Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Introduction
CHAPTER 1 - Home
CHAPTER 2 - Beyond the Back Door
CHAPTER 3 - Team Nancy
CHAPTER 4 - Taxi for Nancy
CHAPTER 5 - Milestones
CHAPTER 6 - Teenage Kicks
CHAPTER 7 - Homecomings
CHAPTER 8 - Juvie
CHAPTER 9 - Local Hero
CHAPTER 10 - Mog Blogs
CHAPTER 11 - Online Felines
CHAPTER 12 - Show Cats
CHAPTER 13 - Would Like to Meet
CHAPTER 14 - Nancy’s Got Talent
CHAPTER 15 - The Show Must Go On
CHAPTER 16 - MIAOW
CHAPTER 17 - Living with the Competition
CHAPTER 18 - Screen Queen
CHAPTER 19 - Model Nancy
CHAPTER 20 - Bancy
CHAPTER 21 - Nancy’s Choice
CHAPTER 22 - . . . Or Whatever
Acknowledgements
A PLUME BOOK
SEX AND THE KITTY
NANCY THE CAT is a familiar furry face in homes and businesses around Harpenden, England. She lives with her owner, Melissa Tredinnick, Melissa’s husband and their children, and the family’s noncelebrity cat, Pip.
PLUME
Published by Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, September 2011
Copyright © Melissa Tredinnick, 2011
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Tredinnick, Melissa.
Sex and the kitty : a celebrity meowmoir / Nancy the Cat.
p. cm.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54371-9
1. Cats—Fiction. 2. Celebrities—Fiction. 3. Cats—Humor. 4. Satire. I. Title. II. Title: Celebrity meowmoir.
PS3620.R4415S49 2011
813’.6—dc22
2011022735
Kirch
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Phil. We couldn’t have done it without you.
Introduction
I did encounter some skepticism when I announced that I intended to write my memoirs. “But Nancy, you’re not even two years old!” people cried, as if a cat could not possibly have achieved enough in such a short time to merit an autobiography. Granted, I am on the young side to release a memoir. Most cats don’t have their biographies published until they are the wrong side of middle age (or even until they have popped their proverbial clogs). But I have never been one to follow the path set by other cats.
I prefer to take my inspiration from human celebrities—such icons as Charlotte Church, Justin Bieber, and the Kardashian sisters. A cynic might say they were also too young for an autobiography, and yet look how many books they’ve sold. Wisdom has nothing to do with age, as I’m sure the Misses Kardashian would agree. Plus, I am not stupid. By getting my first memoir out now, I am leaving the door open for possible sequels.
They say that once you become famous you stay the same age in the public consciousness forever, and that certainly seems to be the case with me. I first gained notoriety as a kitten, which, combined with the fact that I am naturally petite (size 0, for the record), means that in the public’s mind I am synonymous with youth. You could say I’m the Donny Osmond of the cat world. But I digress.
Before we start, I’d like to get a few things straight. I can’t bear people who complain that a book “wasn’t what they were expecting,” as if an author’s work was answerable to a reader’s ill-informed expectations. So to spare the critics among you the dull ache of disappointment, I’m going to set out a few ground rules. That way you will all know what you’re letting yourselves in for.
Contrary to the prevailing trend in the autobiography genre, this is not a misery memoir. Without wanting to spoil the ending, no one dies. I didn’t overcome a tragic infancy or survive abuse and neglect. I’m not deaf, blind, an amputee, or in any other way “special.” I’m just an ordinary cat.
Nor will this be an uplifting story of the power of cats to change the world. I have never saved anyone’s life, human or feline. I haven’t healed a community or taught my owner the meaning of true love. I will leave such worthy endeavors to the (many) other cats who have tapped that particular literary vein.
I also have a zero-tolerance policy toward cat-based puns.1 If you’re looking for a “hiss-and-tell” memoir or hoping this book will be “bursting with catitude,” then return this volume to the shelf and step away from the pet biography section. I’m the first to admit that there is humor to be found in a good bit of feline wordplay, but there is a time and a place for it, and that is on the Internet, probably underneath a photo of a kitten pulling a stupid face.
Wherever possible, I have used real names. If any of the cats featured in these pages has a problem with that—well, too bad. You’re a cat. I’m a cat. What are you going to do, sue me?
My memoir is an account of the first year (and a bit) of my life, the journey I went on in my quest for fame, and the cats I encountered along the way. It is written with both human and feline readers in mind. Whether you’re a cat, a cat owner, or even one of those alarming women who collects cats and wears cat-themed clothing, there’s something in here for you. Of course I will be delighted if Cat magazine selects my memoir as its book of the month, but I also have my sights set on Oprah’s Book Club. I could make myself quite at home on that sofa of hers, thank you very much.
Finally, just for the record, I am writing this book mysel
f. Aficionados of the genre will appreciate how unusual this is. Look closely at the covers of most feline memoirs and you will see a human’s name lurking underneath the cat’s name. Not on my cover. I can guarantee that no human ghostwriters were harmed in the making of this memoir. I was offered one: my agent thought it might help me to “find my voice.” But she soon learned, as will you, that finding my voice has never been a problem.
So relax. Have a wash (if you’re a cat), make yourself a cup of tea (if you’re a human), or clear yourself a space on the sofa (if you’re a crazy cat woman) and let me tell you a little bit about myself. I’m going to start at the beginning, so those of you who only bought this book because it mentions sex in the title will need to be patient. There will be plenty to get your heart racing—I promise.
CHAPTER 1
Home
A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.
—Lao-tzu
I don’t remember much about the house I was born in, or indeed about my mother, as I only spent two months of my life with her and for the first ten days of that I couldn’t open my eyes. But don’t go feeling sorry for me—like I said, this isn’t a misery memoir. That’s just the way things work in the cat world. I remember other adult cats living in the house, too, as well as an Alsatian dog with a bloodcurdling bark that belied his puppyish disposition. My siblings and I were confined to the kitchen, which contained our food, a cardboard box that served as our collective bed, and a litter tray. I was aware of my mother and the other adult cats coming and going through a cat flap in the back door, but at such a tender age it didn’t cross my mind to wonder what lay beyond. The four walls of that kitchen contained my world, and I was happy to spend my days playing with my siblings and cuddling up with my mother to sleep.
Like all her offspring, my mother was a black shorthair. She was also something of a tearaway, and as we drifted off to sleep at night, she would tell how she had managed to open a locked window in order to answer the call of nature (or at least, the call of a neighborhood tom) and get pregnant with us. I dare say the Freudians among you are having a field day right now, speculating about whether my subsequent daredevil behavior can be attributed to my mother’s example. You may well be right. By human standards, all cats should be basket cases: most of us never knew our fathers and were forcibly separated from our mothers in infancy. If we were human we could keep the self-help industry in business for life. But alley cats such as myself tend to be emotionally robust and optimistic by nature; our milk bowl is half full, rather than half empty. (Pedigree cats are another matter, but I’ll come to them later.)
We may not have had long together, but in our brief time as a family unit my mother taught me a vital life lesson: black cats are not rated highly in the cute-stakes.2 You might have noticed how cat shelters are always full of black cats. More often than not it is black kittens who are left on the special-offers shelf in the supermarket of life, valued at half the price of their tabby, marmalade, and calico peers. So it was with me and my siblings, and my mother’s owner was unable to find anyone to home us until, in desperation, she enlisted the help of a cat charity.
Around the age of eight weeks, when my siblings and I were still mere balls of black fuzz small enough to sit in the palm of your hand, I was aware of people visiting the house more often than usual. One afternoon I woke from a nap to find that instead of four siblings I had just two. A surprising discovery, but not one that caused me any undue concern. My mother calmly explained to us that our brothers had gone on an adventure to a new home, and if I felt anything it was a pang of disappointment that I had been left behind. A few days later when another pair of strangers arrived, I made sure I was wide awake and on my best behavior—friendly and affectionate with just a hint of reticence thrown in for good measure. Unlike my sisters, who flung themselves around the room and raced up the curtains in an attempt to show off, I played it cool. The strangers fell for my charm, and for the price of a bottle of wine, I was taken away. (In case you’re wondering whether my mother received any compensation for the loss of her offspring, she did: a voucher from the cat charity for free neutering.)
I was lifted into a plastic cat box lined with newspaper, then placed on the backseat of a car between two very excited little people. These were a novelty to me, and quite different from the adult members of their species. They seemed to be all face and fingers, pressed up against the mesh door of the cat box. And their volume control was definitely set a few levels higher than their adults’. But their faces were benign, and I sensed that, like me, their primary instinct in life was to make friends and have fun, so I didn’t fear them.
When the car stopped, my box was lifted out and placed in the hallway of my new home. I tiptoed into the living room, and for the first time since my adventure began, I felt a pang of fear. Everywhere I looked there were toys that moved, played music, or jerked unexpectedly into life, usually triggering the excited squeals and yelps of the little people. Faced with this unfamiliar sensory overload, I reacted in the way any sane kitten would—I ran under the sofa and hid as far back as I could, to watch the goings-on from a safe vantage point. I hoped that the little people would forget about me, but instead they seemed to take my hiding as an invitation to play and began to shove toys under the sofa at me in an attempt to lure me out. It is not an exaggeration to say that I began to curse the inventor of the telescopic grabber-arm.
I think I spent most of the day in this position, dodging the onslaught of toys. I must have fallen asleep, as the next thing I remember it was dark outside and the little people had gone. I awoke to find myself surrounded by assorted teddy bears, plastic food, and other childish accoutrements. I must have looked like a feline Lady Gaga impersonator. I extracted myself from the ensemble but remained under the sofa to maintain my lookout position.
After a while I heard the unmistakable sound of a cat flap opening in another room, shortly followed by cat food being eaten, then claws on a wooden floor. The next thing I knew a male cat was lying on the carpet directly in front of my hiding place, beginning his grooming ritual. The cat was a black shorthair like me, but with a white blaze on his chest and white paws. I estimated that he was around three years old. He was tall and slender, with long legs and tail, and he had the most extravagant set of white whiskers I’d ever seen. In my vulnerable emotional state, I was overcome by a feeling of warmth toward him. I realized how much I had missed feline company: it seemed like a lifetime ago that I had been sleeping in a heap with my siblings, being groomed by my mother. I rushed out from under the sofa to greet him, with a cheerful chirrup by way of introduction.
The phrase “jumped out of his skin” would probably best sum up the cat’s reaction to my unexpected appearance at his side. Possibly the fastest movement known to the feline world is that of a startled cat from “fully reclined on carpet” to “fully alert on dining table, with arched back and fluffed-out tail.” This was the trick that my new stepcat (whose name I learned was Pip) managed to pull off, and needless to say, it wasn’t the response I’d been hoping for.
The rest of the evening was spent in a tortuous game of cat chess, in which Pip and I took turns to advance on our haunches for a cautionary sniff, often triggering a hiss or spit from one or the other of us. Then we would retreat to our respective lookouts (me, under the sofa; him, behind the footstool) and eyeball each other until one of us felt brave enough to begin the advance again.
I would love to tell you that at the end of this merry dance Pip and I became firm friends, but we didn’t. What actually happened was that I eventually fell asleep under the sofa, worn out by the drama and the pseudo-aggressive posturing, and I think Pip must have stalked off in a huff, because I hardly saw him for the next two weeks. I knew he was around, as I sometimes heard the cat flap swishing or food being eaten in the bowl, but for days on end I saw no more of my stepcat than the tip of his tail disappearing through a doorway whenever I walked into a room.
There
’s only so long a cat can sulk for, however, and eventually a spell of wet weather drove Pip back indoors. At first he made a show of being upset and angry whenever he encountered me—often lashing out with claws bared if I got too close—but it was obvious that he was milking the situation for sympathy, and he got short shrift from our owners. I probably didn’t help matters by playing hunt practice with his tail, but I was only a kitten, and he was fundamentally a gentle cat (although don’t tell him I said that). More to the point, he was intelligent enough to realize that fighting me was going to be a waste of energy and would probably cost him the goodwill of our owners.
Pip and I slowly established our rules of engagement. He let me know in no uncertain terms that the laundry basket in our owners’ bedroom and the radiator sling bed in the dining room were his exclusive domain, so I opted for the little people’s beds and the sofa cushions in the living room as my napping areas of choice. In those early days Pip rarely did more than growl in acknowledgment of my presence.
“Morning!” I would chirrup cheerfully as I scampered to the food bowl to join him for breakfast.
“Hrrmph,” he would reply, walking away in disgust.
I eventually accepted that Pip simply was not much of a conversationalist, at least, not when he was with me. He did not seem keen to enter into the lively banter that I have always considered to be essential to life. He had been the family’s first cat and was never going to welcome a stepsibling into the home, no matter how charming that stepsibling might be. Clearly, we were never going to be soul mates, but the emotional energy required to hate me wore him down eventually, and after a few weeks, we had established a relationship based on tolerance, if not affection. I stopped jumping on him, and he stopped growling at me.
Sex and the Kitty Page 1