by Alex Howard
…in which our hero witnesses perfection
In the days that followed the political demonstrations in George Square, heavy rains set in. Library Cat remained indoors. Cars sloshed over the cobbles sending streaks of water down against the panes of his bedroom window. From upstairs, a radio garbled through the day in a sort of post-apocalyptic refrain: “Dogger, severe easterly six to seven, cyclonic in places, good; Forties, Cromarty, Fair Isle, eight to nine, warning of gales later, moderate or good, occasionally poor.”
Library Cat was baffled by these strange broadcasts. They seemed to come from another world. Eventually, he ascertained that the broadcasts related to the waters surrounding the United Kingdom and were called “The Shipping Forecast”, but he was unsure why they were relevant or to what ends the Humans were to appropriate the information.
Maybe it has rained so much out there that the Humans are being forced to sail to and from their appointments? “Dogger”, indeed! It sounds like a horrendous place and I hope never to go there.
However, there was something comforting about the Shipping Forecast. It was like a big warm blanket. As the soft voice wafted downstairs and the rain beat ever harder on the windows and gurgled ceaselessly down the gutters, Library Cat imagined he was a ship’s cat aboard a great galleon, bound for lands afar where he would uncover great culinary and literary treasures. Part of him hoped the rains would never stop, and that in sleep, he’d merge with his dream. But stop they did. A few days later, the rains waned, and Library Cat ventured outside to stretch his legs, refreshed from proper sleeps, and feeling really quite good in himself. Along the gutter, silvery puddles reflected the white sky above with crystal clarity.
A sudden thirst struck Library Cat, and he sauntered off the kerb towards one of the puddles for a drink. All of a sudden, as he looked into the puddle, he became utterly spellbound.
Library Cat had never given much thought to the subject of love. Last Valentine’s Day he’d concluded, after some thought, that “The Valentine”… was a purely Human concept perfectly befitting that specie for whom copulation only occurred on 14th February each year, and who saw fit, on this day, to buy each other odd pre-copulation gifts such as candles that released poisonous fumes, and terrifyingly turgid red bags of air that floated around hallways making unearthly bangs when touched by a clawed paw.
And then it hit him. Love. It shot into focus like a humungous telescope, bringing into his vision the eternal, infinite colours of the universe. The stars in all their
yellow brilliance. The soft blue swirls of Neptune. The deep, red, towering supernovas. And who was the cat that had caused such tectonic stirring? Who was the cat that had finally kindled love in our hero’s tiny, feline breast? PUDDLE CAT!
Puddle Cat was beautiful, with a shiny coat and long whiskers. Puddle Cat was stunning. Library Cat was in love. Suddenly the world around Library Cat seemed to dissolve; all but himself, Puddle Cat and a sprouting autumnal narcissus remained. He’d forgotten all about his drink of water.
He walked back the chaplaincy holding the image like a red laser dot, flickering and ungraspable. His heart beat hard. He felt delicious as the thought of Puddle Cat washed over him.
He pushed his way through the cat flap and into his bed, and there he stayed, kept awake by his own purring.
Recommended Reading
‘Sonnet 18’ by William Shakespeare.
Food consumed
Dissolved piece of mud.
Mood
Enraptured.
Discovery about Humans
They trivialise perfection.
…in which our hero heads out
for a night down the alleys
A week later, Library Cat awoke to the colour of orange. It was 1st October and autumn had well and truly descended. Browns and ambers mixed deeply together among the littered leaves, and the very whirrs and hums of the city seemed to braid beautifully into their papery shuffle along the pavement.
A cornucopia of delicateness, thought Library Cat, his two front paws on the edge of the windowsill with just his ears and eyes poking above into the square. How pleasing!
Things had gone quiet and Library Cat could only assume that the Humans had finally agreed on which set of “bloodsucking creatures” should make the new “laws” which governed the fate of day-old tuna.
Thank goodness for that, mused Library Cat, relieved that his choice to keep his views to himself could no longer be denunciated as apathetical. Still uppermost in his mind, however, was the beautiful image of Puddle Cat – the first she-cat to instantly win over his heart.
Oh Puddle Cat! Was the image of a cat ever more lovely and temperate? thought Library Cat, freely quoting Shakespeare because he’s out of copyright. Oh Puddle Cat! You were like my best side! The missing piece to my puzzle… Am I really to see you just the once? You mimicking my every move in reverence? Your coat rippling in the breeze?
Library Cat was so carried away in his own soppy cloud of love that he almost failed to hear the rustle in the hallway: a postcard had fallen just inside the cat flap. Jumping down, he weaved his way past his piles of books and out into the long, cold corridor, its floor glowing with little parallelograms of autumn sunlight.
He looked at the postcard on the mat. It was from his English cousin, Saaf Landan Tom:
Cuz –
Been finking about ya, mate. Hope ya well and that. Howz about I hit up your gaff in Edinbrah, and we go mousing one day? Also, I need to take you On The Prowl… Seriousssslee, mate, I can’t believe you’ve never been On The Prowl. The nights in Edinbrah are wicked, mate, just wicked. I’ll take you when I’m up – da alley scene up near you is bangin’ mate, I’m tellin’ ya’. Tons of byoo’tiful she-cats. We can cotch at yours, go to the Towsery, read sum naughty books, do some nip and head out on the town, yoo wiv me, yeah? YEAH!
Also I need to cotch wiv you coz I totally forgotten where I live. And this sofa I’m sleeping on under this bridge is bare itchy, mate. And the rats here are MASSIVE.
Cheers, cuz, you da cat.
Yours presumptuously,
Saaf Landan Tom
Saaf Landan Tom was only half thinking cat. From his father’s side (whoever his father was), Saaf Landan Tom came from pure alley cat stock, whose lineage dated back to the Great Plague. For a pedigree thinking cat like Library Cat, his cousin’s uncouth behaviour could at times be a little bit hard to endure. Saaf Landan Tom had no style. No panache. No esprit de chat as Biblio Chat would say.
But Library Cat’s cockney cousin had his advantages. Catnip was always in plentiful supply when his cousin was present, and whenever Library Cat was thinking a little too much – his mind white hot and overloaded with knowledge – Saaf Landan Tom was the perfect cat to bring him back to earth.
Also Saaf Landan Tom never arrived empty pawed. Whether it was rat, vole, mouse or a how-on-earth-did-you-kill-that badger, Saaf Landan Tom always announced his visit with the most succulent and freshest killing one could imagine. It was hard for Library Cat not to soften against his cousin’s grating habits and unrelenting insistence for “fun” when he arrived with such delicious offerings, such potent catnip and such saucy suggestions for literature.
Hmmmmm, thought Library Cat, reading over his cousin’s postcard once again. As long as he doesn’t stay for weeks and besmirch my rug with fur balls, I will accept him. But going out On The Prowl? Never. I’m just not that kind
of cat…
Library Cat thought back to the one and only other time he had gone On The Prowl. It had been an unmitigated disaster. He had been sitting in his turquoise chair one day, and a Human had approached and said, “Looking hot, Library Cat! Would you be my Valentine?”
From this comment, Library Cat had gleaned that the Human was trying to tell him it was time for love, and that he should drag himself out On The Prowl. And so he did. He’d eaten well, and licked his coat until it shined. He’d caught the finest rodents, as offerings. They should be so lucky, he’d th
ought, looking down at the clutch of maimed mice he’d amassed. Then, he’d retched up a fur ball (no cat wants to be gagging on a fur ball when he’s about to seal the deal with a beautiful she-cat), took a brief drink of water, gnawed his collar off and headed out the cat flap at 4 am, ready to join the hoard of other cats mewing their way down the alleys towards night-time pleasures.
But when he arrived at the spot, beneath a flickering sodium streetlight, Library Cat just couldn’t do it. He tried to get involved, but was invariably shunted to the side to watch other cats nuzzle each other’s noses and nip each other’s ears affectionately, which made his tail fat with jealousy. (This was because Library Cat knew all this nuzzling, and coat-preening, and mouse-giving was all a big preamble to… well… you-know-what. And frankly, Library Cat was terrible at you-know-what.) Library Cat had tried to ruin the mood by hissing from his sideline position, but it hadn’t worked. Chemistry is chemistry after all. Eventually he quietly gathered his mice-offerings up by their tails, walked over to another cat’s house and dumped them on his doorstep, before tiptoeing quietly out into the street pondering banal things like, I wonder why “alleys” are called “closes” in Scotland? and What on earth is a “Fire Hydrant”? and Why aren’t they bothered by the threat of stray dogs, and traffic, and catching worms, and lice and, and, and…
No, I’m not going to let that happen again, resolved Library Cat, his ears twitching backwards at the recalled embarrassment of it all, and the added humiliation he’d feel once more if it were to happen again in front of his alley cat cousin and highly seasoned prowler.
He took the postcard in his mouth and sat back down for a little snooze to await Tom’s arrival, but no sooner had he stopped kneading his cushion, pleasantly allowing the image of Puddle Cat to wash over him, than there came through the gap under the window, the unmistakable tuneless screech of alley cat, followed promptly by the cat flap going.
Well, that’ll be him then, thought Library Cat, arching his back with a disgruntled flash in his eyes, and sure enough around the corner swaggered his South London cousin.
Saaf Landan Tom was twenty full pounds of pure, swaggering cockney wide-cat – coarse ginger fur, a few nips bitten out his left ear from various fights he’d endured and a black spot on his tail where a Parcel Force lorry had started its engine while he was gnawing on a kebab skewer beneath its tailgate. And here he was now, on this chilly, yellow Edinburgh autumn morning, marching into Library Cat’s home, givin’ it all that.
“Meow,” said Library Cat frostily.
“Eow!” replied Saaf Landan Tom with cheer.
“Meow,” responded Library Cat, determined not to succumb to his cousin’s sloppy diction.
“EOO!!” replied Saaf Landan Tom, loud and unperturbed.
This was not a good start. The interaction triggered more memories in Library Cat’s mind about his cousin’s dastardly habits.
The first issue – Saaf Landan Tom had fleas. Many fleas. It was a blight he’d picked up from his tendency to rest his furry posterior on any discarded, offensively maroon three-piece suite he could find – a pastime which regularly saw him skulking the perimeters of civil amenity centres as far north as Elephant & Castle. But worse, Saaf Landan Tom sprayed. Everywhere. On Library Cat’s food, his scratch post, his bed, his rug, his secret stash of catnip… Library Cat had even taken to burying his precious Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche in his own litter tray since it might be the only place where Saaf Landan Tom didn’t spray. No avail. Saaf Landan Tom sprayed there too. Saaf Landan Tom had apologised in good nature; claimed it was all down to habit, innit... but then continued anyway.
What tumultuous hells am I to undergo this time? fretted Library Cat, nonchalantly nudging his food bowl in the direction of his cousin in a strained act of generosity while watching on, with straight-backed composure, as his enormous cousin voraciously wolfed down the chunks of food between sonorous, deeply satisfied purrs, only to follow up the meal by lapping from the adjacent water bowl contaminating it with greasy lumps of jellied chicken. As the great cat finally finished, he nudged the bowl in Library Cat’s direction and his cousin took a few delicate nibbles, half in awe and half resentful of the massive virile hulk of ginger tomcat beside him.
As the evening wore on, Library Cat’s anger softened. The two cats had passed a pleasant early evening in the Towsery, and the catnip, milk, mice and literature had flowed pleasingly. Library Cat saw Tom in a different light – a deeply intelligent cat with a visceral, red-blooded exterior, and Library Cat was rather admiring of the urbane way in which his cousin could flit between one character type and the other, and yet never seem disingenuous or fake in doing so. He was truly the best of both worlds: thinker by day, prowler by night.
It was early evening by the time both cats headed out of the Towsery having indulged a broad selection of literary tastes, and set off through the foyer of Edinburgh University’s Main Library, and down the concrete steps to a desolate George Square. Saaf Landan Tom led the way, his great tail towering above his cousin’s nose like a massive ginger toilet brush that had become rather unpleasantly matted.
I’ll go out for half an hour, thought Library Cat, but no more. I have a lot of reading to do tomorrow…
Further and further they walked, down the plumbing of streets, wynds and closes. Library Cat began to feel cold. Evening advanced suddenly, like a pack of black playing cards being dealt across a table. Library Cat could feel the ominousness of night enveloping the very nation, top to bottom, closing in on faraway fields and shores, and now creeping up on them in Edinburgh – on Bristo Place and Candlemaker Row – cloaking up the lights, allowing only the little yellow halos of certain street lamps to burn determinedly through the fog in shimmering rings… they towered above Library Cat like beacons on top of skyscrapers. Colours became ashen. Suddenly, in the corner of his eye, he caught glimpses of cats skulking. They were evidently out On The Prowl too. One could just tell by the way they moved, somehow. Library Cat’s nerves heightened. Things felt crepuscular. Suddenly he found himself thinking of Robert Louis Stevenson and Jekyll and Hyde, and wondered whether cats could have evil counterparts that stalk the night-time streets as well.
I’m going back, he thought. I don’t want this. I want to think about Puddle Cat in my cosy warm room. Tom’s clearly trying to take me properly out On The Prowl. I shall resist.
I am really just not that type of cat.
Discreetly, Library Cat slowed his pace, and was about to turn around and break into a gallop. But no sooner did he falter than his cousin purred and mewed loudly, luring Library Cat on with the false promise of nearby mice. Library Cat knew he was most likely bluffing, but then the possibility of a nearby rodent is a temptation that Catkind finds virtually impossible to ignore. After all, the deliciousness of food trumps the wonder of thought, even for a purebred thinking cat like Library Cat.
Soon the pair turned the corner into an alley. It had the soft bite of intrigue that all cut-through alleys in Edinburgh have. A sign bearing the name “Heriot Place” glimmered whitely on an ancient black and brown wall that itself was labelled “Telfer Wall” in ornate, gold letters. The air was lambent with catnip and scent marking. Ahead of them, the alley stretched out threateningly, its wet, narrow pavement gleaming like steel in the reflection of the full moon above. About halfway down, Library Cat could see a group of cats huddled beneath a flickering light. As they advanced closer, Library Cat glanced up at the enormous tenement buildings either side and wondered in which direction he’d bolt if things turned sinister. It was either back down to the main road the way he’d arrived, or straight ahead into the deeper, darker gloom of the unknown. Dogs barked in the distance; a few Humans nearby smashed something glass on the floor.
Finally, the pair arrived.
Library Cat eyed the cats in the group. It was immediately evident which one was attractive to him. In the corner, half-concealed by bracken, a small tortoiseshell sat wide-eyed beneath an elect
ric meter. Her paws were extended down determinedly in front of her as if she was trying to resist being pushed forward from behind. Quickly, Library Cat preened his face and the backs of his paws, and with adrenaline rushing through him, stood up and trotted over to the tortoiseshell. He sat down in front of her. Holding Library Cat’s glance, the tortoiseshell purred melodically and began rolling her snake-like coat over and over on the muddy path, a white paw outstretched celestially towards Library Cat like God’s hand breathing life into Adam in Michelangelo’s Creation. Library Cat was transfixed. He didn’t know where to look. This is amazing! He trotted over and nuzzled her. Her fur felt like silk. For a moment he smelt the sweet stagnancy of her breath. It was tinged with the reek of a Sheba terrine. The purrs of the two cats harmonised for one moment. One blissful time-stopping moment.
But then all became strange. The tortoiseshell flinched, suddenly, and became wide-eyed. A certain awkwardness stole through the air. The two cats surveyed each other silently for a moment. Library Cat didn’t know what to do. A weird heat started to rise inside of him from the sheer embarrassment. What had gone wrong? Do something, do something, Library Cat. The awkwardness was terrible. This couldn’t go on. Finally, with a de-clawed paw, Library Cat gently biffed her on the side of her back while uttering the only icebreaker line he knew: “Prrrrrrrrp?”
Almost instantaneously, the tortoiseshell quadrupled in size. Her fur extended out into the air, and her cavernous mouth opened brutishly to reveal a long track of fangs through which she spoke a deep, spitting, sibilant hiss, swiping her paw against his side, before darting down the close and into the gloom.
Well, that went well, thought Library Cat, as certain other members of the cat fraternity turned to eye him, standing alone, his paw still outstretched. Two amorous white cats looked up from their canoodling. A ginger, eating a mouse, paused mid-chew and gazed over. A clutch of tiny mewing shorthairs, suspiciously young and probably still within kittenhood, played boisterously over the silence. Finally, breaking the stasis, a green-eyed alley began walking towards Library Cat poised-of-claw, but thought better of it as Library Cat rose sharply to his feet and growled him down.