all over town by the time Walter Shoemaker finished the cat’s boots. They were beautiful. Though no one would ever wear them, the little pair of boots was one of the finest pieces of craftsmanship Walter had ever made; he was prodigiously proud of them. He carried them over to the table in the middle of his workshop, placed them exactly in the centre, stood back and admired them for a minute. Then his mouth cracked open in a tremendous yawn. Cock’s crow—but perhaps he could get a few minutes’ sleep yet before he had to start his workday. Martin and the cat were still soundly asleep by the hearth, snoring (yes, both of them, the cat just a little quieter and faster than the man). Walter went to his pallet in the next room, and pulled the blanket over his head.
Two hours later a sunbeam shone through the slats in the shutters, falling directly onto Walter’s closed eyelids. He jumped up. He had overslept! Why had he slept so long? Then the events of the night came back to him. Right, Martin Millerson. And his cat. The cat which Martin had claimed was in urgent need of boots. Walter chuckled, then rubbed his hands over his tired face. Which one of them was the greater fool, Martin for thinking of the idea of getting boots for the cat and paying for them, or he himself for having fallen in with the idea and acting on it? Well, it was a small folly. He would pay for it by a day of extra tiredness at work—but he had enjoyed himself, working on those tiny boots. Perhaps he could use them as a sample; some rich burgher might like to have a pair made to the pattern.
Martin was still asleep, but the cat sat beside him on the hearth, washing his face.
“Good morning, Sir Puss,” said Walter, “I hope you slept well? Your order is completed; here, sir, is your footwear.” He picked up the tiny pair of boots, flourished them in front of the cat, then deposited them back on the table.
The cat leapt onto the tabletop. Walter was surprised. It was almost as if the cat had understood him! Curious. Now the cat was nosing at the boots, tipping his head one way and then the other, for all the world like a finicky customer examining a special order.
“Would you like to try them on for size?” Walter said with a chuckle. “I did measure them precisely to your feet. Pardon me, your furness, to your paws. They ought to fit well.”
The cat sat and stretched out his left hind leg. Walter stared at him. This was getting odder by the minute! He picked up one of the small boots, and he slipped it on the cat’s foot, expecting the animal to pull away and run. But the cat allowed him to pull the boot up all the way onto his foot, leaving only a little stripe of white stocking showing above the boot’s bucket top. Then he rolled over, and stuck out his right leg. Walter gave a shout of laughter. He was still so sleep-addled, he hardly knew whether he was dreaming, but at the moment, he did not care. He carefully pulled the other boot onto the cat’s foot, then picked up the cat around the middle, stood him on all fours on the table, and stepped back with a small bow.
“Try a few steps in them, your furness,” he said in a mockingly solemn tone, “and let me know if the boot pinches. Small adjustments can be made in a trice.”
The cat raised himself up onto his hind legs, took two or three steps along the tabletop, then bowed to Walter.
“Thank you, my good man,” he said, “the fit is perfect!”
Walter jumped back so hard he crashed into his work bench. The shoe last hit him painfully in the small of his back, and several of his tools rattled to the floor. He gaped at the cat.
“You—you—you—Did you just speak?”
“Why yes,” replied the cat, “but then, so did you!” He strolled back and forth along the tabletop, then did a few dance steps. “Oh yes, quite excellent boots,” he said, “just what I had in mind. Once again, thank you.” He jumped off the table onto the bench beside it, then down to the floor, and sauntered out of the room. The clicking of his heels on the plank floor receded down the passage.
Walter shook himself out of his frozen state. He could not have seen what he had just seen. It was impossible. Cats did not speak. They could not speak. Cats were—well, cats were cats! They did not wear boots, and they did not speak. But one had just done both of those things, right in front of Walter’s eyes. Or had he? Was this all a dream? The shoemaker turned around, wincing at the bruise the last had made on his back. No, here was proof: the small bits of trimmings of the black leather and the last few snippets of the silver-grey thread he had used to decorate the boots still lay scattered on the work bench. Walter picked them up and let them drop from his fingers again, then ran his hand through his hair.
A groan came from the hearth. Walter turned around. Martin was stirring, wrinkling his forehead and squinting his eyes shut against the sunlight filtering through the shutters. He raised a leaden hand and pressed it against his temple.
“Ow!” he moaned, “what… where…”
Walter shook his head.
“I don’t believe what just happened,” he said. “Your cat talked to me!”
Martin opened one eye a crack.
“Walter?” he croaked.
“Yes, you’re at my house. You got completely soused last night, you fool, and were trying to break down my door long after dark, insisting that I make your cat a pair of boots. Then you passed out.”
“Cat? What cat? Ow!” Martin groaned, and tried to sit up. “I don’t remember any cat… Oh, damn, yes, I do at that. Smudge, I think his name is. Ow!” He smacked his tongue in his mouth a few times. “Could I have some water?”
Walter poured him a beaker full of water from the jug he had sitting by his work bench and passed it to him.
“Last night you said the cat’s name was Toby.”
“Did I?” Martin gulped the water, then blinked painfully up at Walter. “I don’t remember last night. Ooohhh…” He clutched his black shock of hair between his fingers and pressed the heels of his hands over his eye sockets.
“I’m not surprised,” said Walter, “as I said, you were utterly sozzled. But I am beginning to wonder if I was too—if I still am, in fact… Why did you get so drunk last night?”
“I wish I didn’t remember that either… It’s father’s will. I got the cat, Walter.” He raised his bleary, bloodshot eyes to his friend. “Father left me nothing but the cat. What am I supposed to do with a bloody cat? Make a muff out of him, that’s about all I can do… But—wait.” He pressed his palms to his temples. “Wait—there was something… I said that, that about the muff… and then the cat—What was that you just said? Did you say the cat talked to you?”
“That’s exactly what I said. Your cat spoke to me. I made your cat a pair of boots, more fool me, and he said thank you, and walked out of the room with them on his feet. At least that’s what it seemed like—it sounds insane, but…”
“Then it must have been true,” said Martin with another groan. “I said I would roast the cat for supper and make a muff out of his skin, and he spoke to me—he told me that was a bad idea, and I should get him some boots instead. I don’t remember anything after that.” He pinched his eyes shut again.
“That’s crazy,” said Walter. “Either we have both lost our minds, are both terribly drunk, or your cat really did talk to us. And I made him a pair of boots—here are the leather scraps to prove it—and he walked out the door with them. This is witchcraft! Witchcraft…” Walter’s voice trailed off and an arrested look came into his eyes. “In fact,” he said, “that’s what we need to do. We need to talk to the witch about this.”
“Not me, not now!” Martin moaned. “I don’t think I can go anywhere. Ow, my poor head…”
“Very well,” said Walter. “But I am going to get to the bottom of this, right now. You stay there, in case the cat comes back. I’m going to the witch.”