MR. CATT

ELEANOR ARNASON

One morning, when he was almost done with his tea, Mr. Catt put down his paper and said, “I should get a dragon.”

“That won’t be easy,” his housekeeper said as she scooped crumbs off the tablecloth with a sterling silver crumb scooper. She was a tall, angular woman who looked severe until she smiled. Oddly enough, she was named Mrs. Catt, though they were not related, as anyone who looked at them could tell.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Mr. Catt replied and went to get the phone directory. The Yellow Pages did not list any dragon dealers. He looked for exotic-animal dealers and found one who could sell him a griffin, but no dragons.

“They’re nasty,” the dealer said. “And far too intelligent. You’re better off with griffins or maybe a nice little sea serpent.”

“I don’t want a griffin,” Mr. Catt said. “And the garden pond would not hold a sea serpent, even a small one. In addition, it does not contain salt water.”

“We have a very little one,” the dealer said with a tone of hope. “She won’t mind fresh water. They don’t, you know.”

“Thank you, but no thank you.”

He spent some more time leafing through the Yellow Pages, looking for monster hunters and knights-for-hire, but coming up with nothing. It seemed as if Mrs. Catt might be right. She often was. But impulse was rapidly turning into resolve.

Mr. Catt went back in the dining room and poured the last of the tea out of its pot and into his cup. He added sugar, stirring briskly, then drank while looking out at the garden pond. It was definitely too small for a sea serpent, even a small one. Who would know where to find a dragon? His accountant would not, though she would be a great help in buying the dragon, once found. Possibly his lawyer. One could never tell what a lawyer might know.

He went back to the hall table where the phone reposed and dialed his lawyer. She was a small, fierce person, utterly unlike the accountant, who was large and soft and comfortable. Accountants liked eating, he had discovered many years before, and always gave the accountant a large box of chocolates as a holiday gift.

“Yes?” the lawyer said, answering the phone curtly.

“I need a dragon,” Mr. Catt said. “Not an especially large one. With wings, if possible. Fire is not required.”

“Why?” asked the lawyer.

“A whim.”

“You might want to rethink this. Imagine how much damage a dragon might cause. You would be liable. Miss Cash (this was the accountant) could arrange insurance, but it would be expensive.”

“I will talk to her after I find out how to obtain a dragon. As you may remember—you set up my trust—I can afford to pay for insurance.”

The lawyer was silent for several moments. “As you may know, many lawyers employ private investigators. In fact, you are more likely to find them in a county courthouse, going through records, than on an exciting literary adventure. I know one, named Richardson. If you want, I will send him over.”

“Do,” said Mr. Catt, added, “Thank you,” and hung up.

The private investigator arrived a day later, while Mr. Catt was in the garden clipping roses. The housekeeper brought him out: a tall, lean man in nondescript clothing. His face was dark brown and hawklike and his hair dark and curly. He had keen black eyes. He also had a look of surprise. Mr. Catt was used to that. Many people were surprised when they first met him, not expecting to encounter a large cat with silky white fur and green eyes, as tall as a human when he was standing on his hind legs, as he usually did. As far as he knew, he was the only cat of his kind in town. The rest were small and ran on all fours and did not talk. Hardly the same species.

As always, he was impeccably dressed in a gray suit and burgundy red cravat. He rarely wore shoes. They hurt his feet. His bare hind paws dug into the lawn’s grass, and his front paws handled the clippers with rare deftness.

“I want a dragon,” he said to Mr. Richardson, “and I don’t know how to find one.”

“The Shadow Market,” the investigator replied. “No reputable dealer will handle them. You have to go into the dark.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Catt. He was beginning to wonder if this was a good idea. But he had a whim of iron.

“I’ll find you an address,” Mr. Richardson said. “But I won’t go myself. They know me in the Shadows, and they don’t like me.”

That was not a problem, Mr. Catt thought. He could hire someone to obtain the dragon after the investigator found a dealer.

Their conversation over, Mr. Richardson left, and Mr. Catt went inside, carrying a bouquet of roses for Mrs. Catt. She had already set out his lunch: grilled salmon with a glass of white wine. He did not have vegetables, since he was an obligate carnivore. Nor did he have dessert. He was watching his weight.

Several days later, the investigator returned. “I have your person. Mrs. Cheese. She deals with questionable creatures, including dragons. Her shop is in the Shadows, on the bad side of town. As I told you, I can’t go there.”

“I will find someone else to send,” Mr. Catt said calmly.

Mr. Richardson shook his head. “She wants to meet the buyer. You will have to go yourself.”

“I will tell the person I send to say he’s the purchaser.”

Mr. Richardson shook his head again. “Mrs. Cheese is psychic. She will know if the buyer is false.”

“What is a psychic doing selling dubious creatures? Can’t she make a living with tarot cards?”

“Apparently not.”

Mr. Catt asked for the address and the investigator gave it to him. “Be careful.”

He found the address on a map. It was, as Mr. Richardson had said, in the bad part of town, across the railroad tracks. The narrow streets were crowded close together. The lots were small. He remembered seeing the houses the last time he took a train, sitting in the observation car as the train gathered speed. They were ramshackle and tumbledown, their paint peeling, porches leaning, shingles missing from the sagging roofs. A mess, thought Mr. Catt with distaste. The area was called Lowertown, when it wasn’t called the Shadows. It had no good reputation. He would have to wear shoes. No, boots. Heaven only knew what he might step into, walking the streets of Lowertown.

The next day he dressed carefully. Sturdy pants and thick socks, with boots over the socks. A good shirt and a leather jacket that he had ordered for trips to the forest. He put his checkbook in an inner pocket. No gloves, of course. He did not want his claws obstructed.

He had a car, but he didn’t want to risk it in the Shadows. So he called for a cab, asking the dispatcher for someone who was fearless.

“You’re asking for a lot,” the dispatcher said.

“I will pay double,” Mr. Catt said.

“I’ll get Spike,” the dispatcher said. “She’s as tough as we get at this company.”

Soon the cab arrived, a battered yellow machine. The driver was a small, stocky, pale-skinned woman wearing a baseball cap and a T-shirt that said Ask me about Jujitsu.

Mr. Catt climbed in.

“I don’t get a lot of cats in my cab,” the woman said. “Especially ones that walk on their hind legs and are close to six feet tall.”

“I am unique, as far as I know. Do you mind if I don’t ask you about Jujitsu?”

“No problem. Where to?”

“An address in the Shadows,” Mr. Catt replied. “I will pay you well.”

He could see her face in the rearview mirror. She frowned. “You sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“I grew up there, and I got to tell you, it’s not a nice place.”

“I want to go to Mrs. Cheese’s Emporium.”

The woman laughed. “Auntie Cheese. You’ll be safe there, unless she doesn’t like you.”

She took off. Mr. Catt rode from the handsome mansions of his neighborhood to the modest, well-kept houses of ordinary working people, and finally across the train tracks to Lowertown. At one time, this had been a neighborhood for railroad employees. The houses— brick and frame—were not badly built, but time and neglect had been unkind. The small front yards were full of uncut grass and beer bottles. The sagging porches held old refrigerators. The children playing on the sidewalks were thin, in worn clothing. They managed to shout and call like ordinary kids, but still they made Mr. Catt sad.

“Do people here know how dangerous old refrigerators can be?” he asked Spike.

“Yes. But it costs money to have them taken away, and these folks don’t have any money to spare. So, they wire the doors shut—or try to—and warn the children.”

There had to be a charity that took old refrigerators away, Mr. Catt thought. There seemed to be a charity for everything. He resolved to find it and make a donation.

The cab stopped, and Mr. Catt looked out. They were in front of an old, two-story brick building. The bottom floor was a storefront with large, dusty windows. On one, tarnished gilt letters read Mother Cheese’s Emporium.

“This is it,” Spike said. “Do you want me to wait?”

“Could you come in?” asked Mr. Catt. “You could introduce me to your aunt.”

“Sorry,” the cab driver said. “We aren’t on speaking terms at the moment. She’s an old witch.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Mr. Catt climbed out of the cab and went up the steps. A bell tinkled when he opened the front door, stepping into a large room, empty except for a counter. Dust covered the floor. The walls had faded posters for cheese festivals in exotic places. Did Mrs. Cheese actually sell cheese? If so, why was he here? He got all the cheese he ate (not much) at a cheesemonger’s downtown. This did not look promising. Though an animal smell hung thickly in the air.

An elderly woman came out of a back room. She was bent over, walking with a cane, and dressed entirely in black. She did, in fact, look like a witch. Mr. Catt was modern and did not believe in witches.

She lifted her head and looked him over, her eyes as pale and cold as ice. “I had the feeling you would be an interesting buyer and so wanted to see you. We don’t get a lot of cats in here.”

“Do you get any?” Mr. Catt asked with interest.

“Not like you. I could sell you for a good price.”

Mr. Catt had his cane. He twisted the handle and pulled out the sword. “No, you could not.”

Behind him, the door tinkled. He glanced back. It was Spike. “I got worried,” she said. “You leave the cat alone, Auntie. He’s a respectable citizen.”

“Curse you,” the old woman said.

Spike said, “Avert!”

Seeking to change the subject, Mr. Catt said, “I hear you have a dragon for sale.”

“That nosy Richardson told you,” the woman said. “He can’t keep his chompers shut. It’s a small dragon. No wings. No fire. It was a mistake to get the thing. If it had wings, I could have sold it to a hunter who wanted a bird of prey. Not that it’s a bird, but think of what it would have been like to hunt with a dragon! If it had fire, I could have sold it to an arsonist.”

“May I see the dragon?” Mr. Catt asked, trying to stop the flood of words.

Without answering, the old woman turned and stumped out of the room. Mr. Catt followed, sword in paw, and Spike followed him.

The back room was crowded with cages. Bats hung upside down in some. Others held morose-looking black cats or black roosters with red combs. The roosters had wild eyes, as if they knew something bad was going to happen to them. One large cage held a scruffy griffin, its beak picking at the meat left on a bone. Other cages were empty. The room stank of animals.

“Here we are,” the old woman said, stopping in front the only other large cage. Inside was a lizard-like animal with scales the same tarnished gold color as the sign on Mother Cheese’s window. It was something like three feet long, not counting its tail, and dozing, its head on its front paws and its eyes closed.

“This is a dragon?” Mr. Catt asked with doubt.

“What else?” said Mrs. Cheese. She put a bony finger between the bars of the cage and prodded the animal, which opened its eyes. They were an extraordinarily bright, clear blue-green.

“What is it now?” the dragon asked.

“It talks,” Mr. Catt said with surprise.

“Yes,” the dragon said. “And so do you, though you look like a cat. Appearances can be deceiving. The griffin doesn’t, though you’d expect it to. Nor do the bats. Except for one, and he doesn’t have much conversation. Mostly he talks about bugs.”

“I’m not certain I want a talking dragon,” Mr. Catt said.

The dragon stood. It still looked like a lizard, except for the blue-green eyes, which had round pupils, Mr. Catt noticed now. “You look clean and well dressed. I don’t see any dust. Your home would likely be a better place than this dump. Why not buy me? I’ll get out of here, and you’ll have a dragon, which you seem to want.”

“I’ll get my receipt book,” Mrs. Cheese said and went into another back room, this one behind the room with the cages.

“How much are you?” Mr. Catt asked.

“Offer a thousand dollars, if you have that.”

Mrs. Cheese returned with her receipt book and they went back to the front room, Spike carrying the cage with the dragon. The cabby looked worried, though Mr. Catt did not know why. He put the sword back into his cane and laid the cane on the counter, took out his checkbook, and wrote a check. Mrs. Cheese wrote a receipt, using a ballpoint pen that produced blobs, Mr. Catt saw with distaste. He only used fountain pens. The old woman reached for the check. “I need the key to the cage,” Mr. Catt said.

The old woman frowned, then reached in her pocket. Mr. Catt handed the key to Spike. “Make sure it works.”

It did. He gave the check to the old woman and got the receipt in return, which he folded so the ink would not spread, and slipped it into his checkbook. Then, as he was about to take his cane, Mrs. Cheese grabbed it and stepped back.

“What?”

The door tinkled a third time and three thugs entered.

“I was afraid of this,” Spike said. “Meet my cousins: Burt, Al, and Aubrey. We are in trouble now.”

“Let me out,” the dragon said.

“Why?” asked Mr. Catt, eyeing the thugs as they approached. They were moving slowly, sizing their opponent up. He was, after all, almost six feet tall.

“I’ll help. I don’t have fire, but my bite is poisonous.”

“Do it,” Mr. Catt said.

Spike set the cage down and unlocked it.

Mr. Catt heard a scuffle behind him. The dragon getting out. He was likely to lose the animal once it was free, but any distraction was worth trying, and he was rethinking his need for a dragon.

The animal sped past him, leaping onto the thigh of one of the thugs. Burt? Al? Aubrey? Mr. Catt didn’t know. The dragon bit. The thug screamed and beat at the creature, which still clung to his leg. One down, thought Mr. Catt. A second thug pulled out a blackjack. “Be with you in a moment, Burt,” he said and swung the weapon at Mr. Catt, who blocked the blow with one arm and used his other paw—all claws extended now—to strike the thug’s face, digging in and dragging so he left five deep marks, all spurting blood.

One left, he thought, and the element of surprise was gone. Also, the thug’s blood was all over his good leather jacket.

“Just quit now, Aubrey,” said Spike. “You know I can take you using Jujitsu. You just heard the dragon say its bite is poisonous, which means you need to get Burt to the hospital. And you’d better take Al as well. He’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“Oh, all right,” the third thug said. “But I don’t know why you’re siding with the cat.”

“I like fair play,” answered Spike.

“Get the dragon off Burt and we’ll go.”

Al was holding his face, blood running through his fingers, and groaning. Burt kept saying, “Get it off me! Get it off me!”

“Could you get off?” Mr. Catt asked the dragon.

The dragon dropped to the floor. “Let’s beat this flop,” it said.

“A good idea,” Spike said. “I’m not going after your cane.” She glared at Aubrey. “Tell your mother not to play any games with the cane, or I’ll set my mother on her.”

“I have more at home,” Mr. Catt answered.

They walked out of the store. Spike unlocked the cab. “You lock everything in Lowertown.”

Mr. Catt looked down at the dragon. “I’m going to stop the check. This means I haven’t bought you, and you are free to leave. Even if the check goes through, it would not be ethical to buy an intelligent being.”

“Get in the cab,” Spike said. “I need to get us out of here.”

Mr. Catt climbed in. The dragon followed. Spike jumped in up front and drove off. “Back to your house?”

“Yes.”

“My aunt must have decided she could sell you. A six-foot-tall talking cat. How could she pass that up? When she went to get her receipt book, she told my cousins to go around front and grab you. I didn’t think she’d be so stupid. One look at you, and it’s obvious you have connections and clout. But greedy people are stupid.”

“Why’d you write the check if you think it’s unethical to buy intelligent beings?” the dragon asked.

“I was buying time while I thought about the situation. And I didn’t like the idea of leaving you in that unpleasant shop. The easiest way to get you out was by writing a check. Money is not the solution to everything, but it is the solution to many things.”

“That isn’t what fairy tales tell us,” Spike said.

“Fairy tales are ridiculous. I will talk to the police about that place, as well as the Humane Society.”

“They leave Lowertown alone,” Spike said.

They drove back across the tracks and through the neighborhood of respectable working-class houses with tidy lawns. Mr. Catt looked at his jacket sleeve with regret. Would the blood ever come off?

“My poison won’t kill that man,” the dragon said in a conversational tone, “but he’ll be uncomfortable for some time. It evolved—we think—to paralyze prey, though it also works to drive off threats.”

“Why are you here?” Mr. Catt asked.

“Why didn’t I run away and try to hide in that miserable neighborhood full of louts and children? It was a child who caught me, by throwing a blanket over me. She sold me to the witch.”

“You can’t be from Lowertown, surely?”

“No.”

“Where, then?”

“Maybe I will tell you someday. But not today.”

The cab reached the neighborhood of large, handsome, expensive houses with broad lawns and parked on Mr. Catt’s drive. “Here you are,” Spike told him. “Double what’s on the meter.”

Mr. Catt drew out his wallet and counted out the bills. “I am rounding the amount on the meter up and giving you triple. You saved me at your aunt’s shop. And here’s some extra for a tip.”

Spike thanked him. He got out, the dragon following.

“A pond!” the creature said. “Does it have goldfish? Can I eat them?”

“No. I will tell my housekeeper to fix salmon for supper. Do you like it grilled or baked?”

“Raw.”

“Very well,” Mr. Catt said, though he felt uncomfortable at the idea of eating raw fish. De gustibus non est disputandum, he reminded himself. To each their own.

They went inside, and Mr. Catt introduced the dragon to his housekeeper, who said, “Are you really a dragon? You look like a lizard. And you need a bath.”

“Yes, I am a dragon. Yes, I need a bath.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Many. The one my mother gave me. The ones my friends gave me. The ones given by the humans I have met, mostly ‘you there!’ and ‘vermin!’ And my own private name that only I know.”

“Which one should we use?”

“A new one. You won’t be able to pronounce dragon names, which are full of harsh sounds and hisses. And I refuse to use any of the names that humans gave to me. Call me—” The dragon paused, clearly thinking. “Buddy.”

The housekeeper smiled. “Very well, Buddy. Come upstairs and I will draw you a bath. We have bath salts and aromatic lotions and a really fine collection of rubber duckies.”

“Don’t eat the duckies,” Mr. Catt said. “They are not edible.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” the dragon said.

The two of them went upstairs.

Mr. Catt took off his leather jacket. He would take it to the cleaner’s tomorrow. Maybe they could save it. Then he called his accountant and told her to stop the check. She was more forceful than he was when dealing with money and would make it crystal clear to the bank that the check must not be honored. He noticed his right paw was covered with blood and went to the downstairs bathroom. The blood was dark and clotted by this time and hard to get from around his claws. What an unpleasant experience the visit to Lowertown had been!

The year was in autumn and the nights were getting cool, even though his garden was still full of flowers. He went into the living room. There was fresh wood laid in the fireplace, crumpled newspaper already beneath it. Mrs. Catt did everything well! He lit the newspaper, using the gold lighter that was always on a nearby table. When the fire was burning well, he poured himself a small glass of sherry and settled in a chair, watching the flames and enjoying the warmth spreading out from them. He felt almost like purring.

At length the dragon returned. Clean, it was golden.

“Do you like sherry?” Mr. Catt enquired.

“I’m willing to try.”

Mr. Catt reached toward the tray that held a decanter and small glasses. He hesitated. “How old are you?”

“Seventy-eight on my last birthday,” the dragon said.

“You sound younger than that,” Mr. Catt commented.

“Dragons mature slowly.”

“Is that old enough to drink, if one is a dragon?”

“Yes. Though dragons usually abstain from alcohol, except for dragon mead.”

“Dragon mead?” Mr. Catt asked as he filled a glass. He handed it over. The dragon took it carefully in its talons. A narrow purple tongue appeared and dipped into the sherry. “Ah,” the dragon said and began to lap.

“Not all at once,” Mr. Catt warned. “Slowly. Savor it.”

The lapping slowed down. When the glass was empty, the dragon said, “The Vikings stole mead from us. That’s how they managed to conquer half of Europe.”

Mr. Catt was not sure he followed this, but before he could ask what part dragon mead played in Viking invasions, the doorbell rang. He looked at his watch. Mrs. Catt would be in the kitchen, making dinner. He would have to answer the door. He excused himself to the dragon, got up, and walked into the hallway. The dragon was behind him, he realized as he opened the front door.

There, on the doormat, was his cane, undamaged. In fact, it looked rather shinier than before. He bent to take hold of it.

“No!” cried the dragon. It leaped past him and bit into the cane, right below the sterling silver head.

“What are you doing?” asked Mr. Catt in an angry tone.

At that moment, the cane turned into a black snake that was twisting frantically. The dragon had hold of it behind its head, which was wedge-shaped, the sign of a pit viper.

For the most part, Mr. Catt did not believe in violence. But he also did not believe in magical venomous reptiles. He stepped on the snake’s head, pressing down. Fortunately, he was still wearing boots. He felt the snake’s head shift underfoot, changing shape. The long, black body went still and then rigid. He lifted his foot. The snake’s head had become the head of his cane. The dragon let go, leaving teeth marks in the wood.

“How did you know it was enchanted?” Mr. Catt asked the dragon.

“That witch would never return anything without a curse. In addition, it had an aura.”

“Watch the cane, please,” he said to the dragon and went to get the fireplace tongs, using these to pick up the cane, which remained a cane. He carried it into the living room and threw it on the fire.

The wooden body of the cane caught slowly. As it did, it began to move, writhing as a snake might do. Mr. Catt kept the tongs ready to use. The silver head darkened and changed shape until it was a snake’s head, the mouth open, showing fangs. A long hiss, like the hissing of a snake or fire, came out of the open mouth. Sssssssssss. The sound went on and on. Mr. Catt felt the fur on his back go up. The dragon did not seem bothered. Instead, it watched calmly while flames enveloped the snake body. At that point, Mr. Catt put down the tongs and poured more sherry, handing one glass to the dragon.

The snake head was still visible, though it was deforming, apparently melting. What was the melting point of silver? Mr. Catt wondered. They must be already past the melting point of snakes.

“What is that?” he asked the dragon. “A cane that became a snake, or a snake that became a cane?”

“Am I Chuang Tzu who dreamed of being a butterfly, or a butterfly now dreaming that it is Chuang Tzu?” Mrs. Catt asked from the living room door. “Dinner is served.”

“I’m afraid dinner will have to be delayed,” Mr. Catt said.

“I don’t know which it is,” the dragon said. “Though I can now see the steel blade inside it. That would hardly be in a snake.”

“You can’t delay a fish dinner,” Mrs. Catt said. “The salmon will be cold.”

“That will be fine.”

The housekeeper left and returned with two small folding tables. She set them up and went back for food: baked salmon for Mr. Catt and uncooked fish for the dragon, along with small roasted potatoes and a green salad.

“You eat potatoes and salad?” Mr. Catt asked.

“I’m an omnivore.” The dragon poured a vinaigrette dressing over the salad and the potatoes, then ate, using the knife and fork provided.

The housekeeper came back one more time with wine and two glasses. “You might be willing to eat it cold,” she said as she poured, “but I cooked the dinner, and I want it to be eaten properly. The wine is a muscadet and should go well with fish, though it goes better with oysters.”

Mr. Catt ate and drank, glancing at the fire from time to time. The dragon was right: The sword blade was emerging intact as the burnt body of the cane fell away. As for the snake head, it was gone, replaced by a glowing blob. Clearly it had turned back into silver; and clearly the sword cane was ruined. But he would not have been able to use it for fear of it turning into a snake again. He would buy another one.

When they were done, Mrs. Catt removed the plates and served coffee in small cups. By this time the fire was embers, and the cane was entirely burnt up, except for the sword blade. He could no longer see the glowing blob. It must have fallen into the coals. He would search for it later, after the fire was out. It could serve as a memento of a very odd day.

“Now,” he said to the dragon, “we need to decide what to do with you.”

“You wanted a dragon,” Buddy said. “The witch told me.”

“I am reconsidering that,” Mr. Catt said. “You are too intelligent and too talkative. I don’t see you as a pet.”

“How about a companion?” Buddy offered.

Mr. Catt got up and went to the brandy decanter. “I’m not going to offer you this. You may be seventy-eight, but you sound young to me.” He poured brandy into a snifter and returned to his chair. “How did you get to Lowertown? It doesn’t appear to be your native habitat.”

“I was dragon-napped and sold into the illicit dragon trade. There is a small but lucrative business in mythical beasts, which live—these days—in remote wilderness areas. That miserable griffin was another victim.”

“Should we have rescued it?” Mr. Catt asked.

“It doesn’t talk. I think it’s been driven crazy. It might be dangerous.”

“As you are not.”

“I am modestly dangerous and have the wits to use my danger wisely. As dragons age, their poison becomes more intense, until it finally turns into fire. But that will not happen for a long time.”

“Don’t you want to go back to your wilderness?”

“I certainly don’t want to go back to Lowertown or into that cage. But your life looks comfortable to me. The housekeeper has made up the bed in the guest room. It has silk sheets! If I were home, I’d be sleeping on the lumpy floor of a cave. Or on a hoard, which would be both lumpy and cold. Have you ever slept on gold?”

“Don’t you have family who are likely to miss you?”

“Yes. But they must be used to missing me. I have spent years going from one exotic creature dealer to another. I’m hard to sell because I am small and talkative. Most buyers want a large, silent dragon, preferably with wings or fire. A few were interested because they thought I was a talking lizard. I told them I had a poisonous bite. If they were dubious, I offered to bite them. They lost interest then. So, the dealers sold me on, from one to another. I escaped from the last one and lurked in Lowertown until a child threw a blanket over me and carried me to Mother Cheese.”

“It’s a sad story,” Mr. Catt told the dragon.

“Yes, but it may have a happy ending. Your home looks very comfortable.”

There was a proverb that said, if one saved a person’s life, then one was responsible for that person. Mr. Catt had always found it confusing. Surely the obligation was on the side of the person saved. The dragon did not seem to think so.

They talked into the night, the dragon telling about its life in cages and back rooms. Gradually, Mr. Catt got a sense of where it had been, and therefore where it had started: in the wild northern mountains, a place of brief summers and long, snowy winters. There might be mythic animals there, he thought. Should he drive there with the dragon and hope he could find relatives? He was too tired to think. The fire was out. He turned the downstairs lights off, then escorted the dragon up to the guest bedroom.

Once in his own bed, he fell promptly to sleep.

The dragon slept in, and Mr. Catt had breakfast alone. When he was almost done, Mrs. Catt said, “There’s a cab outside.”

“I didn’t order one.”

“The cabby says she has news for you.”

Mr. Catt nodded acquiescence. The housekeeper brought Spike in. “Good morning,” Mr. Catt said. “Would you like some tea? Or coffee?”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Spike said. “I thought you’d want to hear about my aunt.”

“Why?”

“Last night she spontaneously combusted in the middle of dinner. Nothing left except some ashes. My cousins are hysterical, and they think you are responsible. They asked me where you lived. I told them I’d let you off downtown.”

He might be responsible, Mr. Catt thought. He had burnt the snake-cane. It was clearly magical, and the magic might have connected it to Mother Cheese. When it went up in flames, so did she. Not being a magician, he could not be sure of this. But it seemed plausible.

“They’ll come after you,” Spike said. “You might want to take a trip.”

“I will,” said Mr. Catt. He took out his wallet and paid Spike an extra tip for the warning. She left. He closed the door after her, then picked up the phone and dialed.

“Yes?” his lawyer said.

“A trio of thugs named Cheese are after me.”

“The Cheese Boys!”

“You know them?”

“I date a police captain. She keeps me up on all the more interesting thugs in Lowertown. The Cheese Boys are merely violent. Their mother, on the other hand, is a piece of work.”

“The mother may have been a piece of work. She apparently burst into flames at dinner last night and is no longer among the living. They blame me.”

“You didn’t set her on fire, did you?”

“Of course not. I was at home, talking with a dragon.”

“You got one?”

“Yes. I would like the Cheese Boys distracted. Your police captain might want to look into Mrs. Cheese’s combustion.”

“I will mention it to her.”

“I’m going out of town for a while. With luck, the Cheese Boys will have cooled down by the time I return.”

The lawyer wished him a good trip and hung up. Mr. Catt went to see Mrs. Catt about packing for the trip.

The dragon got up finally and came downstairs to eat the remains of breakfast. Mr. Catt joined him at the table and read his paper. There was nothing interesting or disturbing locally. No news is good news, Mr. Catt thought.

“I’m going to the mountains,” he said after the dragon was done. “And I’d like you to come with me.”

“Why?” the dragon asked.

Mr. Catt explained about Mrs. Cheese and her angry heirs.

“The sword cane!” the dragon exclaimed.

“Why do you think that?”

“I am a magical creature. Sometimes, not always, I know how magic works. She was combusted by magical blowback from her spell. Blowback is always a risk.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Catt.

Mrs. Catt came down with a suitcase and a tweed shooting jacket. “It will be cold in the mountains.”

He took the jacket. He did not shoot, of course, but he liked tweed and the jacket. His boots were in the hall. He put them on. He didn’t know what he might step in, walking through the wilderness.

“I’ll fix a lunch for you to take,” Mrs. Catt said. “You know how disturbed people get when they meet you for the first time.”

This was true. He loaded the suitcase into his car. The gardener came up, and they chatted briefly about fall flowers. “Nothing better than a mum,” the gardener said. Mr. Catt agreed.

The housekeeper came out with a large lunch basket. The dragon followed.

“You got one of those,” the gardener said. “The bite’s poisonous on the young ones.”

“You know that?”

“I’m from the northern mountains. We have folklore up there, and we used to have dragons. I don’t know about now.”

Was that promising or discouraging? Mr. Catt put the basket in the back seat. The dragon climbed into the passenger seat, and he showed it how the safety belt worked. Once it was secure and comfortable, he got in, settling behind the wheel. He enjoyed driving. He was able to think on two-lane hardtops.

Off they went, with Mrs. Catt and the gardener waving, through Mr. Catt’s comfortable neighborhood, then onto the road leading north. First, they passed houses, then autumnal fields, some with crops still standing, others reduced to stubble. The trees along the road were showing touches of fall color, and there were sunflowers blooming at the road’s margin. Mums were good, Mr. Catt thought, but sunflowers might be his favorite flower.

The day began sunny. As they drove north, the sky clouded over and the clouds lowered. A few drops of rain fell. The dragon was mostly silent, looking out the window. The rain grew heavier. Mr. Catt turned on the wipers. There wasn’t much traffic, an occasional car or truck. Another road to the east was four-lane and busier. Mr. Catt preferred two lanes.

Late in the afternoon, the mountains became visible, low in the north. These were not the sharp peaks of a ski resort but rounded summits, worn down by time. The rain had let up, which was a relief. He did not like driving in the rain.

Light was fading when he arrived at the inn where he had reservations. The clerk looked briefly startled as he walked in, followed by the dragon. She recovered and said, “We don’t get many dragons here, or six-foot-tall cats in shooting jackets.”

“You recognized the dragon as a dragon,” Mr. Catt said as he signed in.

“You have reached the mountains. Our folklore tells us about dragons. Don’t let that one bite you. The bite of the young ones is poisonous.”

“Why haven’t we heard about your folklore in my town?” Mr. Catt asked.

“We don’t share it with everyone, but you and your dragon are clearly special. You might enter into our folklore as Puss and Dragon.”

“I hope not,” Mr. Catt said.

There was a small dining room. Mr. Catt and the dragon ate there. The rain had picked up and beat against the windows. The food was good, though not as good as his housekeeper’s. Mrs. Catt was an extraordinary cook. After, they went to the bedroom, which had two beds. Mr. Catt thought of himself as liberal-minded, but he did not want to share a bed with a dragon. What if the creature had a nightmare and bit him?

The dragon went to sleep at once, curling up on top of the covers. Mr. Catt lay awake, listening to the rain and thinking of the past few days. They had been odd and not entirely pleasant. He had not enjoyed clawing the Cheese Boy, though it had seemed necessary; and he certainly did not like the idea that he was responsible for Mother Cheese’s fiery end. He preferred a quiet life, doing no direct harm. As much as possible, he invested in the stocks of ethical companies.

Gradually, he became drowsy and was almost asleep when the rapping on the window began. It was not the rain. The sound was too sharp and insistent. He got up finally and threw up the sash. A large raven sat on the ledge outside. It tilted its head, regarding him with a shiny black eye, then it looked past him into the bedroom. One lamp will still on, in case he or the dragon needed to go to the bathroom during the night. It shed enough light that the dragon was visible.

“Croak,” the raven said.

That was better than nevermore, Mr. Catt thought.

The raven spread its wide, black wings and flew into the darkness and rain. Mr. Catt shut the window and went back to bed.

The morning was gray and misty. Mr. Catt showered and dried himself thoroughly, using almost all the towels. Then he dressed, putting on the shooting jacket. The air was damp and cold.

The dragon said, “I took a bath a day ago. I’m fine.”

Very well, Mr. Catt thought. They went downstairs for breakfast. Mr. Catt ordered a lunch to put in his basket, paid the bill, and they drove on.

The road no longer went straight. Instead, it wound between steep slopes covered with evergreens. The tops of the mountains were hidden by mist, and there were no signs of human life. He could see how a region like this might have folklore. Surely these forests hid strange creatures, though all he saw was an occasional raven, perched in a tree or flying overhead.

“Are there wolves?” he asked the dragon.

“Yes. The ravens can’t bite through skin, so they rely on wolves to open prey. They can live off roadkill, but they prefer to work with wolves. There is more dignity to wolves. I am remembering. I used to know about ravens and wolves. I had forgotten.” The dragon was silent for a while. Finally, it said, “I was the only child without wings. That made me defective and likely to be killed by a hunter, since I can’t fly away. It’s hard to love a child you are likely to lose.”

“That isn’t always true,” Mr. Catt said.

“It’s true for dragons.”

The rain started again. Mr. Catt turned on the wipers. The ravens were no longer visible. No other cars passed them. The only things moving, Mr. Catt thought, were the wet tree branches and the streams that tumbled down over rapids, going through conduits under the road.

“Did you intend to make me remember by bringing me here?” the dragon asked.

“No.” This was true. He had hoped to find a place where he could release the dragon, though now—knowing that a wingless dragon was at risk—he was starting to doubt his plan. His quiet life would be far less quiet with a talkative dragon in the house. But he did not want to release the dragon in a wilderness where it might not survive.

He had spent his entire life being unusual. Six-foot-tall cats were uncommon. It didn’t bother him, but he was helped by a trust fund. The dragon—small and vulnerable and completely broke—might find it painful to have no wings.

The rain lightened. The ravens reappeared. There were still no other cars. He kept going into the mountains. The clouds had gotten lower. Mist drifted in the narrow valleys, and the mountains vanished midway up. Somewhere ahead of them was a small town by a river. There was an inn, and he had reservations. With any luck, the dining room would have fresh trout.

The road turned. He followed it around, seeing a bridge. On the bridge was a large dragon with wings that were just now folding. His dragon was gold. This one was green and blue, with red veins on the wings, a golden chest, and gold horns shaped like those of a giraffe.

Mr. Catt braked. The car rolled to a stop. The dragon on the bridge eyed him.

What was he going to do now? Beside him, his dragon roused from a nap. It looked through the windshield.

“Do you know this creature?” Mr. Catt asked.

“I’m not sure,” his dragon said. “The ravens must have told it about me. They will gossip.” It sounded sad.

The dragon on the bridge said, “The ravens told me you had a dragon. We are not pets.” Its voice was melodious and threatening.

“I am trying to return this dragon to its home,” Mr. Catt replied.

“Who are you, child?” the bridge dragon asked.

His dragon rolled down the window and spoke in a harsh language that Mr. Catt did not know.

“You are my sister’s child, who ran away from home years ago,” the dragon on the bridge said in Mr. Catt’s language. “We wondered what had happened to you.”

Mr. Catt was trying to estimate the size of the dragon. Taller than he was, even resting on its hind legs, with far longer claws and impressive fangs. The wings had looked huge, before the dragon folded them.

“I had adventures,” said his dragon. “They were mostly unpleasant, though this cat was kind to me.”

“I thank you for my sister,” the bridge dragon said to Mr. Catt. Then it said, “Come with me, child. I need to get you home.”

Mr. Catt leaned over and opened the door.

“I suppose I have to go,” his dragon said.

“This is where you belong.”

The dragon undid the seat belt and climbed down. “Thank you for everything, especially the raw fish, and give my thanks to your housekeeper.”

“I will.”

It was a bit sad, Mr. Catt thought, to watch the little dragon walk slowly toward its magnificent relative. When the two met, the bridge dragon spread its vast wings, took hold of the little dragon with its front claws, and lifted off, beating up into the misty air. It was soon gone from sight in the clouds.

Mr. Catt exhaled a long breath. What an experience!

He drove on to the second inn, perturbed by the meeting with the dragon, but determined to honor his reservation.

The next morning, as Mr. Catt was eating breakfast in the inn’s dining room, he decided to stay a few more days in the mountains. He was here already, and there were no appointments in his pocket calendar. The river below the dining room rushed in an attractive fashion. Large clouds floated in a blue sky, and rays of sunlight touched the mountain summits. He stopped at the desk to extend his stay, then walked through the town. Steep streets slanted toward the river. Ravens sat on rooftops, croaking. The air was brisk. A lovely early autumn day.

He discovered a small alpine shop. Going in, he bought a staff and a hat with a feather in the band. The lederhosen struck him as too extreme. The next day he followed a hiking trail up to a summit. From there he could see the mountains farther north. Some of them had streaks of snow. Winter was coming, his favorite season, aside from fall.

After another several days of hiking, he drove home, stopping for the night—it was a two-day drive—at the inn where he and the dragon had slept, when coming into the mountains. The same clerk was on duty. “You have lost your dragon.”

“It found its relatives.”

“So, there are still dragons in the mountains. That is both wonderful and frightening. I hope I don’t meet any full-grown ones.”

“They are impressive,” Mr. Catt said.

The next morning, he drove on. The weather had turned gray again, and the low, dull sky affected his mood. Was he going to miss the dragon? Did he already? How would it fare without wings or a trust fund?

It was late afternoon when he drove up to his house, stopped, and climbed out, feeling stiff. His boots were hurting his feet. He left the car where it was, limped inside, and pulled the boots off in the hallway, groaning.

“Came home finally, did you?” a rough voice said.

He looked up and said, “Shit,” though he never swore. It was one of the Cheese Boys, with a bandage across half his face. That made him— who? Burt or Al? “Where is my housekeeper?”

“We’ve got her tied up in back, along with the gardener. Aubrey— he’s the smart one—figured out that you set the police on us. He thinks you probably killed our mother, too, though we don’t know how. We came up here to have a visit. You weren’t home. So, we waited. We thought we’d give you a good kicking.”

The two other brothers had appeared by now, one limping, the other unharmed. That last was Aubrey, the smart one, though he didn’t look especially clever.

“Can I buy you off?” Mr. Catt said.

“No. We plan to take everything here that looks valuable, after we finish giving you the kicking. It’s going to be a good one, a Cheese Brothers special. With Mother gone there’s no reason for us to stay in Lowertown. We’re going to flee with the goods.”

Oh dear, thought Mr. Catt. Could he take all three on with his claws? It didn’t seem likely. He would have to try.

There was a knock on the door.

“Tell them to go away,” said Aubrey. “Remember we are right here with blackjacks.”

Mr. Catt opened the door. There was a dragon outside. For a dazed moment, he thought it was the one he’d seen before. No. This one’s chest was colored rose-gold. Its horns were red and its body was mostly blue. Its folded wings had orange veins. “I am in trouble,” he said to the dragon.

“Not from us,” the dragon replied.

“From the men behind me.”

The dragon shouldered past him. Mr. Catt turned. The Cheese brothers were edging backward.

“You will be safer if you stay put,” the dragon said. “I am not likely to breathe fire in the cat’s house, since I feel an obligation to him. But once you are outside, I will be happy to burn you up. You can’t outrun me. I have wings.”

The Cheese brothers stopped moving.

“I am going to say this once,” the dragon said. “I regard the cat as a friend. If you harm him, I will hunt you down. Now, leave and don’t come back.”

The three brothers broke and ran. Mr. Catt heard the back door slam. “Thank you,” he said to the dragon.

“Thank my son. He had a premonition that you would meet trouble, once you were home.”

The small dragon, his dragon, came through the open front door. “We flew here, my mother carrying me, and hid in the shrubbery until you returned. The Cheese Boys must have gotten here before us. We didn’t see them. But I was right. Trouble was waiting for you.”

“And you came to rescue me,” Mr. Catt said, deeply affected.

“I don’t want to stay in the mountains. This is far more pleasant. I told my mother. She’s willing to let me go, provided she can come visit, or if you will bring me to the mountains for visits.”

The old proverb was right. He had rescued Buddy, and now he was responsible for the little dragon.

“I can do that,” Mr. Catt said. “Will you come in?”

“For a while,” the large dragon said.

Mr. Catt escorted them to the living room and went to untie his housekeeper and gardener, who were, by this time, stiff, aching, terrified, and furious.

“This is all due to that dragon,” Mrs. Catt said, rubbing her wrists. “You should never have gotten it.”

He knew that Mrs. Catt did not mean this. She was a kind woman. But no one likes to be tied up, in fear of their life, and anger makes people say immoderate things.

“I hope you’re going to call the police,” the gardener added.

“I will in a while. Right now, I am entertaining two dragons. We will need hors d’oeuvres and coffee in the living room, Mrs. Catt, if you can manage. Nothing fancy.”

“Oh, very well.” She got up stiffly, with Mr. Catt’s help.

“The large dragon saved me from a beating and the theft of much in the house. I think coffee and possibly cake are called for.”

“Remember the police,” the gardener said and limped out.

Mr. Catt went back to the living room. A new fire had been laid in the fireplace, and the burnt sword blade lay on a table. The heat had not warped it, but it was badly discolored. There might be magic still in it. He would never use it again.

Buddy had filled two glasses with sherry. They were too small for its mother, so he poured sherry for her into an heirloom china bowl that usually sat on a chest in the living room. If it broke, it broke, Mr. Catt thought.

He lit the fire in the fireplace, then sat down. “Coffee and food are coming. Your mother called you her son. I have been thinking of you as ‘it,’ which is hardly polite. I will think of you as ‘he’ in the future.”

“You don’t need to,” Buddy said. “Dragon genders are different from human genders. Think of us as being like certain kinds of fish, which can change sex as needed. It’s a useful trick. I was born male, but I may not stay male. I haven’t made up my mind. You might call me ‘they.’ It used to be a singular pronoun.”

“And you are a singular creature,” Mr. Catt said.

The dragon looked smug. “But I contain multitudes, as the poet said. We all do.”

“Be that as it may, I will use ‘they,’” Mr. Catt said. He didn’t contain multitudes, he thought. He was a plain person, who had no internal complexity. He stretched out his legs and flexed his lower paws, so his claws appeared and then vanished.

The large dragon lapped at her sherry. Mrs. Catt came in with coffee and hors d’oeuvres.