Sex and the Kitty

by Nancy the Cat

  I also discovered a propensity among the bloggers for poor grammar and deliberate misspelling of words in a quasi-phonetic style:“I iz starvin wotz fur brekfust.”

  I daresay whichever cat first came up with this idea thought it was cute, the conceit being that cats are unable to master the nuances of the English language, or the intricacies of the QWERTY keyboard, or both.

  But when you are reading the tenth blog of the day and they have all been written in such a way that you have to repeat each sentence three times, out loud, in order to make sense of it, the novelty begins to wear off.

  Enuff, alreddy.

  Clearly I was going to have to start my own blog and show these other felines that poor spelling does not a blogger make. We all know cats can write just as well as anyone else, so let’s stop perpetuating the myth that we’re illiterate.

  My mind was made up. I would write a Mog Blog with a difference. One that would appeal to humans just as much as it would to cats. And that would be grammatically correct.

  When I had finalized the layout, typed my first entry (a drily witty account of a recent visit to the local Cub Scouts), and uploaded a photo, it occurred to me that I should encourage Team Nancy to sign up as my followers.

  When I headed outside, the temperature took me by surprise. It was now mid-March, and the wintry weather had given away to the first mild air of the spring. I had become so absorbed in my online life recently that I had become oblivious to the world beyond my laptop.

  I sniffed the air, thinking how pleasant it was not to feel the sting of a cold wind on my nose, and began to make my way toward Murphy’s house.

  Of all my friends, I reasoned, he would be the most excited to hear about my blog.

  As I trotted along the footpath I passed Dennis heading in the opposite direction.

  “All right, Dennis?” I called.

  “Hmm,” he grunted.

  Dennis still hadn’t forgiven me for dumping him, apparently.

  Never mind, it’ll make great material for a blog, I thought.

  “Murphy. Are you in there?”

  I peered through the cat flap. I was surprised that he wasn’t outside enjoying the mild weather. I found him in the living room, asleep on the sofa. Molly was on the armchair, also asleep.

  “Murphy!” I whispered. “Wake up! I’ve got so much to tell you.”

  He opened his eyes and was about to smile, then thought better of it.

  “Oh. Hello, stranger,” he said sleepily, and I noticed Molly’s ears flicker. “Where’ve you been for the last month?”

  “Well, it’s a long story. My owner put me on Facebook. I’ve been posting updates. And American cats—they’re house cats! And I’ve set up a blog, too!”

  “Nancy, I didn’t understand a word of what you just said,” he replied, starting to look weary.

  “It’s all on the computer, Murphy. You should try it—it’s so much fun!”

  Murphy sighed. “You know I’m not really into computers. Occasionally take naps on the printer, but computers—not so much.”

  “No, but really, Murphy, it’s brilliant. I’ve got so many new friends!”

  His face fell, and then, in silence, he stretched, before walking around the cushion in a slow circle.

  Finally, he said, “Good for you,” with a voice that was uncharacteristically cold.

  I saw Molly’s ears flicker again and couldn’t resist hissing, “I know you’re awake, Molly; you can stop pretending to be asleep,” but she remained motionless.

  “Come on, Murphy, why don’t you give it a try? I could be your first Facebook friend!”

  “You’re already my friend,” he snapped back. “Or at least, I thought you were.”

  “Of course I’m your friend—Molly, can you please stop pretending to be asleep!”

  Molly was still curled in a ball, her tail resting on her front paws to hide her face, but I could see that her eyes were open, watching me beadily.

  Murphy had settled back down onto his sofa cushion and begun to wash the back of his hind leg, lifting it diagonally so that it obscured his face.

  “Fine,” I said. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  I jumped down from the sofa and headed for the door.

  “I might write about this in my blog, but I guess that won’t worry you as you’ll never read it,” I hissed over my shoulder.

  And with that I headed back out through the cat flap, my good mood and optimism thoroughly deflated.

  The garden birds had returned from their winter exodus, and they had seemingly forgotten about the existence of cats during their absence.

  “What’s that?!”

  “I think it’s a cat!”

  “Oh, my god!” they trilled over my head.

  “Don’t push me,” I said out loud. “I’m in a filthy mood right now and killing one of you might just be the only thing that will make me feel better.”

  That shut them up.

  CHAPTER 11

  Online Felines

  There’s a statistical theory that if you gave a million cats typewriters and set them to work, they’d eventually come up with the complete works of Shakespeare. Thanks to the Internet, we now know this isn’t true.

  —(Adapted from) Ian Hart

  It is an indisputable fact that at least 70 percent of content on the Internet is made up of cats, and I soon worked out that these generally fall into three categories.

  By far the largest is the “cute home video” category.

  These are cats who have been filmed doing something funny: drinking from the toilet, running into a glass door, or cuddling up to a rodent/bird/dog.

  Amusing certainly, but not the basis for a media career, I think you’ll agree.

  The second category is what I call the “techno-gimmick” cats. These are cats who feature in videos cut to music, in which they play the drums, dance on their hind legs, or sing in funny voices.

  Now, let’s be clear about one thing: these videos fool nobody. We all know that in the close-up shot of the paw holding the drumstick, the paw belongs to a soft toy, not a real cat. The dancing on hind legs is because a human is dangling a feather duster out of the cat’s reach. And the funny voices have more to do with a synthesizer program than with the cat itself.

  With a cheap piece of home-editing software, a human is able to construct what appears to be a four-minute pop video out of what is actually only three shots. And, like I said, it fools no one.

  The third category of cats on the Internet, however, is what can only be described as the “Kitterati.” This is an elite band of cats who have a genuine talent and have deservedly hit the big time.

  Their skills are varied: some are pianists; some are photographers; some are actors. Others are advice columnists or healers.

  These cats, I discovered, don’t just have a Facebook page, a blog, or a clip on YouTube. They have their own websites. They have merchandising ranges. They’ve been on Oprah.

  And, I realized with a sigh, they were completely out of my league.

  I typed in a status update: “Nancy needs to find her USP,” and soon I had a dozen thumbs-up, although I noted that none of my friends came up with a suggestion for what my unique selling point could be.

  In the absence of an obvious skill on which to build a career, I decided to focus my energies on my blog. I found it surprisingly enjoyable and cathartic to write: it was the perfect way to digest the day-to-day dramas of my life.

  Everything from niggling irritations with my owners, or with Pip, to humorous accounts of my adventures around town (the “Nancy set pieces,” as I came to think of them), I got it all out of my system through my online diary.

  I started to feel like Bridget Jones as I recounted embarrassing yet amusing anecdotes in my journal.5

  Now that my online friends tally was growing, I had also started to uncover some other British cats on the Internet.

  One was a rather exotic-looking cat who sent me a friend request on Fac
ebook. His name was Troy, and in his profile photo he looked like a long-haired Brambles.

  I sent him a message:“Troy’s a funny name for such a fancy cat. Are you Siamese?”

  A couple of moments later he messaged back:

  “No, I’m not Siamese, I’m a chocolate-point Birman. And Troy is short for Troilus Pumpernickel.”

  I snorted into my laptop. What a great name! And could there really be a breed called “chocolate-point Birman”? It sounded like a snack, not a cat.

  “Unusual name,” I typed back.

  “It’s my show name. I’m a Pedigree Grand Master. You can just call me Troy.”

  Now he had my attention.

  “What’s a Pedigree Grand Master? And why do you need a show name?”

  “For cat shows, of course. Check out my Web site.”

  So I followed the link he sent to a site detailing the many trophies, rosettes, and awards Troy had won during his career.

  There were pages of photos of him next to a grinning woman (his owner, presumably) clutching a garish trophy.

  “Liking your bling!” I wrote. “What happens at these shows, exactly?”

  “Not a lot, really. You stand on a table, then someone prods you and checks your teeth.”

  “What, like going to the vet?”

  “Not really. It’s like a beauty contest. If you win you get a trophy and a check.”

  This was an interesting concept. I knew the beauty contest thing was dated, and not exactly politically correct, but I did like the sound of the check.

  “Could I enter a show?” I asked. “I’ve got great teeth.”

  “What breed are you?”

  “Er, none that I know of. Hundred percent pure alley cat. Does that count?”

  “’Fraid not,” he replied. “Shows are for pedigree cats only. Sorry.”

  This was most frustrating. Here was just the kind of opportunity that would make excellent material for a blog—the plucky outsider who wowed the judges, or similar—as well as potentially earning me some money.

  So I spent the afternoon surfing cat show websites. There was one coming up in a few days in Birmingham. I scrolled down the list of its categories and classes, amazed that there could be so many breeds of cat that I had never even heard of: Tonkinese, Ocicat, Egyptian Mau.

  I finally stumbled upon a “special fun class for nonpedigree cats of traditional moggy appearance.”

  I must admit I had never particularly thought of myself as a “nonpedigree of traditional moggy appearance” but to hell with that—now was not the time to get bogged down in semantics.

  The title was just a long-winded way of saying that anyone could enter.

  I sent Troy a message:“Troy, guess what. There’s a class for moggies at your next show! Can you take me with you?”

  “I don’t see why not. You’ll have to get over to my house next Wednesday. The show’s in Birmingham so we’ll need to set off early. Get here by 7 a.m.”

  He sent me his address, which was in London. I had never been to London before, but I knew where to find my owner’s train timetable and A–Z street map, so I was confident that with a bit of planning I would be able to make my own way to Troy’s house.

  I still had four days to wait until my cat show adventure, but I was dying to tell my news to someone. Murphy was the only member of Team Nancy who might share my excitement, and view the show as an adventure rather than a disaster waiting to happen, but I hadn’t seen him since our falling-out over the blog.

  In fact, now that I thought about it, I had hardly spent any time with him since New Year’s Eve. He had always been the most enthusiastic member of the team, but it was undeniable that recently I had been neglecting him.

  In hindsight, it was no wonder that he had been upset when I told him about my new friends on Facebook.

  I sighed, accepting the inevitable: I was going to have to apologize.

  But it won’t hurt to have a nap first, I reasoned, rolling onto my side and resting my head on the keyboard.

  When I woke up I could tell from the way my stomach was rumbling that it was nearly dinner time.

  I took a detour on the way, via a hedgerow where I knew shrews nested. I picked a plump-looking specimen and dispatched it efficiently with a flick of its neck. Then I carried on to Murphy’s house, the shrew hanging from my jaw.

  Murphy was asleep on the sofa, in exactly the same spot as the last time I had seen him. The television was on in the background, showing the teatime news.

  My parting words from that previous occasion popped into my mind: “I might write about this in my blog, but I guess that won’t worry you as you’ll never read it.” I winced with embarrassment and carefully placed the dead shrew on the carpet in front of the sofa. Murphy was still asleep.

  “Murphy,” I whispered.

  He twitched, startled from a deep sleep, and it took him a couple of moments to notice me.

  “Oh, hi,” he said, embarrassed at having been caught unawares.

  “What’s that?” he asked, looking at the shrew.

  “A peace offering,” I said, pushing the shrew toward him with my paw. “Thought you might be hungry.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “How’s the blog?”

  I scrutinized his face to see if I could detect any sarcasm in his eyes, but it seemed like a straightforward question.

  “It’s great, thanks. Look, I’m sorry about ... everything. I know computers aren’t your thing. No more blog talk, I promise.”

  To my great relief, he smiled.

  “That’s okay. Shall we?” he asked, gesturing at the shrew.

  “After you,” I replied. “Age before beauty.”

  We ate the shrew together, crunching on its bones and depositing the intestines back onto the carpet in the usual manner. In the background the main news program had finished and the weather forecast was on.

  “Listen, I’ve got a brilliant adventure planned. I’m dying to tell someone about it, if you’d like to hear it.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Go on.”

  “Well, there are these things called cat shows, and there’s a special class—”

  I stopped in midsentence, distracted by the television. The local news bulletin had started, and on the screen was a mug shot of a cat: a haggard-looking black-and-white tom with a distinctive scar, looking dolefully into the camera.

  “Hang on a minute, Murphy. Can you turn the volume up?” I said urgently.

  Murphy obliged, and we watched the news report. The photo had gone from the screen now, replaced by a reporter standing outside a fortresslike building.

  “Yes, Graham,” the reporter was saying, “staff here at the Shelter for Feral Cats say they have never seen anything like it. Apparently this criminal kitty managed to dig his way out through the wall of the shelter, under the very noses of staff and guards.” The screen cut to a shot of the wall in question. There was Maud, looking pale and tearful, sliding a cat bed out of the way to reveal a hole in the brickwork, all the way through the external breeze block and out into an alley.

  “Oh. My. God,” I said, dumbstruck.

  “What is it?” asked Murphy, looking alarmed.

  “It’s Number 29!” I replied. “From the shelter. Do you remember, I told you about him? He’s only gone and done it!”

  We both looked back at the TV, which now featured the reporter again.

  “Staff at the shelter have certainly been given paws for thought by this feline runaway. One thing’s for sure, Graham,” the reporter continued, “this kitty may be gone, but he won’t be furgotten.”

  He delivered this final line with a smile, and Murphy and I both groaned.

  “That’s pretty cool,” said Murphy, turning the volume down.

  “It’s taken him over two years. That’s some serious dedication.”

  “Don’t you mean serious catitude?” Murphy replied.

  “I wonder where he’ll go,” I mused as we jumped off the sofa.

  �
�Who knows? Where would you go if you had escaped?”

  “Home, I guess. But he doesn’t have one.”

  We walked through the kitchen together and I was aware of Molly sitting on the dining table, observing us with a look of barely concealed disgust.

  “So anyway, let me finish telling you about this show,” I continued, and we slipped out through the cat flap into the brisk evening air.

  CHAPTER 12

  Show Cats

  Every cat has beauty, but not everyone sees it.

  —(Adapted from) Confucius

  I spent the night before the show at home, finalizing my plans for the next day. I had pulled the train timetable out of my owner’s handbag and dragged it under the bed to scrutinize its contents.

  Could they make those things any more confusing?

  “Restrictions apply.” . . . “Not valid during peak times.”

  Fortunately, price plans did not concern me, as I had no intention of paying for a ticket.

  I calculated that to get to Troy’s place for seven a.m. I would have to be on the 6:15 train. To work out my route from the station to Troy’s house I needed the A–Z street map. I climbed onto the desk in the study and attempted to slide it out from underneath a pile of bills, old newspapers, and notepads, inadvertently causing the whole lot to topple onto the floor.

  I grabbed the A–Z between my teeth and ran into the bedroom.

  Pip had been asleep in the laundry basket and was woken by the commotion. He poked his head out the top of the basket and gave me a quizzical look.

  “Oh, it’s you. What are you doing there?”

  “Nothing,” I replied, trying to push the map under the bed with my paw. I had considered telling Pip about my plans, but decided against it, primarily because I couldn’t face the inevitable eye rolling and sarcastic comments. He looked as if he was about to challenge me, but then yawned, displaying his enormous white whiskers to their full effect, and disappeared back into the laundry basket.