This story came about one evening when Mrs. Hat and I were watching our black cat, Duncan, as he cuddled in bed with us. I'm a big fan of Damon Runyon's short stories about the guys and dolls along Broadway in the '20s and '30s. If you're not familiar with them, I encourage you to find a few and read them. They are written in a unique style that I find very amusing. Or you can watch the movie Guys and Dolls, which is based on a couple of the stories, and is great fun.

Anyway, as we watched Duncan, I started talking like a Runyon character, and we were both very amused by it, so I decided to try writing a story in that style. I admit it's a poor imitation, but I had a lot of fun writing it. And it was a bit of a challenge to write in that style, so it stretched my creative muscles a bit.

Broadway Blackie

I am not such a guy as is overly fond of animals, and especially animals that come in dead last when I happen to place a large amount of scratch on their noses to win. And while I will not consider it a personal insult, I am familiar enough with such animals to figure they are not overly fond of me, either.

So it is something of a surprise when I find myself and five other guys searching high and low for a feline known to one and all as Blackie the Cat.

Now, this Blackie the Cat is very black, indeed. There is not so much as a single hair on his body that is not blacker than a yard up a stovepipe, and if he sits in the shadows, the only way a person will know he is there is by his eyes. And I wish to say Blackie the Cat’s eyes are as green as the outfield at the Polo Grounds and brighter than the neon signs all along Times Square.

Ordinarily, I will not give you two cents for Blackie the Cat, as I am not fond of animals, and especially animals of the feline type. But it seems that Blackie the Cat is very special to a doll by the name of Miss Kitty O’Doul, who is part of the show at the Hot Box, showing off her shape when she does not hide it behind fans and feathers and I do not know what else. And it is a nice shape when all is said and done, although personally, I always figure a doll is a doll, and once you see one doll’s shape, you see them all. Still, her act is a popular one, at that, and not just because she keeps her feathers in good condition.

Miss Kitty O’Doul is a doll of about twenty-two or so, and she stands about five foot one in her stocking feet, and it seems that a good four feet of that is mostly legs. For all that she is short, she looks as though she could kick the hat off a copper from a dead stand-still, and while I am not personally aware that she ever does this, these high kicks of hers are the main reason her act is so popular among the clients at the Hot Box. Miss Kitty O’Doul also has hair that is very black, indeed, and green eyes that seem to sparkle and shine no little, which makes her a popular doll with the citizens along Broadway, because it is well known to one and all that black hair and green eyes is a very nice combination when it comes to dolls.

Maybe it is this similarity to Blackie the Cat’s appearance that makes Miss Kitty O’Doul take a shine to him, because Blackie the Cat does not have an owner, nor does he have hearth and home to call his own. He is an alley cat, much like all the hundreds of other alley cats in this man’s town, even if the other alley cats are not black with green eyes. But one evening, Miss Kitty O’Doul sees him hanging around the stage door of the Hot Box and she gives him a piece of pastrami she happens to have left over from her lunch. And Blackie the Cat gobbles up that piece of pastrami and purrs and says mer-ow and rubs his sides along Miss Kitty O’Doul’s stems as if to ask if she has any more pastrami, although personally I prefer rare roast beef, especially if it is from Mindy’s Restaurant and very thinly sliced.

Well, this is enough to make Miss Kitty O’Doul go absolutely daffy over this feline. She names him Blackie, and even if this moniker lacks imagination, I have to admit it is an apt description, at that. And every night, as she leaves the Hot Box, Blackie is waiting like a stage-door Johnny, although personally, I think he is more interested in getting pastrami than he is in getting an autograph. But Miss Kitty O’Doul does not care, and she brings him pastrami and smoked ham and roast beef and gefilte fish. But she soon learns that Blackie the Cat’s favorite is sturgeon, which she buys whenever it is on the specials menu at Mindy’s, for Mindy’s sturgeon is popular even among people, and especially when it is on the specials menu, which is every Friday, if not more often.

In addition to a steady supply of sturgeon, Miss Kitty O’Doul also buys a fancy collar for Blackie the Cat. This collar is made of polished leather with a chromium clasp, and it is studded with rhinestones all over, so that it sparkles just like Blackie the Cat’s green eyes. I figure it sets Miss Kitty O’Doul back more than a couple of bobs, and personally I consider it a waste of money, but she insists that it is not proper for Blackie the Cat to walk around Broadway naked, and I must say she has a point, especially as no reasonable person can expect a feline to work a fan or a feather boa like certain dolls are known to do.

So for months, Blackie the Cat waits for Miss Kitty O’Doul every evening, and every evening Miss Kitty O’Doul gives him a morsel of food, which not only encourages Blackie the Cat to return night after night, but which also makes Blackie the Cat bulk up no little. In fact, Blackie the Cat turns into the biggest, fattest alley cat along Broadway, if not in all of New York, and parts of New Jersey, too. I mention this to Miss Kitty O’Doul, and suggest that maybe she feeds him too much expensive sturgeon, but she waves a hand at me and says like this:

“Oh,” she says, “Blackie is just skin and bones when we first meet. He fills out nicely,” she says, “and his coat is so shiny from all the fish oil in the sturgeon, is it not? He is so handsome, I cannot help it,” she says, “because I love him and I wish to take good care of him.”

Well, I can see that it makes Miss Kitty O’Doul happy to see this feline gobble down sturgeon every night, and furthermore it is no use to tell her that Blackie the Cat exceeds what I consider his fighting weight and is actually more than somewhat fat. So I say no more about it.

As I say, this goes on for months, and Blackie the Cat is no longer skin and bones. In fact, Blackie the Cat’s belly practically scrapes the ground when he walks, as Miss Kitty O’Doul feeds him Mindy’s expensive, not to mention fattening, sturgeon. But one night, Miss Kitty O’Doul leaves the Hot Box, and Blackie the Cat does not show up. Miss Kitty O’Doul waves the piece of sturgeon around and calls out yoo-hoo and makes pss-pss-pss noises through her teeth, but Blackie the Cat is nowhere to be found. Now, I understand that cats are liable to make like Judge Crater for no reason other than because they are cats, and since I am not fond of animals anyway, and especially felines, this does not concern me overly much.

Well, this happens again the next night, and the night after that, until Blackie the Cat does not show up for a week hand running, and Miss Kitty O’Doul has distress and cannot concentrate and her dance act suffers no little, as she cannot properly operate her fans and feathers due to all the worry she has over Blackie the Cat.

Naturally, this is cause for concern among citizens all up and down Broadway, and a few guys decide to talk to her about it, as Miss Kitty O’Doul is very popular on account of her fans and feathers, and they do not wish to see her act deteriorate any further. So one afternoon, about a month after Blackie the Cat disappears, I find myself with Roger the Dodger, Lucky Dan, Johnny Legit, One-eyed Jack, and Philadelphia Phil, sitting down with Miss Kitty O’Doul at a table at Mindy’s Restaurant. Miss Kitty O’Doul is crying boo-hoo, and sniffling and snuffling and dabbing at her eyes with a teeny little handkerchief, but she perks up no little when we tell her we wish to see her stop bawling over this missing feline.

“Oh!” Miss Kitty O’Doul exclaims. ”You are such darling men! Thank you for volunteering to find my sweet Blackie and bring him back to me! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

This confuses me more than somewhat, as I figure we just want her to get over it and get back to work, as one stray feline is not such a thing as should ruin your dance act. But before I can say anything, Lucky Dan says as follows:

“Why sure,” Lucky Dan says, “we will search high and low for your pussycat. And furthermore,” he says, “we do not stop until we find him.”

Well, as much as I wish to reach across the table and bop Lucky Dan right in the snoot for this remark, I do not dare make such a move in front of Miss Kitty O’Doul, especially as anyone with eyes can see it cheers her up considerably, and even more especially as she gives each one of us a hug around the neck and a kiss on the cheek, and I cannot help but wonder if Lucky Dan says this merely to get a hug and a kiss from Miss Kitty O’Doul.

As we do not want to welsh on this proposition, and even though we are none of us overly fond of animals, particularly felines, we hit the streets and begin the search for Blackie the Cat. Of course, anyone will agree it is Lucky Dan’s big fat mouth that gets us into it in the first place, and we all figure we call his marker for a bop in the snoot at a future time. We decide to split up, and Lucky Dan and Philadelphia Phil take the east side, Roger the Dodger and One-eyed Jack take the west side, and me and Johnny Legit search the few blocks around the Hot Box.

I wish to say that I never in my whole life feel so silly as when I walk up and down the sidewalk and call, “Here, kitty kitty,” and look behind ashcans and under taxicabs, as I might catch a glimpse of Blackie the Cat’s green eyes in the gloom. For his part, Johnny Legit gathers a bunch of kids from each neighborhood, gives each one a nickel, and tells them it’s a solid six bits to whoever delivers the feline. This strikes me as an enterprising approach, and I only regret that I do not think of it myself, although even if I do, it will do me no good, as I do not have so much as two nickels to rub together at this time, let alone a pocketful of them to give away to schoolboys.

The six of us search all over for three days hand running, but we never see hide nor hair of Blackie the Cat, and I begin to wonder if the milk wagon or the van that delivers Mindy’s sturgeon has occasion to squash Blackie flatter than a johnnycake. I see many alley cats follow just such a vehicle in the hope of getting a morsel or two, but when I mention this to Johnny Legit, he cannot see it will happen to Blackie the Cat.

“He is so well fed,” Johnny says, “that he needs to chase down a milk truck like Man O’ War needs to chase down a bale of hay.”

And I can see that this point of view is legit, but even though I am not fond of animals, and especially felines, now I worry that Blackie the Cat’s fate is even worse. And I worry even more when one of the neighborhood kids runs up with a cat collar made of polished leather, with a chromium clasp and all studded with rhinestones everywhere.

“I find it by the sewer grate,” says the kid. “Do I get the six bits now?”

“Does this look like a cat to you?” says Johnny Legit, which you must admit is a very good question when one considers the situation we find ourselves in. “Here is a dime, now scram out of here and see if you can find us a real cat like I describe before.”

So the kid runs off, ten cents richer, and Johnny Legit and I look at the collar in his hand, then at each other, and we both know what we must do. But I will give much more than six bits if we do not have to go see Miss Kitty O’Doul and tell her the bad news. If I have six bits, that is, which I do not.

But a promise is a promise, and Johnny Legit and I walk over to the Hot Box and knock on Miss Kitty’s dressing room door. Johnny holds the collar behind his back, and if my face is as long as his, we look like nothing more than a couple of Basset hounds. And sad Basset hounds, at that.

Miss Kitty O’Doul opens the door and smiles when she sees us and invites us in. She acts very perky, and her voice is chipper and bright, and I dread what we have to tell her, because I know she will cry, and I cannot bear to see a doll cry, and especially if the doll cries on account of what I say to her. It does not matter that I am not fond of animals, particularly felines; I am sad to know that when she hears our news, Miss Kitty O’Doul’s heart breaks. But Johnny Legit swallows a big swallow, holds out his hand with the collar in it, and says like this:

“We find this by a sewer grate,” he says. “It looks like it belongs to Blackie.”

Miss Kitty O’Doul makes a sound like “Oooo” and snatches the collar out of Johnny Legit’s hand. She laughs and says:

“I am so glad you find this,” she says. “Now I will not need to buy another.” And she gives Johnny Legit a peck on the cheek. “You are a darling man,” she says.

“We are sorry,” Johnny says. “But this is all we find of Blackie the Cat.”

Miss Kitty O’Doul laughs again and says, “You are silly,” she says. “Of course this is all you find. This is all that is left to find.”

I think she takes the possible squashing of Blackie the Cat quite well indeed, and then I think that maybe her grief drives her over the edge, and she is daft and can only laugh like a loon. But before I can think to call Bellevue, Miss Kitty O’Doul gestures us over to her dressing table and points underneath it.

Well, what do Johnny Legit and I see under there but a basket lined with feathers from Miss Kitty O’Doul’s act, and lying on those feathers is Blackie the Cat, nursing six little kittens and looking quite satisfied with the situation, at that.

“Blackie is never a boy cat after all,” says Miss Kitty O’Doul. “And she grows all fat because she is going to be a mama. And I am reading in a magazine that mama cats look for a safe place when it is time for kittens to be born. I do not know where she goes,” says Miss Kitty O’Doul, “but she brings all six of her kittens to me this afternoon to show them off. Are they not cute and cunning little creatures, every one of them?”

Well, as I am not such a guy as is fond of animals, I do not say much, except that I am glad that Blackie is fine and dandy, and that her kittens seem fine and dandy too. And as it makes Miss Kitty O’Doul happy to have Blackie the Cat back safe and sound, that is the only thing that matters.

After this, Miss Kitty O’Doul treats Blackie the Cat and her kittens like royalty, and she feeds Blackie sturgeon every day and buys little collars for the kittens. And every time she sees me or Johnny Legit or Philadelphia Phil or Roger the Dodger or One-eyed Jack or Lucky Dan, she smooches us on the cheek and thanks us for helping her.

I come upon Lucky Dan the other day, and I do not give him a snoot full of knuckles, for it is all water under the bridge to me. He tells me that Blackie the Cat’s kittens are just weaned and are ready to have good homes. In fact, he tells me that Johnny Legit and Philadelphia Phil and Roger the Dodger and One-eyed Jack each give a home to one of Blackie’s babies. And I can see that Lucky Dan himself has a fuzzy little noggin poking out of his own coat pocket.

“I name him Max,” says Lucky Dan, “on account of he has white paws like boxing gloves and this makes him look like Max Baer.” And while I cannot see any resemblance whatsoever, I do not say boo, as anyone can see Lucky Dan is more than somewhat fond of little Max.

“Miss Kitty O’Doul says there is one more of Blackie the Cat’s babies yet to find a home,” Lucky Dan says. “It is a shame,” he says, “if no one adopts him.”

And this is how I come to have a little gray kitten in my own coat pocket, even though I am not a guy as is usually fond of animals, and felines at that.