They say he cheats at cards

If you’re a young person looking for existential angst and despair, T.S. Eliot’s your man. I mean, really—if “The Waste Land” doesn’t do it, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" will. There’s no better description of what youth fears (when youth thinks about it) in old age than “I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

(He also perfectly described the academic environment when he said of his time at Merton College, “I hate university towns and university people, who are the same everywhere, with pregnant wives, sprawling children, many books and hideous pictures on the walls… Oxford is very pretty, but I don’t like to be dead.”)

But there’s another side to Eliot, as evidenced by Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, a collection of light verse. You’ll know a lot of the pieces if you’ve heard anything by Andrew Lloyd Webber. But if you can divorce yourself from those earworms, tuck into “Macavity: The Mystery Cat”.

I’ve got an edition of Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats illustrated by Edward Gorey. Here’s the one for Macavity:

This is a great poem to read with kids, especially with all the repetition of his name. The notion of a cat outwitting the best that grownups have to offer (Scotland Yard, the Foreign Office) is just so delicious. The descriptions link Macavity to Professor Moriarty and the Scarlet Pimpernel; you know—elusive, triumphant scofflaws. Precisely what you’d expect from a Feline of the World.

This is definitely one you should read aloud.

“Macavity: The Mystery Cat”

Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,

He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!

Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!

He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there! 

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless to investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
It must have been Macavity!’—but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumb;
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums. 

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

 

 

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