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Dampy would listen to these stories with a shiver of dread. Hooter, however, sometimes wondered if Mr. Fairfield was not exaggerating about the woods. Of course, the woods were out there. You could see them through the windows, and you could see the woodland creatures too, if you were patient—the deer and the two nice groundhogs and all the different kinds of birds, some of whom Mrs. Fairfield could identify, the crows and robins and chickadees, but most of the rest she had no name for. At sunset, in the summers, there were even bats, with their squeaky, unpleasant songs. But were all these woodland creatures as unfriendly and dangerous as Mr. Fairfield made them out to be? Hooter was not convinced.

And—another question entirely—was Dampy really a cat? Mrs. Fairfield had said once that he looked to her much more like a koala bear. She pointed out that he had ears like the koala bear in the advertisements for Qantas Airlines. Qantas was based in Australia, where most koala bears live. And Hooter thought she had a point. Even without a nose, Dampy looked more like a koala bear than a cat.

But Mr. Fairfield was adamant. Dampy was a cat. To prove it he sang a song. The song went like this:

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat.

They took some honey and plenty of money.

Wrapped up in a five pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,

O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!

“Dampy is not a girl,” Hooter objected. It was the first time he’d ever contradicted anything Mr. Fairfield said, and Mr. Fairfield gave him a sour look and then a swat that knocked him halfway across the room.

“If I say he’s a girl, he’s a fucking girl. And if I say he’s a Pussy, he’s a Pussy. You got that?”

“Harry, please,” said Mrs. Fairfield.

“Harry, please,” Mr. Fairfield said in a whining tone meant to mock his wife, though in fact it didn’t sound at all like her.

“I guess cats are always females then,” said Mrs. Fairfield to Hooter. “Dogs are boys, and cats are girls.”

No one went to help Hooter until Mr. Fairfield had left the room, but Dampy exchanged a look of sympathy with him, as sad as could be.

Later, when they could talk without being overheard, Hooter protested (in a whisper, with the sheets over his head): “Is there nothing we can do then? Are we just trapped here, and have to suffer every kind of abuse?”

“He can be very mean,” Dampy agreed.

“And just as mean to Mrs. Fairfield as he is to us.”

“Meaner, actually. Last year, about a week after New Year’s, he sent the first Mrs. Fairfield to the hospital emergency room and she had to get seven stitches in her head. You could see them when she took off the bandanna she had to wear.”

“Why would he do that?” Hooter asked, aghast. “And what did he do?”

“Well, they’d been singing this song that he likes. Over and over. And finally she said she was too tired to sing anymore, and he just sat there where you’re sitting now, staring at her, and then he got up and smashed his guitar right over her head. And do you know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think it was really the guitar he was angry with. ‘Cause he never played it very well. But no one ever complained, not with him. But it was a big relief for him not to have people hear how lousy he played his guitar. And he never got another one to replace the one he smashed.”

“He’s not a nice person,” said Hooter gravely.

“He’s not,” Dampy agreed. “But we should try and get some sleep. Tomorrow is another day.” He put his arms round Hooter, and they snuggled.

In such a small household, in a lonely part of the country with no neighbors close by, it was inevitable that Dampy and Hooter would spend much time together and become the closest friends. From Hooter, Dampy learned all about the Dutch Reformed Church and Reverend Drury and the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous. Of Hooter’s life before he became a church owl