went in and out of the house, he did nothing to ingratiate himself.
The woman who hated cats saw nothing ominous in his patient squatting—she had no premonition of disaster.
Then one day while polishing a bedroom mirror she received a shock.
Of late she had been troubled by a twitching on each side of her mouth; had taken it as an incipient heat-spot and applied calamine lotion. Today, however, the mirror reflected two small mounds of flesh perforated like a pepper pot and with long strong whiskers sprouting from the holes.
The poor women went very pale and troubled.
Feverishly she searched a drawer for a small pair of tweezers and holding the skin now with one hand she caught one large fine whisker and jerked.…
It was a painful operation and, as the whisker left the follicle under the skin, the woman cried aloud—
“Ow!”
She listened as the cry echoed through the room. A horrid suspicion darkened her mind. She tried the sound again experimentally then she sank into a chair, completely robbed of her strength.
She had not said “Ow”—she had said “Meow.”
The days that followed were nightmarish; yet, by degrees, she became accustomed to the meowing and the whiskers; when she went out to shop she wore a veil and delivered notes over the counter so that she would not have to use her voice. She studied her reflection anxiously every day but there were no further signs of metamorphosis; apart from a growing urge to drink more milk, she remained normal.
She still—thank goodness!—had one big toe and four graduated ones on each foot; her hands were not yet paws, and she had not started to grow a tail. It seemed not unlikely that, in time, she would lose the cat-cry and the unsightly whiskers.
Alas, for her optimism. One day, as she was crossing the hall, a mouse darted in front of her. The woman’s eyes brightened, she held herself tense, then—she pounced.
She was too intent on her prey to notice that she now had paws and claws. It was lovely to feel the soft trembling body of the mouse between her pads. Allowing it to run a little way along the polished floor she sprang after it and tapped it gently on the head. This was fun. Why had she never played this game before? Again she released it, but this time it darted under the clothes cupboard.
In a flash the woman followed but the cupboard balked her. She still possessed a human body and could not squeeze herself into the small aperture between the floor and the piece of furniture. Up and down she ran in a frenzy, peering first one side and then the other. The mouse had escaped, however.
The woman ‘meowed’ heartbrokenly and then, in the manner of all cats, sat down and began to wash behind her ears.
It was late that night when the transition became complete. There was a full moon and the air reverberated with strange sounds. The woman who hated cats drank the last of a bottle of milk, sprang through an open window, and stalked down the garden path.
The handsome tabby was waiting by the gate. He gave a deep-throated purr as she approached and together they disappeared into the shadows.
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