The Old Teacher, the Birds and the Calico Cat

- We are in our eighties. We don't have much time left to live or die. We are not well off, we have a little money saved to send our grandchildren to school.

The story ends there. So now the house only has the corrugated iron roof intact, although rusty but not dilapidated. The rest of the doors and windows are loose, some are open above, some are broken below. The rats take advantage of the opportunity to crawl in and out as if there were no one there. Every day she is in a panic because of them. The instant noodle package, the cassava tubers that are forgotten to be put in the cupboard, turn around and around, only paper bags and a pile of shells remain. Even the nest of eggs that are incubating, waiting for the hen to jump down to look for food, is quickly snatched away by the rats. All the stories the old woman tells revolve around the wish to find a cat. Together with her wife, she asks all over her friends, and finally she gets the calico cat to bring home. She is as happy as if she has found gold. She takes care of the cat like she takes care of her grandchild, anyone who accidentally brushes her foot against it will be scolded like pouring water.

He retired from teaching children nearly twenty years ago. In the early mornings, he would put a few pieces of chalk in his pocket and leisurely go to class. He would often jokingly and seriously say to his colleagues:

- Writer Nguyen Cong Hoan once said that teaching the lowest grade like him meant living with ants (enfentine - children) for half a day. Every one of them was smelly and had snotty noses.

To be fair, the young students today are much cleaner than the generation of students in Mr. Hoan's time. But the most cunning and mischievous students of that time had to call the current generation "sir". Yet when he reached retirement age and had to leave those little devils, he was absent-minded and missed them endlessly. It was not until he accidentally discovered that he still had a hidden talent for writing and composing poetry that he threw himself into composing day and night, which helped him to somewhat ease his longing for his adorable, mischievous group.

Since the day he had several articles published on the weekend page of the provincial newspaper, and carefully read his friends' poems and writings, he realized that his poems were still shallow, far behind theirs in terms of depth of meaning. He knew that, but he found it very difficult to write like others. To have a haunting poetic idea, to find a unique poetic idea, a new language, he had to toss and turn for hours at night, sighing and sighing. During the day, he often wandered in the garden, hands clasped behind his back, raising his silver beard to look at the clouds and trees all day, hoping to find inspiration for a new article. Many times observing like that, he discovered a wonderful pleasure: listening to birds singing. In his garden, there were so many species of birds living. It seemed that each tree was a private home of a couple who chirped all day long, as if only they loved each other more than all other species. The tallest plum tree in the garden was the exclusive domain of a flock of crested mynahs. The crested myna species loves to eat ripe fruit, this season the branches are hanging heavily with clusters of red plums, almost from morning to evening there is never a moment when there are not some dapper young men wearing smooth black velvet hats, chirping and some brightly made-up girls with two tufts of bright red feathers on both sides of their cheeks jumping around. A little lower down, a row of custard apple trees with leaves and branches intermingled, a few sapodilla trees with dark green leaves as shiny as if painted with grease, a private world of golden bulbuls, hopping from branch to branch all day long. Even more diligent are the pairs of sparrows that always look sideways, their tiny black eyes searching for young worms wriggling with their transparent, jade-colored bellies in the gaps between the leaves. Occasionally a white-breasted wagtail with its jet-black tail feathers upturned flaps its wings and swoops down to perch on the tip of a bamboo shoot swaying in the wind. Not yet settled, he opened his trembling beak and let out long whistles... clear whistles calling for his mate. As if obeying a command, all the quiet bushes suddenly resounded with the melodious sounds of all the birds playing together. Breathing in the garden's fragrance, drifting dreamily along with the gentle waves of birdsong every day, he secretly thought that he was truly a king, truly happy in his happy kingdom. At times like that, afraid of disturbing his subjects, he did not dare to breathe loudly, tiptoed back to a hidden corner of the garden, sat on a throne made of a round piece of wood with both ends sawn flat. And so, for hours he silently listened, his eyes attentively watching the sparrow couple busily carrying food to feed their chicks in a nest about an arm's length from his head. Luckily, his grandchildren, who were at the age of liking birds and butterflies, did not live with their grandparents, otherwise... thinking about it, he felt a chill down his spine. Birds would be too carefree and lacking in vigilance. He could not understand how they could have been so careless. Did they know that besides him, there was also a clever cat lurking in this garden that he had just brought home?

From the day he saw the back of the cat with shiny three-colored fur, slithering like a snake with its tail wriggling purposefully in the grass at the end of the garden, he always felt uneasy as if sitting on a chair with a broken leg. He knew that his birds were too naive and foolish, and the cat was growing up so fast. It was so cunning and agile that even smart mice were its daily prey. How could its sweet and gentle chirping be able to resist its sharp claws and sharp teeth? He was the only one who could save the bird garden at this time. He knew that, but beating the cat to death would make him no different from an animal. By nature, he could not bear to be so cruel. Moreover, he knew that it was innocent. Killing was its reason for survival. If he gave it away, he could not bear the disappointment and the heart-rending cries of regret from his wife. So he had to accept it, quietly spending a lot of time in the garden. Whenever he did not hear the meowing sound in the house or the beautiful figure of the calico cat, he would run out into the garden, sometimes without even putting on his slippers. He was so vigilant that one morning he was absent-mindedly surprised to see the brown feathers of a pair of sparrow parents raising their chicks drying on the grass. The cat sat calmly nearby, licking its lips in satisfaction. Now his constant worry was no longer a premonition, no longer a ghost. It was a real, daily disaster that had befallen the peaceful, happy kingdom of the gentle, beautiful bird subjects. He was old, and he did not have enough strength to devote twenty-four hours a day to this sacred and noble task of patrolling and protecting. Feeling helpless and unable to share his burden with anyone, he could only wait until late at night to make sure that the beautiful and handsome murderer was sleeping peacefully beside his old wife. Only then would he dare to go to the desk that was always creaking with termites and pour out all his thoughts into his writings. After many articles were published in newspapers, he wondered if there would be many readers who truly shared his feelings.

Last night, he received news that his colleague was dying. He had to leave early in the morning. Feeling uneasy, he turned around at the gate and told him:

- Lock the cat up until I get home.

Then received the lady's harsh words:

- Oh dear! What a hassle. I'm tired of eating rats, I have to change it up a bit.

He walked absent-mindedly. The village road was still sparsely populated. The morning mist was so thick. What surrounded his steps was no longer mist but diluted milk. It felt like it was making it hard for him to breathe. Maybe it was the cold air. Or maybe it was because at that moment, a faint, clear song of a bird in the distance rang out in his ears, fading away in the wind.

His destination this morning was the eternal farewell to his friend who had taught at the same elementary school for more than ten years. Thinking about the final destination of his journey home, he might have to face the garden that was still chirping with birds yesterday, but which this afternoon had been destroyed by the cat's raid, he suddenly shivered with fear. Suddenly, from his mossy back, he felt a chill emanating from his internal organs and spreading to his limbs. Today's weather was not yet autumn. He was already over eighty years old. Perhaps he was really old.

VTK

Source: https://baotayninh.vn/ong-giao-gia-bay-chim-va-con-meo-tam-the-a168272.html