The Story of the Cat and the Rat

It was late. Okana sat by the hearth, warming herself; her grandchildren lay on the leopard-skin rugs, exchanging playful taunts and blows. She watched and smiled. Okana was an old woman: She had been a mother, and then a grandmother, and she was even a great-grandmother with more progeny than she could count. If old age was golden and children were wealth, she was a rich woman.

One of her granddaughters screamed and pointed into a dark corner. “Grandma,” she cried out, “look at the cat!”

Okana rose with effort. “I am blessed in my old age,” she thought to herself, “but youth still has its advantages.”

She walked stiffly, as old women do, to the corner, and shooed the cat away. It ran, leaving behind a dead mouse. She picked it up by the tail, holding it at arm's length. “It's just a mouse,” she told the child.

“Why do cats do that? Why do they kill mice?” she wailed. The other children stopped playing and gathered around their grandmother. They wanted to hear her answer.

Without a word, and with the children at her heels, she opened her front door and threw the dead mouse into the night. “That's just what cats do,” she said.

“But why?” whined the little girl.

“Sit down, child,” she said. “Sit down, everyone. I'll tell you the story of why cats kill mice.”

Sixteen eager children sat on the rugs in two semicircles between Okana and the fireplace; she sat, facing the fire. Its warmth lit up and softened her face. One by one, she looked each of her grandchildren in the eyes, waiting for them to settle down. They settled quickly; grandma's stories were always a treat.

When they were settled, she began, “This isn't a story for the faint of heart. Maybe I shouldn't tell it?” She smiled that mischievous smile that makes little children act crazy.

“No!” they wailed in unison.

“This isn't a story for frightened little children. Maybe I shouldn't tell it?” She looked to her side and down at the youngest girl, grinning a wickedly playful grin.

“No!” they wailed again. “We're big!” they chanted in unison.

“I'm not frightened,” the youngest girl said.

Okana took in a deep breath, as if weighing her answer carefully. “Well, all right; you are all big boys and girls. I don't think you'll be too frightened. This is the story of why cats kill mice.”

Eager eyes were on Okana as she told the story.

Once, there were two close friends: the cat and the rat. They lived together in the time when the world was new, and things weren't always as plentiful as they are now. Together, however, the two of them survived very well. For the cat was a stealthy hunter; she would spend her days slinking through the forests in that special way cats slink, and when her prey was in sight, she would pounce in that lightning fast, silent leap only cats can do. Nothing got away from her claws.

The rat was an excellent cook, and he knew the herbs and roots of the forest. When the cat brought home her catch each day, the rat would throw it in his pot with whatever things he foraged from the earth, and they would feast on a huge, delicious meal. It was because she was an excellent hunter, and he an excellent cook, that the two of them became and remained fast friends.

There came a drought one year, and all the tiny prey of the forest ran away in search of water. The roots and herbs dried up. And even though no creature was more skilled at the hunt than the cat, and even though no animal could forage and cook the roots and leaves of the forest better than the rat, food was scarce. They were starving.

And the cat was a mother as well; she had three small kittens.

So the cat did what anyone in hard times does—she went to see the diviners. She sat on the mat that day with a wise old man who told her, “For our world to be in balance, there must be both good and bad in our lives. Don't worry, cat; soon the rains will come, the forest will green-up, and there will be prey. You, however, have more pressing concerns.”

“And what might those be?” asked the cat.

“You have a relative in a far away place that you love dearly, but have not seen in quite some time. He is ill, and needs your help. Go there, and when you return, your life here will be better. I promise.”

“That is my cousin the leopard!” the cat cried. “I have not seen him in years. But I cannot travel that far now. I have children.”

“You must go,” said the diviner. “The orishas are saying this is how you will bring balance back to your life.”

“Then go I must,” she said. “I can leave my children with my friend the rat. But will they be safe without me? He is not very strong. I do not think he could protect them if someone attacked them.”

“Your children will be fine . . . if you make ebó.” And there on the mat the diviner prescribed all sorts of ebós and adimús (types of offerings) the cat was to make to ensure her cousin's health, her blessings, and the safety of her children.

That afternoon the cat had every intention of making ebó, but she was distracted when she saw some prey in the distance. Two young quail were pecking at the earth, and quietly, she stalked them. When she was close enough, she pounced on them and caught one in each paw. The poor birds never saw her coming. “My luck is returning already!” she cried, holding up her kill. Biting down on both with her sharp teeth, she carried them in her mouth as she ran through the forest, back home to her kittens and the rat, and she forgot about making ebó.

The cat told the rat about her visit with the diviner, and while he was cooking the quail in his huge stew pot, she asked, “The distance is far, and I cannot travel with three children in tow. Will you watch them for me, and keep them safe?”

“For you, my best friend, I will do anything.”

The cat trusted the rat with her own life, and she felt he would take good care of her kittens. That night, she set out to visit her cousin. She never made ebó.

Okana paused and looked at each child. Sixteen sets of eyes were staring back at her; the children hung on her every word.

“Grandma,” the same little girl whined. “They were friends! That doesn't tell us why the cat kills mice!”

Okana sighed and smiled. “I'm getting to that part, child. Will you let me finish my story?”

One of the boys poked the girl in the ribs, “Be quiet and let grandma tell the story.” The two children smiled at each other and got quiet.

Okana continued:

The cat never made ebó. Food was still scarce. Rats are not known for being patient creatures, and between the hunger, and the three hungry, whining kittens, he grew impatient. And he grew hungrier. For many days the cat was gone, and when the last bit of quail stew was eaten, and when there were no more roots and leaves to cook, the rat began to look at the cat's kittens as if they were . . . food.

In unison, the children gasped.

“Cats aren't food. They're pets!” argued one boy.

“That's nasty!” said another.

“You can't eat cats,” said the youngest girl, scrunching up her face in disgust.

“Animals live by their own rules, children,” said Okana. “They don't think as people do. To an animal, anything weaker is food.”

One by one, the rat separated the three kittens, and with the others out of eyesight, he sliced them with his small claws and bit them with his tiny teeth. Neither his claws nor his teeth were very big, but the kittens were small and unable to fight back. When all three were dead, he skinned them and put them into his big stew pot, and cooked them up into a meal. Anything he could not eat—the skin and bones—he simply threw outside the house.

Rats are sloppy like that!

Okana paused in her story again, and looked at the children, one by one. She saw the wide eyes and horrified expressions on her grandchildren's faces. “I told you this story wasn't for the faint of heart,” she said. “Shall I continue?”

“Yes,” they agreed in unison, holding each other tightly in fear of what might come next.

While the rat was eating her children, the cat was on her way home. She had nursed her cousin, the leopard, back to health, and he rewarded her greatly with dozens of cowries. For you see, back in those days, cowries were money, and the leopard was a wealthy animal. With her newfound wealth, the cat could buy the necessities she could not hunt, and she could provide well for her three kittens and her friend the rat.

Imagine her horror when she came home and found the skin and bones of her three children scattered outside her home. And imagine her anger when she found the rat bloated and stuffed with meat, the meat of her children.

It was there that the cat flew into a rage, and with her razor-sharp claws, sliced and diced the rat into a thousand pieces, but not before torturing him slowly for the great evil he had done.

That is why cats “play” with rats and mice before they kill them. And that is why, even today, cats hunt and kill every rodent they can find. Each one slain is done out of vengeance for the three kittens the rat ate while his friend, the cat, was away.

“And that,” Okana said as she sat back in her chair, “is why cats kill mice.”

“He deserved it,” said the little girl, sitting up and crossing her arms with that defiant bounce little girls do when they know they are right. “He ate his best friend's children.”

“Yes, he did,” agreed Okana. “But don't forget—the cat never made ebó. So at the end of it all, whose fault was it, really? Is the rat to be faulted for being hungry, or was it the cat's fault because she did not do what the diviner said? Now, it's late children. That was your bedtime story. Off to sleep with all of you.”

Each hugged and kissed their grandmother before scurrying to their beds. The little girl hung back and kissed Okana last, and when she did, she said, “I love you, grandma, and I'll never forget to make ebó!”

“Then your life will be blessed, child. Sleep well.”