Everyone knows it.
Some say it with a chuckle, others with a grimace, but it comes as certain as sunrise: Mr. Smats hated cats.
The mausoleum proves it. His stone vault casts a shadow across town, a gloomy silhouette on the horizon. Each time we pass, it tolls the same refrain—steady, rhythmic, like a drumbeat etched in memory: Smats hated cats. Smats hated cats.
But the dead feel no shame. It is his sons who bear the wrath. Their name rhymes too easily—Smats with cats—and no amount of protest can untangle it.
Sam Smats once climbed a tree to rescue a kitten. The branch snapped, and his leg broke so badly that he walks with a crooked limp. From a distance you can spot him—bent, marked, the injury itself whispering accusation: He hated cats.
Will Smats filled his home with cats, but no one is convinced. The creatures under his roof grow sickly, fur matted, eyes hollow. Neighbors shake their heads: “See how even his pets suffer? Like father, like son.”
And then the paper printed it: Will Smats had buried a cat in his backyard. The town cried out for justice, and City Hall obliged. An inspector confirmed the offense—an unpermitted burial—and Will was fined more than anyone in town history. His pleas of innocence fell on deaf ears.
So Sam limps. Will protests. And the chant grows louder.
I tried to defend them. Over coffee with a friend, I asked, “What if Sam climbed that tree to help the kitten?”
He looked at me as if I’d blasphemed.
“You jest. Didn’t you hear what folks said? His face was twisted with anger. Thank God he fell before he killed the poor thing.”
“But we weren’t there,” I said. “What if the kitten was just scared of heights?”
“Then why did he climb at all?” my friend snapped. “Only a hater goes to such trouble.”
I tried again. “What if Sam hated his father’s cruelty so much he wanted to prove the opposite?”
He sipped his cup and stared with suspicion, as though my defense itself was proof of guilt.
At last, I found someone who agreed with me.
He grinned wide, slapped the table, and said with confidence, “Yes! Mr. Smats hated cats. But Sam and Will Smats love them!”
We laughed. We whispered like conspirators. Why don’t people see it? Maybe time would heal the lie.
But even then I heard it on the playground—girls chanting as they skipped rope:
“Sam Smats hates cats, Sam Smats hates cats.”
At baseball practice a boy mimicked a swing:
“I bat like Will Smats hits at his cat.”
The rhyme was alive. The truth was not.
So I brought my new ally to the café to speak to my doubting friends. The smell of roasted beans filled the air as we laid out our case:
“Yes, the father despised cats. But his sons are different. Look closer. Listen harder.”
My ally shook hands, smiled warmly, and departed. I was certain progress had been made.
But then I saw two suspicious eyes peering over a coffee cup.
“Do you even know who that was?”
“Of course,” I said. “His name is Mark.”
The smirk cut deep.
“Mark Smats. The nephew. And a nephew hates cats as much as a son.”
I froze. Outside, children’s voices pierced the window glass—high, unrelenting, cruel in their innocence:
“Sam Smats hates cats. Sam Smats hates cats.”
I lowered my head into my hands.
Why even try?
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