You must always save the cat in a screenplay. Never, never, never kill the cat when you are writing a screenplay. Actually, please have your main character save the cat when you write a story of any kind.
You see I am a cat. And I would never watch your movie or read your book if you were mean to a cat.
What Does Saving the Cat Mean?
Save The Cat! The Last Book On Screenwriting That You'll Ever Need, was written by Blake Snyder, a man who made millions selling screenplays. I wish I could have met him. He died in 2009. But, I will console myself by reading his book. Because I am a cat, I thought Blake Snyder was very wise to always have a story with a cat in it that needed to be saved.
Then I read the book.
Mr. Snyder said, “Save the Cat is the screenwriting rule that says: ‘The hero has to do something when we meet him so that we like him and want him to win.'”
Oh, it appears that I misunderstood the premise of the book. You don't have to save a cat in every movie or in every story. The protagonist can do something else beside saving cats. The hero can help a lady pick up her apples when her bag rips. Or maybe the hero of the story gives up his seat to someone on a bus.
Does a Protagonist Have to Save the Cat?
Mr. Snyder said that not everyone agrees with his “Save the Cat” rule. “They find the idea of making the protagonist “likeable” to be cloying and dull, an exercise in kissing up to the audience.”
Well, I agree with the “Save the Cat” rule. Cats should always be saved. Never kill a cat in a story. I would never like a hero if they were mean to a cat. Never.
If I was reading a story where the hero was mean to a cat I would put the book in my litter box. If I was watching a movie and a character was mean to a cat I would walk out of the theatre and ask for my money back.
I like the idea of making a hero likeable. And I wouldn't mind if a bank robber fed a homeless kitten. I would like the bank robber and would want him to get away. If that is kissing up to the audience then I would kiss the writer, or at least purr.
What about you? Do you think the Save The Cat rule is cloying and dull? Let me know in the comments section.
P.S. This really is the last book on screenwriting you will ever need. The book is full of constructive advice about writing screenplays. The advice applies to stories too. I highly recommend the book. You can get it here.
PRACTICE
Write a scene in a short story, or a scene in the book you are writing, where your hero does something nice. Help me like your character. Let me see your hero's nice side. Now, of course, I would prefer that you “actually” save a cat in your fifteen minutes of practice. However, you may write about anything you wish. I look forward to reading your stories.
<d/vi>
All my best,
xo
Love Pooh
It might be debatable how “nice” this is, but it’s an important moment for the main character of my WIP in terms of her characterization and her relationships with others in the story. As always, reviews are much appreciated.
“Excuse me, Señora Lopez?” Faith was standing in the door. “I think I might’ve left my pencil case in here last period.”
Señora Lopez sighed. “Remind me again which desk is yours? Sorry, but it’s the beginning of the year still and it takes me so long to remember.”
“I sit there.” Faith pointed at Alicia’s desk.
Alicia looked around. “Well, it’s not on the floor. Hold on.” She stuck her hand inside the desk and felt around. Suddenly she yelped in pain and yanked her hand out. Her palm and fingers were stuck full of pushpins. Blood leaked slowly down her skin. Alicia grimaced. “I think it’s safe to say it’s not in here either.”
“Dios!” Señora Lopez turned to Faith. “Can you come back and look for it later? Alicia, you go to the nurse.”
“Gracias, señora.” I helped her get her textbook into her bag.
“Are you okay?” That is such a dumb question Alex, you moron.
“Been better. See you later.” She hoisted her backpack on with her good hand and left, holding the other one out in front of her gingerly.
I looked in the desk. In the back dozens of pushpins were arranged, point up. I carefully grabbed one and looked at it in the light. It was pink. Pink, translucent and glittery.
Those little creeps.
~
I stormed into the cafeteria like an angry bull on every kind of steroid known to man. My face was red as a tomato and people were staring, but I didn’t give a damn. I was on a mission. I marched right up to the table I was looking for and slammed my bag on the floor. “What the hell is going on?!”
Julia looked up at me in shock. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?! Alicia just went to the nurse with her hand full of these!” I held up the pushpin. “These are yours!”
Julia raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, so?”
“So? So?! What did Alicia do to you, you don’t even know her!”
Julia shrugged. “This girl paid me five bucks to do it during Spanish. I figured why not?”
“Did this girl have dark skin? Long braids? Wearing a blue jacket?”
“Yeah.”
Keisha. “Seriously?! You helped some jerk bully a girl you know nothing about for five bucks? What kind of – you know what, never mind. Just stay away from me, alright?” Sarah, Faith and Beth all stared at me with their mouths open. I grabbed my bag and left the cafeteria, slamming the door behind me. I stood there panting for a moment,
feeling the anger drain away.
Your dialogue is coming along nicely!!
My dearest Endless Exposition,
Thank you so much for sharing your WIP. I assume that means Work In Progress and not Where Is Piglet?
The dialogue was very real. I had a bit of trouble figuring out the Point of View. I wasn’t sure who was telling the story. After I read your story several times I realized it was Alex.
And may I give a suggestion?
In this sentence you told me what Alex did. He stormed in like an angry bull on steroids. Hmm. What would that look like? Will you please show me, because I don’t know. I have never met an angry bull on steroids. Did he throw open the door, push people aside?
Would he slam his bag on the floor or slam his hand on the table. Did the tray spill milk? Please show me angry.
“I stormed into the cafeteria like an angry bull on every kind of steroid known to man. My face was red as a tomato and people were staring, but I didn’t give a damn.”
All my best,
xo
Love Pooh
Being a cat person, I was enthralled with your article. “Save the cat” is a great way to view our hero (or heroine) in our story. I put my heroine in a bind when she views the demise of her father. Her alcoholic father had left the family to parts unknown after he had severely beaten her mother. Living with her aunt and uncle became her lot. The heroine was only 13-14 years old at that time.After two years,she heard that her father was in a hospital due to injuries from a beating at a local bar.I’m not sure that she will be able to become a secure person due to the chaotic nature of her upbringing, but she has dreams. It’s up to me to see that she succeeds and finds freedom and peace, despite the upheaval in her home life. I’m working on the scenes and find it difficult to project her viewpoint as I’m a bit more advanced in age. Dialogue involving a teen is like wading into another foreign language. Yet I will continue plodding along and make her life become one that shows victory and triumph over her dismal past. Thanks for giving me the “cat”attitude. Great wisdom is shown in your words.
My dearest Kathy,
Thank you so much for sharing your story. Is the heroine all good, or is she not nice sometimes. I am curious to see what happens after she meets her father. Is there forgiveness. Does the heroine’s father die?
Oh how exciting to help your heroine find freedom and peace. You get to decide her fate.
Hmm, you said it is difficult to project her viewpoint. May I make a suggestion? Think about what year she is thirteen? Was it in 1962 or 1998? What were teenagers like then? Or write it in the time-frame you were thirteen, what was the world like then?
Please come back and tell me how you are getting a long in your story. Does your heroine have a name?
xo
All my best,
Love Pooh
A cat sauntered into my apartment and I gave it some milk. It purred and I name it Grace. When I returned from work the next night, Grace was gone. My couch and the drapes were shredded, the window was open, and the floor was puddled with wet. I took back the name and put the saucer away. That cat was a stray..
Hello Dave,
You were so kind to give a stray cat a name. I am sorry Grace shred your drapes and made a mess on your floor. Unless you dropped ice cubes on the floor and they melted and it wasn’t the cat?
And, I am sorry to tell you this. But Grace took her name with her when she left.
For the rest of her life she knows that for a few minutes she had a name and was loved.
I wish you all the best.
xo
Love Pooh
Thomas tried to save the poor little kitty cat, but mean the stumbling man smashed it under his boot. Its bones crackled like a pretzel. Thomas’s lip drooped like a laddle and tears welled in his eyes as he stared at his drunken father.
Thomas scowled at him, “Y-you made my kitty dead!”
I hurt for Thomas.
Me too Robyn, me too.
Oh dear me. Poor Thomas. After reading this short excerpt I really do not care for the father. However I have a lot of compassion for Thomas. I will be on Thomas’s side no matter what he may do later in the story.
All my best,
xo
Love Pooh
[Adapted from my short story, Gray. Hide.]:
He stooped, reaching into the cold darkness of the washing machine and found what he was after: his favorite polo shirt — gray, breast pocketed and new.
The polo was more tangled than curled around the spindle. A grating judder scraped and scrawled up his arm as he tried to pull it free, wet fabric grinding against wet fabric, until suddenly, it stopped yielding.
First he felt it, and then he could see it. The gray was mottled with something like dark ink. A stain. Pushing a towel out of his way, he pried a bit more of the polo free. The mottling blended into a solid, dark patch. He felt something slimy slide onto his knuckles. It squelched between the joints of the fingers of his left hand. He jumped.
Holding his arm away, he could see that amid the darkened stain was a blob. Glistening and globular, the blob had something stringy matted into it. He reached down again to yank at his polo.
As it flopped out of the fabric of the polo shirt, it glared up at him, a terrible anger scalded into its face. Its right paw, sodden and streaked with ginger and black hair, was upstretched, claws extended. It looked as if it wanted to yank him in with it.
This thing had obviously crawled inside, where it thought it was quiet. Peaceful. Safe.
As he pulled his hand out of the machine, he noticed it was streaked. With blood. A large clot wobbled, a gelatinous mirror twisting and contorting his bloody hued reflection. He stumbled for the tap and washed himself.
He went to cradle the back of his head with both hands, shuddered and pulled his left hand away just in time to avoid bloodying his hair… He kept his hand away, hovering it above his scalp.
He rocked backwards and forwards a couple of times.
‘St… Stoo…’
The larger pieces of cat corpse were coiled and ensnared around the agitator of his washing machine. Much of the rest was entangled in his brand new, favorite polo shirt.
‘Stoopid… Stoopid dumb guy…’ he said, each syllable echoed by a right-handed slap on his scalp.
The cat’s head was twisted around, neck vertebrae protruding and ajar. The white of the right eye was clouded over, bluish-gray. The left eye was bulbous and loose, ready to drop out of its socket.
Deftly, he untangled the cat from the spindle. Holding it aloft in his left hand, he ambled over to the bench.
There, he wrapped the cat corpse in cling wrap. Then he ambled over to the fridge and put the cat inside.
“Glad I saved that.” he said with a satisified sigh. “Waste not want not.”
Oh dear,
The poor cat.
This piece is very well written, and very vivid. I don’t like this character and don’t want him to win.
All my best
xo
Love Pooh
Dearest Pooh,
Thank you for your lovely feedback.
You seem sad.
Would you like me to save you?
Dear Pooh, I completely agree. Anyone who won’t save the cat is not a very nice person. My big brother is a cat. His name is Napoleon and he’s a black Oriental. We sleep together, groom one another and play tag up and down the hallway. He’s twice as big as me and when I first arrived in my forever home, I was just a baby and he wasn’t very happy. Anyone who says cats and dogs can’t be friends should come and visit us.
love,
Cally
P/S if you want to see what Napoleon looks like, you can see a photo of him -> http://theencouragingscribe.wordpress.com/2012/07/27/just-sos-you-remember-im-the-boss/
Ebenezer would enjoy Napoleon!
My dearest Cally,
Thank you so much for writing. I went and looked at Napoleon and he does look like a panther!
How wonderful that you are friends with a cat. My best friend is a dog too.
You are a very beautiful. I wish you all my best,
xo
Love Pooh
Absolutely! Pooh, saving the cat is putting kitty paws to our desire for a hope filled world.
Hello Robyn,
Yes, a hope filled world. I would rather have a world filled with hope than a fresh field mouse to eat.
xo
Love Pooh
As before, I wrote a practice in german, which I’ll paste underneath. It is a additional scene to my actual novel “Zeit heilt keine Wunden” (Time doesn’t heal any wounds), where the protagonist Thomas goes out during a heavy storm to bring the garbage bag at the roadside, when he hears his old neighbour, Mrs. Gantenbein, calling and searching her cat. Well, he’s going to save her from the top of a high cherry tree in her garden. Hope someone can understand german to enjoy the scene. More of it you’ll find on http://autormartinfischer.beoblog.com
Tom trug den Kehricht nach draussen. Der Föhn, ein starker, warmer Wind, der von Süden her über die Berge kam und jeweils in den Bergtälern wütete, orgelte zwischen den Häusern hindurch, trug Papierfetzen und anderen Unrat mit sich, klapperte mit den Fensterläden des Nachbarhauses und liess irgendwo ständig eine Gartentür knallen.
Wie in alten Zeiten wurden in solchen Nächten Feuerwachen aufgeboten, die mit Taschenlampen und Handys durch die Strassen patroullierten und darauf zu achten hatten, ob irgendwo ein Feuer ausbrach. Schon ganze Dörfer waren während Föhnstürmen den Flammen zum Opfer gefallen, die sich, durch den starken, anhaltenden Wind, rasend schnell ausgebreitet hatten. Zuletzt wurde das Städtchen Sargans 1811 durchs Feuer zerstört. Über 120 Häuser fielen den Flammen zum Opfer. Glücklicherweise kamen keine Menschen ums Leben, aber Hab und Gut waren auf einen Schlag dahin.
Er wollte schon ins Haus zurückkehren, als er es hörte. Eine Frauenstimme lockte und rief: »Sabienchen, wo bist du? Sabienchen, mitzi-mitzi-mitzi, komm her.«
Es war die betagte Nachbarin, Frau Gantenbein, die verzweifelt nach ihrer Katze suchte. Tom schüttelte den Kopf. Vermutlich war das Tier hinausgeschlüpft, als Frau Gantenbein nicht aufgepasst hatte. Keine gute Idee, bei diesem Sturm.
Er trat an der Gartenzaun, der ihre Grundstücke trennte. »Sabienchen ist sicher irgendwo untergekrochen.«
»Ach, Sie sind es, Herr Caduff. Haben Sie mir jetzt einen Schrecken eingejagt. Mein Sabienchen ist seit dem Nachmittag verschwunden. Das ist noch nie passiert.« Sie warf ihre linke Hand in die Luft, während sie sich zittrig mit ihrer Rechten auf ihrem Stock abstützte. Einem dieser altmodischen Holzstöcke, die einen dicken Gummizapfen an der Spitze aufwiesen, um die Böden nicht zu zerkratzen und maximalen Halt zu geben.
»Waren Sie schon im Garten, hinter dem Haus?«
»Nein, ich habe nur hier gesucht.«
»Ich komme gleich zu Ihnen hinüber.«
Er rannte auf die Strasse und durch das Eingangstor auf Frau Gantenbeins Grundstück hinüber. Sie blickte ihm dankbar entgegen. Gerade nahm der Sturm wieder an Kraft zu und sie schwankte bedrohlich. Galant bot er ihr den Arm an, und gemeinsam machten sie sich auf den Weg ums Haus herum zum grossen Baumgarten. Es war eine jener alten Baumpflanzungen mit allerlei Obstbäumen. Mittendrin stand ein stolzer Hochstammkirschbaum.
Tom entdeckte die Katze, als er mit seiner Taschenlampe die Krone der Bäume absuchte. Sie klammerte sich hoch oben im Kirschbaum an einem dünnen Ästchen fest. Bei jeder Sturmböe schwankte der Ast bedrohlich und die Katze balancierte verkrampft, um nicht hinunterzufallen.
»Sabienchen, was machst du da oben?«, schimpfte Frau Gantenbein und wischte sich über die Augen. »Da müssen wir die Feuerwehr holen. So hoch kommt niemand hinauf, um Sabienchen herunter zu holen.«
»Nein, nein, das schaffen wir schon. Haben Sie eine Leiter?«
»Eine Leiter? Mein Hans-Peter hatte eine Leiter. Aber das ist zwanzig Jahre her. Vor zwanzig Jahren starb er, müssen Sie wissen.«
»Wo ist sie, im Gartenschuppen?«
»Nein, unter der Veranda.«
Tom zog eine lange, hölzerne Leiter hervor. Kritisch beäugte er sie. Ob die noch halten würde? Eine der oberen Sprossen fehlte und die anderen erschienen eher morsch. Dennoch trug er sie zum Baum und stellte sie an, wie es sein Grossvater früher getan hatte. Er wählte einen Winkel, von dem er hoffte, dass er nicht das Übergewicht bekommen würde, und rüttelte an der Leiter, bis sie fest verankert war. Sorgfältig kletterte er die alten Sprossen hoch. Dort, wo er einen Ast umgangen war, musste er sich unter diesem durchwinden. Durch eine ungeschickte Bewegung neigte sich die Leiter bedrohlich nach rechts, sodass ihm ein Schrei entfuhr.
Weit unten stand die alte Frau und starrte mit brennenden Augen nach oben und sagte immer wider: »Seien Sie vorsichtig. Seien Sie ja vorsichtig.«
Noch einige Sprossen, dann war das Ende der Leiter erreicht. Aber die Katze war noch weiter oben. Er musste wohl oder übel am Stamm hochklettern. Er atmete tief durch und schloss einen Moment die Augen, um sich zu fokussieren. Er dachte an seine gefährlichsten Kletterpartien in den Bergen. Einfach nicht dran denken, dass er hoch über der Erde hing.
Dann stieg er von Astgabel zu Astgabel weiter. Schliesslich hatte er die Katze erreicht, die ihn mit schreckengeweiteten Augen anfauchte. Mit einem raschen Griff schnappte er sie und zog sie an seinen Körper heran. Zuerst wehrte sich das Tier, aber als er in sanften Tönen mit ihr sprach, beruhigte sie sich schlagartig und fing an zu schnurren.
»Das würde dir so passen, hier oben bei mir zu schlafen, was? Aber jetzt müssen wir nach unten klettern.«
Wie wenn sie ihn verstanden hätte, sprang sie aus seinem Arm an den Stamm und kletterte mit ihren Krallen behände nach unten. Als kurz darauf Frau Gantenbein jubelte, wusste er, dass er die Aufgabe geschafft hatte. Nun musste er noch heil herunterkommen.
»Danke, vielen Dank, Herr Caduff. Ach was, ich bin’s Vreni. Ich würde mich freuen, wenn Sie einmal zu Kaffee und Kuchen rüber kämen.«
»Das können wir sicher einmal einrichten. Jetzt muss ich zu Regi, meiner Freundin, zurück. Sonst bekommt sie’s mit der Angst zu tun, wenn ich beim Kehricht nach draussen bringen nicht mehr zurück komme.«
Nach einem letzten prüfenden Blick in die stürmische Nacht hinaus, kehrte er in die Wohnung zurück und packte seine Reisetasche für die morgige Geschäftsreise. Regina lehnte mit verschränkten Armen im Türrahmen und sah ihm dabei zu.
»Musst du schon wieder so weit fahren, dass es dir nicht reicht, zu Hause zu übernachten?«
My dearest Martin,
I admire Thomas for his bravery. Mrs. Gantenbein must really appreciate her neighbor. Please tell me if he is able to catch the cat.
My deepest regret is that I don’t understand German.
All my best,
xo
Love Pooh
Dear Pooh, of course he saved the cat. 🙂 He found an old wooden ladder, climbed up, had to even climb higher and catched it, where it sat on a thin branch, desperately balancing in the storm. Unfortunately his story is developing towards the heartbreaking point, where his girlfriend Regi (Regina) leaves him. But that’s the story in the book, I’m actually writing.
I’m happy to read on on thewritepractice. Many of the posts actually helped me to develop.
All my best,
Martin
Ahhhh your descriptions are delightful!
Loved how you wrote that the houses were sacrificed to the fire. Your descriptions of looking for Sabienchen and finding him, then the search with the old ladder. Seriously great description. And I find your dialogue believable. Good job! Martin. Thanks for sharing. I’m newly back in the states and enjoyed a bit of German reading. Yours was not dull! Thank you!
Your welcome, dear Robyn Rochelle E. If you would like to read more, look into my author homepage http://autormartinfischer.beoblog.com and go for the Leseproben. It was a delight, to talk to you. 🙂
Wish you a very happy New Year!
Pooh,
May I divert slightly from your subject?
I downloaded Blake Snyder’s Beat Sheet, which is contained in his book, from the Internet, and discovered that his formula works with novels as well as movies. Before I read a book I mark off the quarters where the different beats occur. Sure as little apples grow on trees, certain events occur at these points to mark turning points in the story. I recommend this template to anyone who has problems with structure and pacing.
Oh Winnie,
Thank you so much for sharing Blake Snyder’s Beat Sheet concept. I will use this template as I write my memoir.
Mr. Synder’s book is wonderful isn’t it?
All my best,
xo
Love Pooh
Thanks Pooh. I’m surprised more people haven’t heard of the book.
Thanks again.
I’ve been reading this blog for about a year, but never posted anything here before. Any critique/comments would be greatly appreciated!
Back. Forth. Back. Forth. The girl was pacing, the soles of her rhinestoned flats squeaking softly on the dressing room floor. Abruptly, her footsteps halted, and the boy
glanced up at the sudden silence.
“You ok?” he asked.
A pause. One beat, then another. “Do I have to go out there?”
“No, of course not. I just thought you might like to hear the other performances.” The music was projected from the theater into the backstage hallway for those waiting before their set.
She didn’t respond, instead soundlessly fingering a scale down the keys of the saxophone hanging around her neck.
“You don’t want to go onstage?”
Another beat of silence, and then, almost imperceptibly, her head bobbed.
“Well,” he said, a smile crinkling at the corners of his mouth, “there’s always the option of stealing my keys and driving home.”
Her eyes widened, as if she was considering the option, and for the first time, a laugh bubbled at the back of her throat. “Or I could just run. Ditch these awful shoes
and bolt.”
“That’s the spirit. Of course, the audience would be ticked, but that’s okay, right?” He opened his arms, embracing her awkwardly around the saxophone that they each
held. At that moment, the faint sound they could hear from the performers before them stopped. “You ready?”
“I hope so.” Together, they strode out.
What a good friend … providing humor, perspective and support. I felt the relief and life-learning we get when we conquer a fear or assumed dislike.
Cats, cats, cats. When I walk down the street, what do you expect when everywhere you turn there are cats looking up at you?
It is kind of creepy to tell you the truth. The cats are not like the way I thought of cats when I was growing up and my mother got me a cat. Such a delightful little thing. It’s fur was so soft looking and a myriad of colors too. And I was so excited when I’d see it, I couldn’t help running toward it. Then I discovered it had claws and really good jumping powers.
It shrieked its loud howl, scratched my face and leaped away from me. I waddle to my mother crying for her to comfort me and make me feel better. My mother told me I had to be nicer and then the cat would like me. Sadly I tried but the cat never did like me. Loved my mother. I only got to watch it from afar. But eventually we got another cat, and I was a lot older then, and the cat loved me. It slept with me and I never ever grew tired of that cat.
But that was a long time ago. That cat is long gone. Cats and dogs remind you of mortality that way, because you eventually are going to have to watch them die and it’s going to rip the heck out of your heart. But there is nothing for that pain.
You just have to sit and bear it, and it kind of reminds you how no matter what, in the end you’ll probably be alone again. And it doesn’t matter how good the holidays may feel, when there are loved ones around. It’s all temporary. Like that song, we’re just a bit of dust in the wind.
Oh well. Time really is the only answer. I have had many other cats after that one. And the other ones, well I got used to having a pet. And it got easier after a while. Oh man what the heck am I thinking? I am boring you with my useless cat stories. You don’t want to hear any of that.
But I can’t really tell you how I got here either. My head is pounding though. The cats are all staring at me as I walk by. I am really wondering what they eat. And I hope it isn’t me! I am starving by the way.
Fortunately I am about to get some answers. Up ahead is what looks like the city center.
When I arrive in a large building, which must be city hall. It is white and extravagent, I see a man, or is it a cat? I look at his face, the finest traces of long thin hairs. His eyes are blue, but there is something off about his eyes, his pupils very slightly oblong, instead of round. He drums his hand on his desk, one pointed nail clinking at a time. He is definitely taller then me, and he uses that to his advantage as he stares down at me.
“I have known that you were here.” he says to me.
“Oh?”
“We don’t get a lot of guests. Would you care to tell me how you got here.”
“No I actually can’t do that.”
I hope Pooh can appreciate my saving this cat. This is actually very much based on a true story.
The lost paratrooper was scrounging around for anything to eat in this small deserted Dutch village. It had been over two weeks, cut off from his command. Drinking water came from the toilets in the bombed out houses that lined the streets. He would only leave the second floor room that he found shortly after the German soldiers had left the town, but he was cautious to a fault and feared that they would return at any moment. While on one of his foragings he heard a purring coming from the top of an ice box in one of the houses he had not searched. It was already first light and he didn’t have much time before reentering his hiding place. A muted meow followed the purring and he reached up and the cat rubbed itself on his hand. Somewhat taken aback, he scratched the cats neck and he thought that finally something was alive and appeared friendly.
The handle opened the icebox and he was amazed to find the assorted jars contained food. Cautiously he opened one jar and thanked God for the skills of a Dutch housewife. A tentative taste of the jar proved that the contents were viable. He and the cat sat side by side on the floor of the kitchen and quietly and quickly ate together for the first of many times to come.