Peter Gethers - A Cat Abroad: The Further Adventures of Norton, the Cat Who Went to Paris, and His Human

PART ONE:

PART TWO:

PART THREE:

Leona Nevler and Betty Prashker believed, encouraged, and fixed.

Esther Newberg did her usual tooth-and-nail job and continues to be the perfect agent.

Janis seems not to care (well, sort of), no matter how grumpy I get or how many weekends I work.

And I especially want to thank Norton for letting me share the chair at my desk with him. For the next book, I hope I get a full half, but I wont count on it.

Recently, I was in Paris with my rather astonishing and extremely handsome Scottish Fold cat, Norton. We were having dinner with Danielle, an old friend of mine who lives in the 17th arrondissement, and her daughter, Priscilla. I met Priscilla when she was four years old and the only English sentence she knew was, I like ze Beeg Mac amburgair. By the night of our dinner, Priscilla was no longer four. She was twenty-three, spoke fluent English, and wanted to take us to a restaurant where her boyfriend worked. Which means Im getting longer in the tooth (not to mention thicker around the middle).

I say we and us, by the way, because no one was all that excited just to see me. Norton was the star attraction. Danielle had made it quite clear that they would certainly be happy if I came along, but they were really interested in my little gray pal as their primary dinner companion. Danielle even let me know that the owner of the restaurant, when told about Norton and his adventures traveling the globe, had insisted that le chat come to dinner as her very special guest.

When we arrived at the restaurant, Bistro dAlbert, a charming and perfect place that could exist only in France, Norton was greeted the way I imagine Ike was when he arrived at the Champs-Elyses immediately following D-Day. He was given, as he always is, his own chair, which he settled into quite comfortably. The owner, a typical somewhere-over-forty-year-old blond Frenchwoman for whom youd happily give up the rest of your life if shed only so much as smile at you, smiled up a storm. But not at me. Oh, no. At my innocent-looking furry friend, who, just to annoy me, Im sure, purred like a motorboat, rolled over on his back, and practically begged the owner and all of her gorgeous waitresses to come over and scratch his stomach, which, of course, they did. Meanwhile, I was doing my best to order a kir, but I couldnt get anyone to even look at me.

Eventually, the waitresses returned to their regular duties, went about their work, and dinner settled into a normal routine. The three humans had a delicious bottle of red wine with their kidneysthe specialty of the houseand the cat worked away on some broiled chicken and a small bowl of milk.

One of the most satisfying things about being in Europe is that animals are treated with enormous respect. You can go into the very best, most expensive restaurants in Paris and it is almost guaranteed that someone will have brought his or her dog along for the meal. No one bats an eye, no one thinks it odd. The general feeling is that a dog has as much right to eat at Robuchon as any human. This night, at Bistro dAlbert, five people brought their dogs along. Which meant that at some pointI think it was during the cheese courseNorton looked up from his lait froid to find five curious canines of varying sizes and temperaments sitting in a circle around his chair. One of them growled. Another worked up his courage, stuck his nose right in Nortons face, and took a particularly antagonistic sniff. The dogs seemed to be of the opinion that Parisian restaurants were their domain and that cats should stay where they belongedcurled up by the fireplace in a turn-of-the-century apartment or prowling around a garden searching for tasty mice. Certainly they did not belong in places where they could actually compete for affection, much less the boeuf bourguignon. For just a moment, the room froze. I didnt know if French people had ever heard of the Gunfight at the O.K. Corralbut I had a feeling they were about to. Except that Norton, in the peacekeeping role of Wyatt Earp, simply looked determinedly at his ring of potential tormentors, stared each of them, one by one, straight in the eye, then calmly went back to eating his chicken and sipping his milk. When one dog barked, demanding a little more attention, Norton finished chewing his last piece of chicken, then glanced at the barker with pity, as if to say, Please. This is France. Youre embarrassing me. Havent you read your Sartre?

That was the end of the confrontation. Deflated, the dogs went back to their respective masters and sat under their own tables, hoping to receive a morsel of food now that their bluff had been called.

The rest of the dinner went fairly smoothly until it came time for dessert. Danielle, Priscilla, and I ordered our mousse and our pastries, and when we were served, the chef emerged from the kitchen with a big bowl of ice cream. Priscilla had mentioned to him that Norton was an ice cream fiend.

Zees is for ze incredible cat, he told me. I made chocolathis favoreet.

Now, Norton likes his chocolate ice cream, no question about it. But hes also quite particular. He loves Ben & Jerrys. Hagen-Dazs gets an A-plus. He will eat frozen yogurt and ice milk but only in an emergency. If offered some chocolate