He stretched out his hand, meaning to stroke the fierce creature, but the cat flinched aside and crawled away from him in a strange, dragging manner, putting distance between itself and that outstretched hand.
“Look at him!” the headmistress was almost shouting. “We’ve called his parents and he isn’t even ashamed!”
Timmy looked straight into the furious woman’s eyes. There was not a trace of remorse on the ten-year-old boy’s face for the wicked deed he had done. With a bored expression he listened in silence to Mrs. Edith Hartwell’s accusations.
“Burning the class register!” her voice rose to a screech.
“Wait outside,” his father ordered sternly.
The boy walked out of the headmistress’s office, slamming the door hard behind him. He didn’t care if he was punished again. He couldn’t have acted any differently – he had given his word…
As for his parents, they would soon forget about him again, off on yet another expedition.
That same evening the family council decided to send Timmy to his grandfather’s village for the whole summer. Perhaps the old man could find a way to handle the young rebel.
*****
“This is your daily routine,” Grandpa George, a former soldier, pointed to a sheet of paper covered in neat handwriting. “Out here in the village there’s no time for fooling around – everybody needs to eat and drink.”
“Am I a slave?” Timmy blurted out after reading the long list of chores.
Grandpa George smiled, appreciating the defiant look his grandson shot him. The day before, his son had brought Timmy, complaining incessantly about how difficult he had become. Constant fights at school, complaints from the teachers and the headmistress – all of it ate into the time meant for scientific research. Timmy’s parents had left on an expedition, relieved to dump their rebellious son on the old man.
The days passed slowly, filled with unfamiliar tasks…
Timmy rose at cockcrow, helped his grandfather feed the spotted cow Daisy, the four piglets and the bay horse Archie. Fetch water, stack the chopped firewood, weed the vegetable beds…
The chores never ended, but Timmy had given his word that he wouldn’t complain.
“Is he watching me?” Timmy asked one day, eyeing his grandfather’s favourite, the large dog Max, who followed him like a shadow whenever he left the yard.
“He senses you’re not from around here – he’s afraid you might get lost,” Grandpa replied with a hint of irony.
Timmy grew to love going fishing. The boy quickly learned how to handle a rod, and after a couple of weeks Grandpa George began letting him go to the river alone.
The best catch came early in the morning, when it was still cool. Timmy liked sitting with his rod on the bank, watching the sunrise spread light over everything. You certainly never saw that in the city!
One such early morning, settled with his rods on the bank of a picturesque stream, Timmy noticed movement in the tall grass.
Somewhere nearby a frog croaked loudly, and a dog started barking. Familiar sounds, but…
The grass rustled again, and the boy decided to check.
Stepping carefully among the tall stalks, Timmy peered into the morning gloom but saw nothing. Deciding it must have been his imagination, he was about to go back to his rods when he caught a faint, pitiful moan.
He bent down, parting the tall grass with his hands, and a cat hissed at him fiercely, ears flattened in warning. The animal’s eyes told him to keep his distance, and the hissing carried a clear threat.
“Oh!” Timmy gasped in surprise. “What are you hissing for?”
He stretched out his hand, meaning to stroke the fierce creature, but the cat flinched aside and crawled away from him in a strange, dragging manner, putting distance between itself and that outstretched hand.
In that moment the light grew stronger, and Timmy saw bloodstains on the animal’s pale coat. A picture from the recent past flashed before his eyes – four older boys tormenting a striped tomcat with a frostbitten right ear…
Timmy shuddered, pushing the painful memory away. The cat was wounded – it needed help!
He couldn’t pick it up with bare hands – it was angry and clearly in pain. Looking around, he found nothing suitable. He was wearing a light windbreaker against the morning chill.
Slipping off the jacket, the boy approached the hissing cat.
“Here, kitty-kitty… I only want to help you… Kit-kit-kit!”
With its last strength the cat tried to bolt, but Timmy was quicker. Throwing the windbreaker over the cat, he wrapped it carefully and pressed it to his chest. Then he ran as fast as he could back home, forgetting all about his rods.
“Granddad, will the cat be all right?” his grandson asked for the hundredth time, anxiously eyeing the door to the summer kitchen.
“Don’t worry – Mary is a vet, she knows her way around wounds,” Grandpa George said, stroking the boy’s head. “Go fetch your rods now, and when you come back there’ll be news…”
Timmy nodded and dashed to the river for his rods. He was in such a hurry he could hardly catch his breath when he got back.
Just then the slight figure of Grandma Mary appeared on the threshold of the summer kitchen. The elderly woman said something to Grandpa George that made him smile with relief.
“How is she?” Timmy burst out.
“She’ll be fine,” Grandma Mary replied. “Looks like a dog bit her… I’ve cleaned the wounds – now you need to look after her.”
“I’ll do everything!” Timmy cried, and tears of joy and relief welled up in his eyes…
That evening the boy never left the sleeping cat’s side, having made her a makeshift bed from a box and an old blanket. He set bowls of food and water nearby and just sat watching her sleep.
“You going to sleep here?” Grandpa George asked.
“Can I?” Timmy asked hopefully.
“Better bring her inside the house,” the old man suggested.
They carried the cat into the room where Timmy slept and put the box beside his bed.
Looking more closely, the cat’s coat was a light beige with barely visible stripes.
Timmy sat on the edge of the bed, still watching his charge sleep.
“You know, grandson, I look at you and marvel,” Grandpa George said thoughtfully, sitting down on a chair in the corner of the room. “You’re not lazy, you’re clever, responsible, and kindness isn’t foreign to you. So why do you stir up trouble like a mutineer?”
Timmy shrugged instead of answering.
“That last stunt of yours with the class register…” the old man pressed. “You didn’t burn it for no reason, did you?”
“I gave my word, and if you give your word you have to keep it,” Timmy muttered.
He reached out and gently stroked the sleeping cat’s head.
“Your word to whom?” Grandpa George’s suspicions were confirmed – he had never believed his grandson was really guilty.
“There’s a stray tom living in the basement next to the school. I used to feed him and talk to him – just like you talk to Max,” Timmy said, sniffling. “I dreamed of taking him home, but my parents wouldn’t even listen… I gave my word to Stripes that I’d always protect him.”
“And what happened to that tom?” his grandfather asked in a quiet voice, holding his breath.
“Some older boys were tormenting him,” Timmy’s voice faltered. “I asked them to stop. They agreed, on condition I burned the class register…”
“The scoundrels!” the old man burst out. “Where is that tom now?”
“A woman took him, the janitor told me,” Timmy said, stroking the cat again. “I’d give anything to know how Stripes is doing…”
“You did well!” Grandpa George patted his grandson’s head. “You kept your word – that’s right. But why didn’t you tell your parents?”
“They never asked,” Timmy answered simply.
Days passed… The wounds on Marshmallow – that’s what Timmy had named the cat – healed over. She stopped hissing and eyeing people suspiciously.
Marshmallow accepted the care of the human who had saved her life. Soon the cat, now prettier and noticeably plumper, moved to sleep on Timmy’s bed.
The boy’s dream had come true, but often in his sleep he saw the striped tom with the frostbitten ear. The cat would rub affectionately against his legs and purr loudly when Timmy picked him up.
“Where are you?” Timmy would ask the striped cat in his dreams, but got no answer.
July passed, then August…
Timmy expected his parents to come for him, but instead Grandpa George announced he needed to go into the city on business. Having finished the morning chores, the old man left the household in his grandson’s care and set off for the train.
He returned that evening, tired but pleased. He praised his grandson for keeping everything in order and, with a mysterious smile, called him into the house, where he had earlier carried a large box.
“Come here, grandson,” Grandpa George said, pointing to the sofa. “Look who came back with me from the city.”
Timmy walked into the room and looked at the sofa. He blinked several times, afraid he was seeing things.
“Stripes!” the boy cried, carefully taking the striped tom with the frostbitten ear into his arms. “Granddad, you’re the best!”
The cat looked healthy and well-fed. Later Grandpa George told his grandson how Timmy’s action had impressed him, and he had decided to track down the striped tom by asking for help at Timmy’s school.
It turned out that the janitor had asked the shelter to take the stray cat, fearing for its life.
At the beginning of September Timmy’s parents arrived with the news that they had to leave on a long expedition, and the boy would have to stay with his grandfather for a while.
They hardly recognised the cheerful, lively child as the former rebel.
“Dad, you’ve worked a miracle!” Timmy’s father exclaimed.
“Learn to listen to your child,” Grandpa George said pointedly.
As for Timmy, he was delighted to stay living with his grandfather and not be separated from Stripes and Marshmallow.
The rebel had turned into the most caring and responsible master his pets could have wished for.
