The sun was setting over Hartford, Connecticut. The sky was peach ice cream. The Mark Twain House was lit by a perfect dusk, and the crickets took an encore chorus.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
I was touring Samuel Clemens’ home. Which has been a lifelong dream for me.
Tonight, I would be performing my one-man shipwreck in the museum, telling stories, singing songs. Which would be one of the greatest honors of my lifetime except for the time I was an extra in a Budweiser commercial.
Before the show, our tour group was upstairs, in the Billiard Room.
And that’s where I saw the cat.
The cat was sitting on the billiard table, staring at me. He was large, intensely black, with velvety fur, and a faint fringe of white across his chest. The kind of cat not easy to see in ordinary light.
“Whose cat is this?” I asked Mallory, our tour guide.
Mallory was mid-speech. She wore a confused look. “What cat?” she said.
“The cat on the pool table.”
Everyone in the tour group glared at me like my fly was unzipped.
“I don’t see any cat,” someone said.
“Mark Twain was a big cat lover,” said Mallory, dubiously. “But there are no cats here.”
On cue, the cat sprinted from the room like a small-caliber bullet.
“Look!” I said. “There he goes now. Can’t you see him?”
My wife felt my forehead.
So I excused myself. I left the group and showed myself out. I followed the cat through Mark Twain’s 150-year-old old home. Down the dark-wood staircase. Through the ornate entryway. Onto the ancient porch.
It was funny. You could tell this wasn’t an athletic cat. This wasn’t a cat who climbed trees or terrorized rodents. This was a big Bambino, with a waistline the size of a 40-year-old preacher. This was a cat who ate hot meals on bone china.
I jogged after the animal. And I was remembering things. Lots of things.
I was remembering, for example, when I first read Mark Twain’s words. It was my father who introduced me to Twain’s books when I was in third grade.
Sam Clemens was my old man’s favorite author. My father worshiped him. He read and reread every Twain book over and again.
I was also remembering when, for my 10th birthday, Daddy gave me the complete works of Mark Twain, bound in genuine pleather. Illustrated and everything. I remember how much it meant to me.
I can recall it all so clearly. Just as clearly as I can remember the day the sheriff’s deputy told us my father took his own life. The deputy stood on our porch and turned his hat nervously in his hands. I was a boy. “We had to use your daddy’s dental records to identify the body,” the deputy told my mother.
I ran to my bedroom and cried.
That night, I remember opening the book entitled “Prince and the Pauper,” and reading my father’s inscription on the first page: “Happy Birthday, Speedy.”
That’s what he always called me. “Speedy.” My initials are S.P.D. He was the only one who called me that.
So anyway, there I was, tramping through Sam Clemens’ house. A grown man. Chasing an imaginary cat. I finally found the animal near the carriage house.
“Are you lost, kitty?” I said.
The cat just blinked, then licked his unmentionables.
The big cat darted away again. I followed him past the museum, past the underground river, until we were standing in an open field.
And all at once, the city of modern-day Hartford seemed to disappear around me. Little by little, the surrounding convenience stores, the honking traffic, the Domino’s Pizza, it all vanished into the chill February air.
Soon, it was just me and Bambino. We were in a sunlit pasture of tallgrass and fescue. Grasshoppers flitted. Cattle stood nearby. The glorious essence of manure filled all five senses. Hartford was virgin again.
I found the cat seated on a fencepost, staring across the river.
“There you are,” I said.
The cat said nothing.
I came closer and lifted the cat into my arms. He wasn’t exactly enthused to be in my grasp, but he didn’t resist, either. I stroked the fur between his ears because all cats love to be rubbed between the ears.
The cat looked at me with amber eyes. Like he knew me. Like we’d met before. Like we were friends.
I nuzzled the cat. “You’re a good little kitty,” I said.
The cat nudged me back. “You’re a good little Speedy,” he said.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: Mark Twain House
By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
The sun was setting over Hartford, Connecticut. The sky was peach ice cream. The Mark Twain House was lit by a perfect dusk, and the crickets took an encore chorus.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
I was touring Samuel Clemens’ home. Which has been a lifelong dream for me.
Tonight, I would be performing my one-man shipwreck in the museum, telling stories, singing songs. Which would be one of the greatest honors of my lifetime except for the time I was an extra in a Budweiser commercial.
Before the show, our tour group was upstairs, in the Billiard Room.
And that’s where I saw the cat.
The cat was sitting on the billiard table, staring at me. He was large, intensely black, with velvety fur, and a faint fringe of white across his chest. The kind of cat not easy to see in ordinary light.
“Whose cat is this?” I asked Mallory, our tour guide.
Mallory was mid-speech. She wore a confused look. “What cat?” she said.
“The cat on the pool table.”
Everyone in the tour group glared at me like my fly was unzipped.
“I don’t see any cat,” someone said.
“Mark Twain was a big cat lover,” said Mallory, dubiously. “But there are no cats here.”
On cue, the cat sprinted from the room like a small-caliber bullet.
“Look!” I said. “There he goes now. Can’t you see him?”
My wife felt my forehead.
So I excused myself. I left the group and showed myself out. I followed the cat through Mark Twain’s 150-year-old old home. Down the dark-wood staircase. Through the ornate entryway. Onto the ancient porch.
It was funny. You could tell this wasn’t an athletic cat. This wasn’t a cat who climbed trees or terrorized rodents. This was a big Bambino, with a waistline the size of a 40-year-old preacher. This was a cat who ate hot meals on bone china.
I jogged after the animal. And I was remembering things. Lots of things.
I was remembering, for example, when I first read Mark Twain’s words. It was my father who introduced me to Twain’s books when I was in third grade.
Sam Clemens was my old man’s favorite author. My father worshiped him. He read and reread every Twain book over and again.
I was also remembering when, for my 10th birthday, Daddy gave me the complete works of Mark Twain, bound in genuine pleather. Illustrated and everything. I remember how much it meant to me.
I can recall it all so clearly. Just as clearly as I can remember the day the sheriff’s deputy told us my father took his own life. The deputy stood on our porch and turned his hat nervously in his hands. I was a boy. “We had to use your daddy’s dental records to identify the body,” the deputy told my mother.
I ran to my bedroom and cried.
That night, I remember opening the book entitled “Prince and the Pauper,” and reading my father’s inscription on the first page: “Happy Birthday, Speedy.”
That’s what he always called me. “Speedy.” My initials are S.P.D. He was the only one who called me that.
So anyway, there I was, tramping through Sam Clemens’ house. A grown man. Chasing an imaginary cat. I finally found the animal near the carriage house.
“Are you lost, kitty?” I said.
The cat just blinked, then licked his unmentionables.
The big cat darted away again. I followed him past the museum, past the underground river, until we were standing in an open field.
And all at once, the city of modern-day Hartford seemed to disappear around me. Little by little, the surrounding convenience stores, the honking traffic, the Domino’s Pizza, it all vanished into the chill February air.
Soon, it was just me and Bambino. We were in a sunlit pasture of tallgrass and fescue. Grasshoppers flitted. Cattle stood nearby. The glorious essence of manure filled all five senses. Hartford was virgin again.
I found the cat seated on a fencepost, staring across the river.
“There you are,” I said.
The cat said nothing.
I came closer and lifted the cat into my arms. He wasn’t exactly enthused to be in my grasp, but he didn’t resist, either. I stroked the fur between his ears because all cats love to be rubbed between the ears.
The cat looked at me with amber eyes. Like he knew me. Like we’d met before. Like we were friends.
I nuzzled the cat. “You’re a good little kitty,” I said.
The cat nudged me back. “You’re a good little Speedy,” he said.