The following morning when I logged on to the computer, there was a message from Datemycat.com.
“You have been contacted by 2 members!” the e-mail announced.
Jolly good, I thought.
The first message was from “Politicat,” an eight-year-old tom whose owner was an MP. He wrote that he would love to get to know me better and hoped we could share some lively political debates.
Meh, I thought. Political debates weren’t really what I had in mind.
I closed Politicat’s message, eager to see who my other respondent was.
This was a cat whose user name was BigStuff. His message read:“Hi. You seem like a fun cat. I think we’ve got lots in common. I travel for work so I use the Internet a lot. I’d love to read your blog some time.”
This sounded promising. The allusion to travel and work intrigued me: clearly this cat had an interesting life. And of course the request to read my blog flattered my vanity. I replied to Politicat first, saying it must be interesting to live with a politician (I lied) and that it would be nice to find out more about him.
Then I replied to BigStuff, asking what he did as a career and sending him a link to my blog.
For the rest of the day I resisted the urge to check the computer.
I’ll check my e-mails at two p.m., I thought—not a second sooner.
I ate a few mouthfuls of food, had a perfunctory wash, and tried to nap. When the time came, I walked casually past Pip on his radiator hammock and sauntered upstairs to the study. I broke into a smile upon seeing an e-mail from Datemycat.com, saying I had two messages.
I opened Politicat’s first. He wrote that he lived in the countryside and was the only cat of the household. He sometimes felt lonely, as his owner often went away for work. He ended by saying that he would love to find out a bit more about me and hoped we could meet up in due course.
Maybe I had been a bit hard on him initially. He came across as a thoughtful cat, and at least he hadn’t mentioned the political debate thing again. I felt sorry for him and his lonely lifestyle, so I composed a charming but noncommittal reply.
Then I opened BigStuff’s message, which began, “I love your blog!” He praised my writing style and sense of humor, even quoting a couple of his favorite lines.
He said he couldn’t tell me any details about his career, as he was meant to keep his identity a secret, but he was in show business and was often required to travel for his assignments.
Reader, I’m sure you can guess what went through my mind.
Could BigStuff be the Kit-e-Licious cat?
My heart began to race, and I typed back:“Have you been to any exotic beaches recently? And do you own blue swimming trunks?”
Surely it couldn’t be this easy to track down the elusive Mr. Kit-e-Licious. But, then, maybe it was fate—perhaps we were meant to find each other. My tail twitched with excitement.
After about twenty minutes there was a flicker on the screen as a new message appeared in my in-box. “BigStuff has sent you a message,” it read. I took a deep breath and clicked “open.”
“I did have one assignment on a beach in Bali recently, but don’t tell anyone I told you that.
“Blue swimming trunks? That’s for me to know, and you to find out ;-)
“P.S. While we’re on the subject of clothes, what are you wearing right now?”
I gasped in disbelief. Bali. Where was Bali? Did it have white sandy beaches? I had to know, now.
I opened up Google and typed in “Bali + beaches,” then, as an afterthought, added “+ kit-e-licious.” Almost instantly, a list of pages appeared, the first of which was titled “The beach from the Kit-e-Licious advert.” In the paragraph underneath I could see that, yes, the “blue swimming trunks” photo had been shot on location in Bali. Surely there was only one explanation: BigStuff and Mr. Kit-e-Licious were one and the same cat!
I closed down the Google results page and reread his message. The more I read it, the more convinced I became. Surely it was unlikely that another cat in show business had been to Bali. And his comment about the blue swimming trunks implied that he did indeed own some.
Then I reread the P.S., in which he asked what I was wearing. I had been so excited that I had hardly noticed it before. Why did he want to know what I was wearing?
I opened up a new message.
“When you say you’re in show business, do you mean you’re an actor? And if so, have you ever been in a cat food commercial?
“P.S. I’m just wearing my usual collar. It’s kind of glittery gold, and fraying a bit at the edges.”
Within thirty seconds a reply appeared:
“If I told you that, I’d have to kill you ;-)
“P.S. Why don’t you take your collar off?”
Reader, I’ll be honest with you, this reply troubled me.
I was more certain than ever that I was corresponding with Mr. Kit-e-Licious, but why all the interest in my collar?
Part of me wanted to arrange a meeting so I could find out his identity once and for all. But another part of me was urging caution, telling me that something wasn’t quite right.
“When in doubt, wash,” said my mother’s voice again, and while I washed, I thought.
What did I know for sure about this cat? He said he was in show business and that he had been to Bali. He had not definitively said that he was an actor or that he owned blue swimming trunks, but he had implied both. And he said he had to keep his identity secret for work, something that I knew was true of the Kit-e-Licious star. There were too many similarities for it to be a coincidence, weren’t there?
Or perhaps it was too much of a coincidence.
There was no obligation to tell the truth on the website, I acknowledged, looking again at my profile under the name “Molly.”
And if he wasn’t Mr. Kit-e-Licious, who was he?
Finishing my wash, I knew I could not ignore my instinct that something was amiss.
Just then the doorbell rang, and my heart froze. It couldn’t be him, could it? It suddenly occurred to me that he had read my blog and would have been able to work out where I lived from that.
I heard my owner walking down the hall toward the front door and held my breath.
“Sorry to trouble you, madam. I’m from the police—Online Vice Squad. Has anyone in this house been using a website called Datemycat.com?”
“A website called what?” my owner replied.
I couldn’t see from the landing, but I could imagine the appalled look on her face. It was a look I had seen many times before.
“Datemycat.com,” the police officer repeated. “It’s a dating website . . . for cats.”
At this point Pip emerged from the bedroom and sat about two feet away, staring at me.
“A dating website for cats?” My owner laughed. “Of course not! Why would we . . . oh, hang on a minute. Nancy!” she shouted up the stairs, any trace of laughter gone from her voice.
I ran into the study and hid behind the door, cringing as I heard my owner invite the policeman into the house.
He explained that they had been tracking activity on the Date My Cat site for several months, as there had been reports of a human “cat fetishist” masquerading as a cat.
“I’m sorry, a human what?” my owner asked.
“An adult male ... human, who poses as a . . . feline to gain the trust of female cats. Once he has established contact he then begins”—the policeman lowered his voice—“to groom them.”
Groom them for what, I thought—a cat show?
My owner paused, in evident disbelief, before saying, “Oh, yuck!”
“We’ve been monitoring the suspect for some time, madam, and we have reason to believe he may have entered into a correspondence with a . . . cat in this household.”
“Oh, God,” said my owner. “Well, we’ve got two cats, but I think I know which one you’re talking about. Do you know who this man is?”
“We do now, madam. We were waiting
for him to strike again, and thanks to your cat, we’ve caught him red-handed. He won’t be passing himself off as a feline anymore. We just wanted to let you know in person. And it might be a good idea to give your cat one of these, if she spends a lot of time on the computer.”
He handed something to my owner, then she thanked him and showed him to the door, and he left.
I heard her stomping up the stairs, and Pip instantly darted into the bedroom.
“Nancy! Where are you?” she shouted.
She marched into the study and swung the door shut, revealing me pressed up against the baseboard.
“The police? Well, this is a new one! Quite an achievement, even for you!”
I cowered, trying to hide behind the computer modem, which sat on the floor by the door. I noticed, for the first time, that it emitted a high-pitched whistling noise that was most unpleasant at close proximity.
“Fortunately the police have caught this ... cat fetishist ... weirdo, before he came to find you. Please, no more dating sites in future!” And with that she threw a leaflet down onto the floor in front of me before storming back down the stairs.
“Keeping Safe Online: A Guide for Your Feline” it was called.
“It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” I shouted after her, but she didn’t hear me.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
What a total, unmitigated disaster. How was I supposed to know there were such things as “cat fetishists”? What kind of human freak got his kicks from chatting up cats on a dating website?
But how stupid had I been to fall for his patter about show business and Bali? He must have used the same line on dozens of other cats, all of whom were probably as eager as I was to believe he was Mr. Kit-e-Licious.
I logged on to the computer to delete BigStuff from my “Friends” folder, but I didn’t need to. He had already been removed from the site, and aside from the humiliating e-mails in my in-box there was no evidence that he had ever existed. I sighed, still reeling with shame from the whole sorry episode.
“You have 1 new message,” read a window on the screen. My heart lurched—he couldn’t still be able to contact me, could he?
I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that the message was from Politicat.
To whoever you are,
Please leave Politicat alone. Whatever he told you, he is not an only cat. He has a wife, and I am she. You are not the first cat he has tried this with, and I daresay you won’t be the last, but trust me, he’s not worth it. He’s overweight, he’s a liar, and he’s useless in the sack.
From,
Mrs. Politicat
I groaned and deleted the message. Then I went into the “My Account” page of the Date My Cat website and clicked on “remove my profile.”
“Are you sure you want to permanently delete your profile?” the site asked.
“Hell, yeah,” I said as I clicked on “yes.”
CHAPTER 14
Nancy’s Got Talent
Everybody has talent, it’s just a matter of moving around until you’ve discovered what it is.
—George Lucas
I sat at the computer, disappointed and humiliated. How ridiculous to think that I could stumble across the Kit-e-Licious cat on a dating website. Of course he wouldn’t use such sites. He was a celebrity: he could have his pick of any female cat he wanted. Another one to chalk up to experience, I concluded with a sigh.
I stared out the window at the garden, wondering whether to head out and find Team Nancy or just curl up on the keyboard and go to sleep.
My eye was caught by a movement at the bottom of the garden—a fleeting glimpse of a black-and-white cat in the undergrowth.
That’s weird, I thought, I hadn’t heard Pip leave the bedroom.
I jumped down from the desk, walked up to the laundry basket, and poked at its lumpy contents with my paw. Sure enough, Pip’s claws immediately pierced the fabric where my paw had touched.
“What do you think you’re doing? I’m trying to sleep in here.”
“Sorry, Pip. Just checking.”
Could there be a new black-and-white cat in the neighborhood? This was the first I’d heard of it.
I went into the garden, but there was no sign of the cat now. Oh, well, I thought, heading in the direction of Murphy’s house. I knew that if anyone would be able to make me forget about the day’s dramas, it would be him.
I arrived as he and Molly were finishing their dinner.
“Hiya,” he mumbled through a mouthful of Kit-e-Licious.
“Evening,” I replied. “Fancy hanging out tonight?”
“Sure. What do you want to do?”
“Don’t know, really. I kind of feel like staying in. Is that okay?”
“No problem,” he replied. “Britain’s Got Talent’s about to start—we can laugh at all the weirdos!”
I winced at his use of the word “weirdos,” but said, “Great idea,” and we settled down side by side on the sofa.
I had seen Britain’s Got Talent a few times before, and I knew the format. It was the auditions stage, and the bulk of the show was taken up with an assortment of oddballs performing acts that were unremittingly awful. Murphy got into the spirit of things, shouting, “Off! Off! Off!” with the live audience at the worst offenders.
As the show neared its end, überjudge Simon Cowell was interviewed backstage. “I don’t think we’ve ever seen such dreadful auditions. I’m really worried about the quality of this year’s contestants.”
Murphy turned to me with a knowing look. “He always says that when someone good’s about to come on. Just wait and see!”
Next up was a middle-aged woman accompanied by her dog, a border collie. Murphy and I looked at each other, perplexed.
“A dog? Dogs don’t have talent!” I said and he shrugged.
A big band classic struck up and the woman and her dog began a dance routine, in which he slalomed between her legs, walked backward in circles, and lifted alternate paws in time to the music. It ended with the dog standing on his hind legs, his front paws resting on her backside. His eyes looked crazed with excitement, he was panting, and his tongue was hanging out.
I snorted with derision, waiting for the audience to start chanting, but instead they erupted into cheers. I watched in disbelief as the judges commented on the performance.
Piers Morgan said the act was “exactly what this show needs.”
The blond woman in the middle was moved to tears.
“Come on, Simon, talk some sense into them,” I muttered. But no, Simon Cowell was touched by their “special relationship.”
There was a tense silence as the judges pondered their verdict, and the screen cut to the audience, hands over their mouths in anticipation....
The dancing dog had three yeses and was through to the finals! The crowd were on their feet, cheering. The dog leapt up into his owner’s arms. The blond judge in the middle started crying again.
The credits began to roll and Murphy and I stared at each other, openmouthed.
“What just happened there?” I asked.
Had I imagined it, or had a dog just gone onstage, run in circles with its tongue hanging out, and somehow won the nation’s hearts, potentially launching a media career in the process?
“That’s ridiculous!” I said and Murphy nodded in agreement.
“I’ve got more talent in the tip of my tail than that dog has in his whole body!”
“You don’t dance, do you?”
“Well, no. But I can sing better than he can dance!”
Murphy’s eyes lit up.
“Hang on a minute.” He jumped down from the sofa and ran across the room to the CD player. He pressed play, and Celine Dion warbled out of the speakers. I grimaced.
“I can’t sing to that.”
Murphy began fiddling with the machine.
“I’ve got just the song for you!” He smiled and inserted a new CD. It was a song I was familiar with from the lit
tle people’s music collection: “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera. This was a song I could work with. Britain’s Got Talent had never showcased a feline diva, and it was about time that changed. My voice was a little croaky at first, and I struggled to remember the lyrics, pick up the melody, and inject emotion into my performance all at the same time.
When I had finished I looked nervously at Murphy to gauge his reaction. He paused for a second before applauding wildly.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed.
“Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“Really. Might need a bit of practice, in parts, but it’s the perfect song for you.”
If Murphy’s response was anything to go by, maybe my USP had been staring me in the face all along. For months I had been searching for something to mark me out from other cats but had overlooked my god-given talent: my voice.
Over the next few days I threw myself into my new vocation, taking every opportunity to practice. I sang while I washed, to much eye rolling from Pip. I sang as I did my daily rounds of the gardens. I sang from the moment I woke up until the moment I went to sleep (which, admittedly, was sometimes only an hour after I had woken up).
But if I was serious about entering Britain’s Got Talent, I knew I needed to re-create the show’s audition conditions.
“Murphy, I need your help!” I called through his cat flap one afternoon, and he duly emerged from the kitchen. He followed me down the garden, and I left him sitting on the footpath behind NHQ.
“You’re going to be Simon Cowell. Wait here while I go and recruit the other two.”
I returned ten minutes later with Bella and Brambles, both of whom were nervous, unsure what was expected of them.
I lined the three of them up on the path.
“Bella, you’re in the middle; you’re the blond one. Try and look ... blond.”
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