of them and concentrated on the feet. The children’s feet had cloth and rubbery stuff over them. Robin’s and Kathleen’s were much the same size, but the cloth on Kathleen’s was old and frayed. Basil’s feet were surprisingly large. While Sirius was sniffing them, Basil leant down and called him Shamus O’Cat.
“I’m thinking of calling him Leo, really,” said Kathleen.
“Rat would be better,” said Basil. “Shamus Rat.”
“Told you so,” said Robin.
There was a new pair of feet present belonging to someone Basil and Robin called Dad, and Kathleen called Uncle Harry. They were the largest feet of all, most interestingly cased in leather, with beautiful strings which came undone when they were bitten. Sirius backed away, his tail whipping, rumbling with delight, a taut shoelace clenched between his teeth.
A voice spoke, more like a clap of thunder than a voice. “Drop that!”
Sirius let go at once and meekly went on to the last pair of feet, which were Duffie’s. He did not like Duffie, nor the smell of Duffie, but her feet were interesting. The leather on them was only in straps, leaving the ends bare. The ends of both feet divided into a number of stumpy lumps with hard, flat claws on them that looked quite useless. He nosed them wonderingly.
“Get out of it!” said the cold voice.
Sirius obligingly retreated, and – whether it was his dislike of Duffie or simply a call of nature, he did not know – left a puddle between the two sets of toes.
“Oh Leo!” Kathleen plunged down on the spot with a cloth.
“Dirty Shamus Rat!” said Basil.
“That creature—” began Duffie.
The thunderous voice cut in, rumbling peaceably. “Now, now. You’ve had your say, Duffie. And I say a house isn’t complete without a dog. What did you say his name was, Kathleen?”
Sirius gathered that he was safe. What the thunderous voice said in this place, the other people obeyed. He went on exploring the room while they argued about what to call him.
The argument was never entirely settled. In the days that followed, Sirius found himself answering to Leo, Shamus, Shamus O’Cat, Shamus Rat, Rat, Dog, and That Creature. More names were added as time went on and then dropped. These were the most constant. Basil called him most of them. Duffie called him That Dog or That Creature. Robin usually called him Leo when he was alone with Kathleen, and Shamus if Basil was there. The thunderous voice never called him anything at all. Neither did the cats. Before long, it was only Kathleen who ever called him Leo.
Sirius did not mind. He could tell by the tone of their voices when they meant him, and he answered to that. He like Kathleen’s voice best. It was soft, with a lilt in it which none of the others had, and usually meant he was going to be fed or stroked. Duffie’s voice was the one he liked least and, next to hers, Basil’s. When Basil called him, it was to flip his nose or roll him painfully about. Even if he did neither of these things, Basil made Sirius feel small and weak, or troubled him by staring jeeringly at his eyes.
His eyes soon lost the milky, puppy look. They became first grass-green, then a lighter, wilder colour. “Wolf’s eyes,” said Basil, and added The Wolf temporarily to the names he called Sirius. About that time, Sirius discovered he could eat from a dish and gave up feeding from a bottle. He grew. And grew. And went on growing.
“Is this thing of yours going to turn out to be a horse?” wondered the thunderous voice, in one of its rare moments of interest.
“A Great Dane perhaps?” Robin suggested.
“Oh, I hope not!” Kathleen said, knowing how much Leo ate already. Sirius realised she was worried and wagged his tail consolingly outside his basket. It was a long, strong tail by this time, and he filled the basket to overflowing.
His tail was a great trial to everyone. He would wag it. He beat dust out of the carpet with it every time one of the household came into the room. He meant it as politeness. In a cloudy part of his mind, which he could never quite find, he knew he was grateful to them – even to Duffie – for feeding and housing him. But only Kathleen and Robin appreciated his courtesy. The rest said, “Must that creature thump like that?” and at other times there was a general outcry.
There were times when that tail seemed to have a life of its own. When he was trotting around the house, Sirius normally carried it arched upward in a crescent and forgot about it. He dimly thought, in that cloudy part of his mind, that he could not always have had a tail, because he never remembered it until it was too late. If the least thing happened to excite him, if Robin started to dance about, or Kathleen came in from shopping, Sirius would bound jovially forwards and his tail would go whipping round and round in circles, hitting everything in its path. Ornaments came off low tables and broke. Cats were battered this way and that. Papers flew about. Basil’s fossils were scattered. The next thing he knew, a cat was scratching him, or a strong arm was beating him. He was beaten oftener for wagging his tail than he was over house-training. One of the most constant memories he had of those early days was of lying aching and ashamed under the sideboard, while Kathleen, often in tears, cleared up a breakage or another kind of mess. Duffie was always looming above her.
“I warn you, Kathleen. If that creature ever gets into my shop, I shall have it destroyed.” Her cold voice was so menacing that Sirius always shivered.
The shop took up the two rooms in the front of the house. Duffie spent most of every day in it, either making odd whirrings and clatterings in the nearest room, or talking to all the people who came in and out in the room farthest away, which opened on the street. These people were mostly women with loud voices, who all called the owner Duffie. If Duffie happened to be in the living-room looming over Kathleen when they came, they would stand and shout, “What-ho, Duffie! It’s me!” until Duffie came.
Now, in those days, Sirius’s whole world was the house and the yard behind it. The shop left very little of the world downstairs over, so he was naturally curious to see into this shop. He was naturally curious anyway. Kathleen often said, “I know they say Curiosity killed the cat, but it ought to be killed the dog. Get your nose out, Leo.” Sirius made a number of attempts to poke his blunt, enquiring nose round the door that led to the shop. Duffie always stopped him. Mostly she kicked at him with a sandalled foot. Sometimes she hit him with a broom. And once, she slammed the door against his nose, which hurt him considerably. But he kept on trying. It was not that the dusty, clayey smell from beyond the door was particularly pleasing, or that he wanted to be with Duffie. It was that he felt he was being cheated of the greater part of his world. Besides, the cats were allowed inside, and he was rapidly becoming very jealous of those cats.
By this time, it would have been hard to say whether the cats were more jealous of Sirius than he of them. He envied the cats their delicacy and disdain, the ease with which they leapt to places far out of his reach, and the way they came and went so secretly. He could not go anywhere or do anything without somebody noticing. The cats, on their part, disliked him for being a dog, for being new, and for taking up everyone’s attention.
They were three rather neglected cats. Until Kathleen came, no one except Duffie had taken any notice of them at all. Duffie, from time to time, took it into her head that she loved cats. When this happened, she would seize a struggling cat, hold it against her smock and announce, “Diddumsdiddy, Mother loves a pussy then!”
Romulus and Remus, who were twin tabbies, both escaped from this treatment
