Who wrote on the cat thief thief. Online reading of the book Cat-thief Konstantin Georgievich Paustovsky

We are in despair. We didn't know how to catch this ginger cat. He robbed us every night. He hid so cleverly that none of us really saw him. Only a week later it was finally possible to establish that the cat's ear was torn off and a piece of dirty tail was cut off. It was a cat that had lost all conscience, a tramp cat and a bandit. They called him behind the eyes Thief.

He stole everything: fish, meat, sour cream and bread. Once he even tore open a tin can of worms in a closet. He did not eat them, but chickens came running to the open jar and pecked at our entire supply of worms. Overfed chickens lay in the sun and moaned. We walked around them and swore, but the fishing was still disrupted.

We spent almost a month tracking down the ginger cat. The village boys helped us with this. One day they rushed in and, out of breath, told that at dawn the cat swept, crouching, through the gardens and dragged a kukan with perches in its teeth. We rushed to the cellar and found the kukan missing; it had ten fat perches caught on Prorva. It was no longer theft, but robbery in broad daylight. We swore to catch the cat and blow it up for gangster antics.

The cat was caught that evening. He stole a piece of liverwurst from the table and climbed up the birch with it. We started shaking the birch. The cat dropped the sausage, it fell on Reuben's head. The cat looked at us from above with wild eyes and howled menacingly. But there was no salvation, and the cat decided on a desperate act. With a terrifying howl, he fell off the birch, fell to the ground, bounced like a soccer ball, and rushed under the house.

The house was small. He stood in a deaf, abandoned garden. Every night we were awakened by the sound of wild apples falling from the branches onto its boarded roof. The house was littered with fishing rods, shot, apples and dry leaves. We only slept in it. All days, from dawn to dusk, we spent on the banks of countless channels and lakes. There we fished and made fires in the coastal thickets. To get to the shore of the lakes, one had to trample down narrow paths in fragrant tall grasses. Their corollas swung over their heads and showered their shoulders with yellow flower dust. We returned in the evening, scratched by the wild rose, tired, burned by the sun, with bundles of silvery fish, and each time we were greeted with stories about the red cat's new tramp antics. But, finally, the cat got caught. He crawled under the house through the only narrow hole. There was no way out.

We blocked the hole with an old fishing net and began to wait. But the cat didn't come out. He howled disgustingly, like an underground spirit, howling continuously and without any fatigue. An hour passed, two, three ... It was time to go to bed, but the cat was howling and cursing under the house, and it got on our nerves.

Then Lyonka, the son of a village shoemaker, was called. Lenka was famous for his fearlessness and dexterity. He was instructed to pull the cat out from under the house. Lenka took a silk fishing line, tied to it by the tail a raft caught during the day and threw it through a hole into the underground. The howl stopped. We heard a crunch and a predatory click - the cat grabbed a fish's head with its teeth. He grabbed it with a death grip. Lenka was dragged by the line, the Cat resisted desperately, but Lenka was stronger, and besides, the cat did not want to release the delicious fish. A minute later the head of a cat with a raft clamped between its teeth appeared in the opening of the manhole. Lyonka grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and lifted it above the ground. We took a good look at it for the first time.

The cat closed his eyes and flattened his ears. He kept his tail just in case. It turned out to be a skinny, despite the constant theft, a fiery red stray cat with white marks on his stomach.

Having examined the cat, Reuben thoughtfully asked:
- What should we do with him?
- Rip out! - I said.
"It won't help," Lenka said. - He has such a character since childhood. Try to feed him properly.

The cat waited with closed eyes. We followed this advice, dragged the cat into the closet and gave him a wonderful dinner: fried pork, perch aspic, cottage cheese and sour cream. The cat has been eating for over an hour. He staggered out of the closet, sat down on the threshold and washed, glancing at us and at the low stars with his impudent green eyes. After washing, he snorted for a long time and rubbed his head on the floor. It was obviously meant to be fun. We were afraid that he would wipe his fur on the back of his head. Then the cat rolled over on its back, caught its tail, chewed it, spat it out, stretched out by the stove and snored peacefully.

From that day on, he took root with us and stopped stealing. The next morning, he even performed a noble and unexpected act. The chickens climbed onto the table in the garden and, pushing each other and quarreling, began to peck buckwheat porridge from the plates. The cat, trembling with indignation, crept up to the hens and, with a short triumphant cry, jumped onto the table. The chickens took off with a desperate cry. They overturned the jug of milk and rushed, losing their feathers, to flee from the garden.

Ahead rushed, hiccuping, a long-legged cock-fool, nicknamed "The Gorlach". The cat rushed after him on three paws, and with the fourth, front paw, hit the rooster on the back. Dust and fluff flew from the rooster. Something buzzed and buzzed inside him from every blow, like a cat hitting a rubber ball. After that, the rooster lay in a fit for several minutes, rolling his eyes, and groaning softly. They poured cold water over him and he walked away. Since then, chickens have been afraid to steal. Seeing the cat, they hid under the house with a squeak and hustle.

The cat walked around the house and garden, like a master and watchman. He rubbed his head against our legs. He demanded gratitude, leaving patches of red wool on our trousers. We renamed him from Thief to Policeman. Although Reuben claimed that this was not entirely convenient, we were sure that the policemen would not be offended by us for this.

The garden was all neglected and abandoned,
The house was nestled among old cherries.
The path, long overgrown with grass,
The red cat made his way inaudibly.

We lived in this house all summer
Apples banged on the roof,
The herbs at noon bowed in languor,
Behind the wall, mice rustled in the grass.

The thief cat was in charge of all the supplies:
He dragged both fish and sour cream,
I found both eggs and sausages ...
We scolded him relentlessly!

At last the thief has been caught!
The cat was skinny, miserable and trembling.
He looked longingly at the window sill,
To the native garden, beckoning with freedom.

I'd rip that thug out!
But our neighbor boy said:
“You, perhaps ... feed him ...”
Where did you get such wisdom? From a book?

Well I started a stupid war
Where the soul always bears losses ...
Why did he become so indifferent?
Cat, go! I open doors...

Painting by Igor Sidorov

Based on the story by K. Paustovsky "Cat-thief" (Excerpt)
.We came to despair. We didn't know how to catch this ginger cat. He robbed us every night. He hid so cleverly that none of us really saw him. Only a week later it was finally possible to establish that the cat's ear was torn off and a piece of dirty tail was cut off. It was a cat that had lost all conscience, a tramp cat and a bandit. They called him behind the eyes Thief.
He stole everything: fish, meat, sour cream and bread. Once he even tore open a tin can of worms in a closet. He did not eat them, but chickens came running to the open jar and pecked at our entire supply of worms. Overfed chickens lay in the sun and moaned. We walked around them and swore, but the fishing was still disrupted.
We spent almost a month tracking down the ginger cat. The village boys helped us with this. One day they rushed in and, out of breath, told that at dawn the cat swept, crouching, through the gardens and dragged a kukan with perches in its teeth. We rushed to the cellar and found the kukan missing; it had ten fat perches caught on Prorva. It was no longer theft, but robbery in broad daylight. We swore to catch the cat and blow it up for gangster antics.
The cat was caught that evening. He stole a piece of liverwurst from the table and climbed up the birch with it. We started shaking the birch. The cat dropped the sausage, it fell on Reuben's head. The cat looked at us from above with wild eyes and howled menacingly. But there was no salvation, and the cat decided on a desperate act. With a terrifying howl, he fell off the birch, fell to the ground, bounced like a soccer ball, and rushed under the house.
The house was small. He stood in a deaf, abandoned garden. Every night we were awakened by the sound of wild apples falling from the branches onto its boarded roof. The house was littered with fishing rods, shot, apples and dry leaves. We only slept in it. All days, from dawn to dusk, we spent on the banks of countless channels and lakes. There we fished and made fires in the coastal thickets. To get to the shore of the lakes, one had to trample down narrow paths in fragrant tall grasses. Their corollas swung over their heads and showered their shoulders with yellow flower dust. We returned in the evening, scratched by the wild rose, tired, burned by the sun, with bundles of silvery fish, and each time we were greeted with stories about the red cat's new tramp antics. But, finally, the cat got caught. He crawled under the house through the only narrow hole. There was no way out. We blocked the hole with an old fishing net and began to wait. But the cat didn't come out. He howled disgustingly, like an underground spirit, howling continuously and without any fatigue. An hour passed, two, three ... It was time to go to bed, but the cat was howling and cursing under the house, and it got on our nerves. Then Lyonka, the son of a village shoemaker, was called. Lenka was famous for his fearlessness and dexterity. He was instructed to pull the cat out from under the house. Lenka took a silk fishing line, tied to it by the tail a raft caught during the day and threw it through a hole into the underground. The howl stopped. We heard a crunch and a predatory click - the cat grabbed a fish's head with its teeth. He grabbed it with a death grip. Lenka was dragged by the line, the Cat resisted desperately, but Lenka was stronger, and besides, the cat did not want to release the delicious fish. A minute later the head of a cat with a raft clamped between its teeth appeared in the opening of the manhole. Lyonka grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and lifted it above the ground. We took a good look at it for the first time. The cat closed his eyes and flattened his ears. He kept his tail just in case. It turned out to be a skinny, despite the constant theft, a fiery red stray cat with white marks on his stomach. Having examined the cat, Reuben thoughtfully asked: - What should we do with him? - Rip out! - I said. "It won't help," Lenka said. - He has such a character since childhood. Try to feed him properly. The cat waited with closed eyes. We followed this advice, dragged the cat into the closet and gave him a wonderful dinner: fried pork, perch aspic, cottage cheese and sour cream. The cat has been eating for over an hour. He staggered out of the closet, sat down on the threshold and washed, glancing at us and at the low stars with his impudent green eyes. After washing, he snorted for a long time and rubbed his head on the floor. It was obviously meant to be fun. We were afraid that he would wipe his fur on the back of his head. Then the cat rolled over on its back, caught its tail, chewed it, spat it out, stretched out by the stove and snored peacefully. From that day on, he took root with us and stopped stealing. The next morning, he even performed a noble and unexpected act. The chickens climbed onto the table in the garden and, pushing each other and quarreling, began to peck buckwheat porridge from the plates. The cat, trembling with indignation, crept up to the hens and, with a short triumphant cry, jumped onto the table. The chickens took off with a desperate cry. They overturned the jug of milk and rushed, losing their feathers, to flee from the garden. Ahead rushed, hiccuping, a long-legged cock-fool, nicknamed "The Gorlach". The cat rushed after him on three paws, and with the fourth, front paw, hit the rooster on the back. Dust and fluff flew from the rooster. Something buzzed and buzzed inside him from every blow, like a cat hitting a rubber ball. After that, the rooster lay in a fit for several minutes, rolling his eyes, and groaning softly. They poured cold water over him and he walked away. Since then, chickens have been afraid to steal.

Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich

CAT-THIEF

Drawings by I. Godin

thief cat

It was a cat that had lost all conscience, a cat - a tramp and a bandit. We called him the Thief.

Overfed chickens lay in the sun and moaned. We walked around them and swore, but the fishing was still disrupted.

We spent almost a month tracking down the ginger cat.

The village boys helped us with this. Once they rushed over and, out of breath, told that at dawn the cat swept, crouching, through the gardens and dragged a kukan with perches in its teeth. We rushed to the cellar and found the kukan missing; it had ten fat perches caught on Prorva. It was no longer theft, but robbery. We swore to catch the cat and blow it up for gangster antics.

The cat was caught that evening. He stole a piece of liverwurst from the table and climbed up the birch with it. We started shaking the birch. The cat dropped the sausage. She fell on Reuben's head. The cat looked at us from above with wild eyes and howled menacingly.

But there was no salvation, and the cat decided on a desperate act. With a terrifying howl, he fell off the birch, fell to the ground, bounced like a soccer ball, and rushed under the house.

The house was small. He stood in a deaf, abandoned garden. Every night we were awakened by the sound of wild apples falling from the branches onto its boarded roof.

The house was littered with fishing rods, shot, apples and dry leaves. We only slept in it. All the days, from dawn to dark, we spent on the banks of countless channels and lakes. There we fished and made fires in the coastal thickets.

To get to the shores of the lakes, one had to trample down narrow paths in fragrant tall grasses. Their corollas swayed overhead and showered their shoulders with yellow flower dust.

We returned in the evening, scratched by the wild rose, tired, burned by the sun, with bundles of silvery fish, and each time we were greeted with stories about the new tricks of the ginger cat.

But finally the cat got caught. He crawled under the house through the only narrow hole. There was no way out.

We blocked the hole with an old fishing net and began to wait. But the cat didn't come out. He howled disgustingly, like an underground spirit, howling continuously and without any fatigue.

An hour passed, two, three ... It was time to go to bed, but the cat was howling and cursing under the house, and it got on our nerves.

Then Lyonka, the son of a village shoemaker, was called. Lyonka was famous for his fearlessness and dexterity. He was instructed to pull the cat out from under the house.

Lyonka took a silk fishing line, tied to it by the tail a raft caught during the day and threw it through a hole into the underground.

The howl stopped. We heard a crunch and a predatory click - the cat grabbed a fish head with its teeth. Lyonka dragged him by the line. The cat resisted desperately, but Lenka was stronger and, besides, the cat did not want to release the tasty fish.

A minute later the head of a cat with a raft clamped between its teeth appeared in the opening of the manhole.

Lyonka grabbed the cat by the collar and lifted it above the ground. We took a good look at it for the first time.

The cat closed his eyes and flattened his ears. He kept his tail just in case. It turned out to be a skinny, despite constant theft, homeless cat, with white marks on his stomach.

Having examined the cat, Reuben thoughtfully asked:

What are we to do with it?

Rip out! - I said.

It will not help, - said Lyonka, - he has had such a character since childhood.

The cat waited with closed eyes.

Then our boy intervened. He liked to interfere in the conversations of adults. He always got it for it. He had already gone to bed, but shouted from the room:

We need to feed him properly!

We followed this advice, dragged the cat into the closet and gave him a wonderful dinner: fried pork, perch aspic, cottage cheese and sour cream.

The cat has been eating for over an hour. He staggered out of the closet, sat down on the threshold and washed himself, looking at us and at the low stars with his impudent green eyes.

After washing, he snorted for a long time and rubbed his head on the floor. This, obviously, was supposed to mean fun. We were afraid that he would rub his hair on the back of his head.

Then the cat rolled over on its back, caught its tail, chewed it, spat it out, stretched out by the stove and snored peacefully. From that day on, he took root with us and stopped stealing.

The next morning, he even performed a noble and unexpected act.

The chickens climbed onto the table in the garden and, pushing each other and quarreling, began to peck buckwheat porridge from the plates.

The cat, trembling with indignation, crept up to the chickens and, with a short cry of victory, jumped onto the table.

The chickens took off with a desperate cry. They overturned the jug of milk and rushed, losing their feathers, to flee from the garden.

Ahead rushed, hiccuping, an ankle-footed cock-fool, nicknamed Gorlach.

The cat rushed after him on three paws, and with the fourth, front paw, hit the rooster on the back. Dust and fluff flew from the rooster. Inside him, from each blow, something thumped and buzzed, as if a cat hit a rubber ball.

After that, the rooster lay in a fit for several minutes, rolling his eyes, and groaning softly. They poured cold water on him and he walked away.

Since then, chickens have been afraid to steal. Seeing the cat, they hid under the house with a squeak and a hustle.

The cat walked around the house and garden, like a master and watchman. He rubbed his head against our legs. He demanded gratitude, leaving patches of red wool on our trousers.

We renamed him from "Thief" to "Policeman". Although Reuben claimed that this was not entirely convenient, we were sure that the policemen would not be offended by us for this. And for some reason the milkmaids called the cat Stepan.

BADGER HOC

The lake near the shores was covered with heaps of yellow leaves.

There were so many of them that we couldn't fish. The fishing lines lay on the leaves and did not sink.

Then Lyonka, the son of a village shoemaker, was called. Lenka was famous for his fearlessness and dexterity. He was instructed to pull the cat out from under the house. Lenka took a silk fishing line, tied to it by the tail a raft caught during the day and threw it through a hole into the underground. The howl stopped. We heard a crunch and a predatory click - the cat bit into the head of a fish. He grabbed it with a death grip. Lenka was dragged by the line, the Cat resisted desperately, but Lenka was stronger, and besides, the cat did not want to release the delicious fish. A minute later the head of a cat with a raft clamped between its teeth appeared in the opening of the manhole. Lyonka grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and lifted it above the ground. We took a good look at it for the first time.

The cat closed his eyes and flattened his ears. He kept his tail just in case. It turned out to be a skinny, despite the constant theft, a fiery red stray cat with white marks on his stomach.
Having examined the cat, Reuben thoughtfully asked:
"What are we to do with him?"
- Rip out! - I said.
“It won’t help,” Lenka said. - He has such a character since childhood. Try to feed him properly.

The cat closed his eyes and flattened his ears. He kept his tail just in case. It turned out to be a skinny, despite the constant theft, a fiery red stray cat with white marks on his stomach.

Having examined the cat, Reuben thoughtfully asked:

What are we to do with it?

Rip out! - I said.

It won't help, - said Lenka. - He has such a character since childhood. Try to feed him properly.

Ahead rushed, hiccuping, a cock-fool, nicknamed "Hiller". The cat rushed after him on three paws, and with the fourth, front paw, hit the rooster on the back. Dust and fluff flew from the rooster. Something buzzed and buzzed inside him from every blow, like a cat hitting a rubber ball. After that, the rooster lay in a fit for several minutes, rolling his eyes, and groaning softly. They poured cold water over him and he walked away. Since then, chickens have been afraid to steal. Seeing the cat, they hid under the house with a squeak and hustle.