Life Among the Savages Read Online Free PDF Page B

and the plant began to sway. As the chipmunk was very nervous and the top of the plant very supple, soon the top of the plant began to swing from side to side, like a pendulum, so that the chipmunk, going faster and faster, rocked over to one cat and then to the other, grazing a nose of each, while they backed away dubiously. My husband still had his aim on the chipmunk, and he began to rock back and forth. When the cats finally realized what was happening, they took turns batting the chipmunk as he swung between them.
    All of this happened so quickly that I believe—unless I prefer to move out I have no choice but to believe—that my husband pressed the trigger of the air gun without really meaning to, because it is certain that he missed the chipmunk and the cats, and hit the window. The crash sent cats, chipmunk, and Nimrod in all directions—the cats under the table, the chipmunk, with rare presence of mind, out the broken window, and my husband, with even rarer presence of mind, back to the dining room and to his seat at the table. I advanced from my post in the kitchen doorway and picked up the air gun from the floor; then, with what I regard as unique forbearance, I went for the broom and dustpan. All I permitted myself, spoken gently and without undue emphasis, was “Thank heaven Laurie is in school.”
    I was indulgent enough to return the air gun to my husband after a few days, but I would have thought that Ninki had more sense. Perhaps she never dreamed I would give the air gun back, or perhaps she just thought target practice around the house had been given up as impractical; perhaps, with some kind of feline optimism I cannot share, she believed that the chipmunk episode had been a freak, the sort of thing that might happen to any man confronting an oscillant chipmunk.
    So it was not more than a week later that Ninki gave the air gun another chance. It was a cool evening, and I was lying on the couch with a blanket over me, reading a mystery story; my husband was sitting quietly in his chair reading the newspaper. We had just congratulated one another on the fact that it was now too late for casual guests to drop in, and my husband had mentioned three or four times that he thought he might like some of that pot roast in a sandwich before he went to bed. Then we heard Ninki’s unmistakably triumphant mighty-hunter howl from the dining room.
    â€œLook,” I said apprehensively, “Ninki’s got something, a mouse or something. Make her take it outside.”
    â€œShe’ll get it out by herself.”
    â€œBut she’ll chase it around and around and around the dining room and kill it there and—” I gulped unhappily “—eat it. Get it out now while it’s still alive.”
    â€œShe won’t—” my husband began, when Ninki’s triumphant wail broke off with a muffled oath and Ninki herself came hurriedly to the dining room door and stared compellingly at my husband.
    â€œDo you always need help?” he asked her crossly. “Seems to me a great big cat like you—”
    I shrieked. Ninki lifted her head resignedly, as one whose bitterest views of fate have been confirmed; my husband gasped. Ninki’s supper, a full-grown and horribly active bat, was sweeping magnificently down the length of the living room. For a minute I watched it with my mouth open and then, still yelling, buried my head under the blanket.
    â€œMy gun,” I heard my husband shouting at Ninki, “where is my gun?”
    Even under the blanket I could hear the flap of the bat’s wings as it raced up and down the living room; I put my knees under my chin and my arms over my head and huddled under the blanket. Outside, they were stalking the bat; I could hear my husband tiptoeing warily down the room, with Ninki apparently right behind him, because he was saying, “Don’t hurry, for heaven’s sake, give me a chance to aim.”
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