“He’s a good mouser,” the Boy was saying. It was my turn to glance around to see if there was another cat in the vicinity and then it struck me. He was talking about me! I didn’t know upon what evidence he based this outlandish claim. All he’d seen me do was swat uselessly at a butterfly. It was all I could do to stop my jaw from dropping. The Boy was lying! The best light I could shine on it was exaggeration but all the same, it was dishonesty and, even though I’ve observed human behaviour from the cave days onwards, it was shocking to me to hear it coming from this up-to-now blameless character.
It shook me to my furry foundations, I have to say. Perhaps all humans are this way. Deceitful. Manipulative. Advertising executives.
“And he doesn’t eat much,” the Boy continued, “on account of all the mice he devours on a daily basis. And he’s no trouble. He, um, sleeps a lot.”
“If he sleeps a lot, when does he catch all the mice?”
“He - ah -“
I had allowed myself to become distracted again. So intent was I on this exchange that I didn’t notice the Dewdrop Kid sneak up behind me. Before I knew it, the repulsive creature had scooped me into her arms and was pressing me against her blouse. I tried to resist. My back legs beat against her like I was running on a treadmill.
Oh, please don’t nuzzle me, please don’t nuzzle me, please don’t -
Gaaahhh!
She nuzzled me. She pressed her face into my fur, wiping that icky, sticky philtrum of hers into my lovely clean pelt. I wanted to die.
The Boy delivered the wounding blow.
“And he’s great with kids,” he added brightly. The lousy traitor! If I hadn’t been clamped in the arms of Miss Mucus, I would have thrown myself at him and scratched that lying face.
“Hmm,” the innkeeper was considering the proposition.
“Oh, please, Daddy, please,” Little Miss Snotface implored in a wheedling tone. It must have been like catnip to her father. He was powerless to resist.
“Very well,” he conceded and my fate was sealed. “The cat stays here. You can ride on my cart - but only into the town, mind.”
The Boy grabbed the innkeeper’s hand and pumped it as though drawing a pint of ale.
“Thank you, thank you, sir!” he gushed.
My cringe-making captor was not exactly forthcoming with gratitude. She shifted me under her arm and conveyed me indoors, cooing as if I was a baby. She decided I would be “Mister Whiskers” and I would “never leave.”
I have never felt more terrified in all my existence.
I sent a last, desperate plea to the Boy but he wasn’t even looking at me. He was already clambering onto the waggon and biting hungrily into the heel of bread.
Bah, I hope there’s snot on it! I thought, as the brat with the constantly streaming nasal passages closed the door on the scene outside.
“Now, Mister Whiskers,” she said in a firmer voice, “You wait there while I fetch my brush and ribbons.” She planted me on a rough tabletop and skipped away, breathless with excitement. I have never felt such menace.
I leapt across to the windowsill and stood on my hind legs to watch the cart pull away from the yard. To his credit, the Boy did appear a little downcast. He was chewing his bread rather dejectedly, it seemed to me.
“You mind you don’t choke,” I muttered. “Traitor!”
I watched as the cart disappeared around a corner, pulled by a rather threadbare-looking dray horse, its iron shoes clip-clopping on the cobblestones.
I felt as though my heart would crack.
And then - then I saw a dark shape drop onto the cart and hide among the kegs.
The Rat!
My rotten brother was not only following the Boy he was travelling with him!
No good would ensue; I was certain of that.
“Cooee, Mister Whiskers!” My tormentor’s voice heralded her return. She came back with a small chest that was brimming with brightly coloured strips of cloth and glass beads and baubles. “We’re going to make you the prettiest pussy in the land.”
We’ll see about that, I thought. Never mind the clear and present danger of this box of tricks, the Rat was going after my Boy and I had to stop him.
As the girl approached with a hoary looking hairbrush, I shrank back. My ears flattened, my claws were at the ready and I hissed at her. She was undeterred and kept on coming.
“Don’t be like that, Mister Whiskers,” she pouted. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” Her singsong voice was all the more threatening. She produced a pair of scissors from her pinafore and snipped at the air,
I might not have had it for long but I rather liked my skin where it was. I sprang to one of the curtains and hung on by my claws.
“Silly kitty!” the girl stepped towards the window. “Get down from there.”
Not bloody likely.
I scaled the curtain and then launched myself at its partner. The momentum from this allowed me to sail through the air, over the child’s head and onto the counter. She turned her slimy face to track my progress. I tore along the bar and then, seeking a place too high for her to reach, I flung myself at the shelves on the back wall.
“Kitty, no!” the girl wailed.
I saw what she was afraid of. I made sure I visited every shelf, casually knocking every bottle and glass to the flagstone floor.
“Mister Whiskers!” She was stamping her feet and had screwed her face up like a discarded paper bag. These techniques may have her weak-willed father at her beck and call but with me, much like her snot-lipped self, they wouldn’t wash.
“What in the world is all this commotion?” screeched another female voice as a woman burst in from some back room. She surveyed the scene, made a rapid assessment, gave the brat a clip around the ear and flung open the door.
I didn’t need a written invitation.
I bounced down from the shelves to the counter and thence towards the door. I pelted across the courtyard, following the route taken by the waggon, leaving the little girl to explain herself and tidy up the mess.
I may have been mistaken but I think the satisfying sound of a hand smacking a snotty face rang out behind me. I don’t favour any kind of child abuse; don’t get me wrong - but, well, you saw what she was like.
***
You know, my reader, and I know you know, the Boy’s story from your own childhood. You knew all along that I would not stay with that horrible child. You knew I would follow him and in this respect, you get a little idea what it’s like for me. You know how things are going to play out. You have heard the story many times. You have foreknowledge of events. You know the Boy’s fate.
What I would have you understand is I didn’t. Well, I did - I mean, I used to - but when I took on this physical form, I lost that knowledge. I was still possessed of the rest of my memories of human history and endeavour before and since the Boy’s story, but of him, I no longer retained any information.
It felt like a test. It was like I had to make sure events would fall out as they should in order to maintain a balance.
If the Boy didn’t prosper, if he didn’t, for example, become Lord Mayor of London, then there could be catastrophic consequences on the course of human life. It might seem silly - how the life of one human could affect the whole of history and there have been very few humans who manage to do that directly - but consider if you will, the butterfly effect. Or do I mean the thing about dropping a pebble into a pond. Or do you drop a butterfly into the pond?
My thoughts were becoming confused as I pelted out of the courtyard and along the main (well, the only!) street in Pauntley village, heading out into open Gloucestershire countryside. The road beneath my feet became rougher as it took me from the settlement. Pretty soon it was no more than a couple of ruts in the dirt, with tufts of grass and wil
dflowers sprouting in between.
Had I come the right way? How did I know the waggon had taken this direction and not the other?
It all comes down to smell, you see. Traces of the horse, the barrels and their yeasty contents and of course, the Boy himself, hung in the air like an invisible bridal train. My own scent was there too - I’d mingled it with the Boy’s and now I was able to hone in on it and keep going. I didn’t have to snuffle the ground with my snout in the dirt like some stupid hound.
Cats are the best.
Except my little body wasn’t built for long distance sprinting. Perhaps if I’d been a larger model, like a cheetah, I could have overtaken that cart and set up a roadblock but as it was, I didn’t get far before I’d had enough. I came to a halt in the middle of the ruts and gave myself a licking. That refreshed me a little and I could have done with a nap right there, but even in my exhausted state I knew that kipping in the middle of the road was not the wisest idea.
I scanned my surroundings for a place of safety. I wasn’t going to sleep, you understand. I was merely going to plan my next move. With my eyes closed.
There was a tree but I couldn’t be bothered to climb it. The pads on my feet were sore from my sprinting. I kept looking. There was a low fence running alongside the road, delineating the perimeter of a field. It was too low - I’d feel exposed. There was a gorse bush. Just the job!
I snuggled deep into the bush, making myself as small and as still as possible and wondered what I would do next.
I had to catch up with that cart.
But how?
***
I was rudely awoken from my ponderings -oh, I admit it! I was asleep! Did ever a creature sleep as much as the one I inhabited? It’s most annoying when you have things to do. Like a cart to follow.
Even more annoying was the means by which I was woken up. A steady stream of what I took to be water hit me on the head. My first thought was rain, heavy rain permeating through the spiny foliage. The smell of it and the apparently targeted nature of the flow told me this was no rain.
I darted from the bush and through the legs of the human who was urinating into the leaves. Charming.
What utterly disgusting beasts humans are! No offence intended to you, the reader; I’m sure you’re far more refined with your twenty-first century manners and your electronic books and all. You probably have a litter tray in your house in which you perform the necessaries. But you have to remember this was a much dirtier time - It was all part of my exile; I realise that. Send me back to a filthy, plague-ridden age and put me in the form of an animal with an obsessive compulsive disorder about keeping itself clean. I wouldn’t be surprised if that had been my brother’s idea all along. Or perhaps I’m crediting him with too many brains.
The impulse to spring at this pissing fellow and sink my claws into his... neck was almost proving irresistible. I observed the beast from behind the wheel of his cart. Perhaps I could trip him up on his way back.
The wheel of his -
This is what I’m like when I don’t wake up properly. The pisser had a cart! He had stopped at the side of the road for a comfort break.
While he shook himself and adjusted his leggings, I gave the cart a sniff before leaping onto the back and sniffing it some more. The pisser was conveying turnips somewhere - it occurred to me he might be heading for the same market where the innkeeper was intending to sell his ales.
A spot of good fortune at last!
I nestled down among the knobbly root vegetables, knowing full well some of the earth that clung to their whiskery roots would find its way onto my fur. That could wait. I set about the unpleasant task of cleaning human urine from my head, grateful I didn’t have to lick the afflicted area directly but could use my paw as a face flannel.
The task was made more onerous by the bumpy progress made by the cart along that rutted track. The pisser - I shall henceforth refer to him as the carter - whistled to himself and jeered instructions and admonishments to the sorry-looking steed that pulled the cart behind it. The stench of this animal hit me like a wall. It was old and diseased - no, not diseased; ill. Undertones of stale sweat were reinforced with new. And that almighty sense of - of -
“Bloody hell!” the carter complained as the horse emptied its bowel. “Bloody stinks!”
It was enough to make a cat laugh. I don’t think the carter heard me. I ducked down in case he glanced over his shoulder and find me stowing away. I considered getting some shut-eye but each jolt of the wheels put paid to that idea.
And then suddenly we came to an abrupt halt. The unscheduled and unexpected stop dislodged a few of the turnips. A couple of them bounced off my head - my recently cleaned head. It is just not fair.
“Thank you, thank you, sire,” said a voice I recognised. I stumbled my way to the top of a mound of turnips to see who had joined us.
It was the Boy! He climbed up onto the planks that formed the rudimentary driving seat. The carter clicked his tongue and the horse plodded on.
I was so overjoyed to see him it surprised me. Don’t purr! I told myself. Don’t purr don’t purr don’t purr.
I didn’t purr. Worse! A bizarre trilling sound emitted from me as though I’d swallowed a trimphone - (you probably don’t have them in your day but trust me, the simile’s a good one).
The Boy turned around. I cowered but I was too late. He saw me. A look of delight and astonishment broke on his face. To me it was like the sun appearing from behind a cloud.
Why did I feel this attachment to the Boy? The sod had sold me out for a ride on a beer waggon.
“Puss!” he exclaimed. By his side, the carter glanced back and saw me and sneered.
The Boy held out his hand, twitching his thumb and fingers. I know and you know that he wasn’t offering me a little bird or small creature but I couldn’t help myself. I bounded across the turnips as nimbly as I could manage and went to investigate. I sniffed at his fingers. He thought I’d come in response to his beckoning or worse: answering that bloody awful name he insists on calling me - when, in truth, I was just curious about the twitching.
He gathered me up and placed me on his lap where I allowed him to stroke me and dust away some of the turnip muck from my fur.
I had questions and I’m sure you do too. What had happened to the beer waggon? And, more importantly, how could he do that to me? Save my life one minute and then abandon me to the paws of that little monster at the inn!
But of course, I couldn’t ask him. I had to be satisfied with the heat of his lap coming up through the pads of my feet and warming my belly.
“Chuck it out,” grumbled the carter. “Toss it in the ditch.”
It took me a few seconds to realise he meant me. How rude!
“No!” the Boy protested, cupping his hands protectively around my head.
“Rotten, filthy creatures!” the carter sneered. Well, that was rich, coming from him! Remind me: who pissed in whose face?
“They’re very clean, actually,” the Boy said in defence of my species. Bless him. “And besides, I know this one. He’s sort of mine.”
Those words gave me as warm a feeling as his lap. I’m sure I would have blushed if I could.
The carter gave a grunt as if that was the end of the matter.
We journeyed on in silence for a few minutes and then the carter gave the Boy a sharp nudge in his side.
“Only if he’s shat on my turnips...”
“He won’t have!” the Boy discounted this notion. I was mortally (hah!) offended. As if I would do anything of the sort!
“He’s a good kitty. Aren’t you, Puss? And he’s come all this way to find me. Isn’t that wonderful?”
The carter made a grunt that was pregnant with disdain.
“Lucky you came along,” the Boy continued, trying to fill
the awkward silence with conversation. You do that a lot, you humans. Why you can’t just sit in peace, I’ll never know. Always have to be jabbering on about something or other.
I considered digging my claws into the fabric of his breeches but realised that would inevitably lead to more noise and commotion. And so I let the Boy prattle on.
“I’d been stood standing there for about an hour. Perhaps two. I don’t know. Before you came along. I’d walked a few miles after the innkeeper - I was riding with an innkeeper,; did I mention that? Well, let’s just say we had a falling out. Or rather, his barrels had a falling out. They fell out of the back of his waggon, you see. And he thought I’d done it. And I hadn’t done it, I swear! They just sort of jumped overboard. I said he couldn’t have tied them on securely enough and he said I shouldn’t tell him how to do his job and besides the ropes had been brand new and now look at them. Cut through! You did it on purpose! he accused me. I said those ropes have been bitten through and I didn’t have the dental power to manage such a feat and he said well you must have done because there is nobody else and I said I’m not going to let you chase me around this rotten old waggon with a view to punching me in the face and he said Fine. And then he swore and the second word was Off. And away he went and left me in the middle of nowhere and I thought about going back to his inn and reclaiming my cat because No lift, No fee, in my book, and then I thought I may as well keep going now I was finally on my way and so I started walking.”
The carter gave a shout that startled the horse. “Don’t you ever shut up?” he roared. “I don’t bloody care about you or your bloody cat.”
Charming as ever.
Silence descended again.
Of course, I knew what had happened to the barrels. My brother, that’s what. He would have derived great pleasure in gnawing through the ropes with his ratty gnashers. But why he would do such a thing? Why was he determined to make things so difficult for my Boy?
And when had I started referring to him as “my Boy”?
An uneasy feeling ran through me. The Boy felt me shiver and gave me a soothing stroke.
Where was he now - my brother? After getting the Boy thrown off the waggon, he wouldn’t stick around with that innkeeper, would he? Had he gone on ahead to lay some kind of trap? What was next?
I AM THE CAT Page 3