The Tame Cat

West of the Huai lived an old widow, surname Zhou, widowed young, childless, living alone in a tumbledown house at the village's end. Gentle of nature, she kept a cat, its fur a mix of yellow and black; the villagers called it the tame cat. The cat was clever: every time it went out to catch rats, if there was extra it would carry a fish home and lay it before the widow, who lived on it to fill her meals.

The widow grew old and sick, and took to her bed unable to rise. The cat, strangely, hid by day and went out by night; each return it carried a bunch of green herbs in its mouth and laid them by her pillow. The widow chewed their juice, and her cough eased somewhat. The widow wondered, and had someone follow it; they saw the cat go into the back hills and bite the tender leaves of wild celery and dandelion, choosing the lush ones to carry home. The village doctor saw them and said: these herbs clear the lungs — how would a cat know? None could explain it.

The next year the widow died. The neighbors, wishing to bury her, were too poor to afford it. That night her body lay in the hall; the cat kept watch and would not leave, its eyes unclosed.

After several days a thief broke in by night, thinking the widow's house held some small fortune, and meant to rifle through it. The cat sprang up suddenly and bit the thief's foot, roaring like an angry leopard. The thief fled in terror, leaving behind one shoe. Next day the cat was seen crouched on the widow's coffin, the thief's shoe laid before it, as if presenting evidence.

The villagers, moved by its righteousness, pooled money to bury the widow, and buried the shoe the cat had carried as a mark. After the burial the cat did not return; some say that on every night a yellow-black shadow crouches by the widow's grave, unmoved by wind or rain.

The Chronicler of the Strange says: The tame cat is a small creature, neither dog nor horse, no more than a rat-catcher under the eaves. Yet, grateful for a widow's one meal of feeding and one bed of shelter, when she fell ill it carried herbs to cure her, when she died it guarded her body and bit the thief, and at last gave its whole self to repay a single meal's kindness. In this age many are clad in silk and fed on rice and receive others' favor; yet when their benefactor reaches old age, some avoid them as if shunning defilement. Set beside this cat, can they not be ashamed? The small in kind may repay the heavy; the noble in station may fail the deep. Look upon the tame cat, and be stirred.