. I got up and went down to his grave and lit a beautiful candle. I burned sweet sage, and chanted and purred that this lovely cat had indeed found his way safely across the Rainbow Bridge, and that he had been sweetly reunited with his love. And I caused to be raised over his grave a beautiful stone. On it was carved "Here lies Buddee, Prince in Catuary, Beloved of the Princess Hemangi Noelani BabyCat."

And at last I understood why he had asked for the Journal. It gave him the chance to tell his story. It let him die with dignity.

Gentle Purrs,
Rambley-Bambley Hatshepsut
Head Historian
Catuary by the Sea
August 2000