Sex and the Kitty

by Nancy the Cat

  Bella looked at me blankly.

  “That’s perfect, Bella. Well done.”

  I turned to Brambles.

  “Brambles, you’re Piers Morgan.”

  “I’m sorry—I’m who?” Brambles interrupted, the panic visible in his eyes.

  “Doesn’t matter. Just sit there and look ... smug. Murphy’s going to be Simon Cowell.”

  I stepped back to assess them.

  “Right, that’ll have to do. I’m going to hide behind this tree and then walk out here to the stage”—I glanced at them—“and please try not to look so much like the Three Stooges.”

  They composed themselves.

  “Okay, are you all ready?”

  They nodded, and I went and hid behind the tree.

  I took a deep breath, then walked out to the middle of the path. They stared at me in silence.

  “Well, ask me a few questions!” I hissed.

  “Who’s Piers Morgan?” Brambles said. I shot him a dirty look.

  “Questions about me, Brambles!”

  “Oh, sorry,” Brambles replied, falling silent again.

  “How much do you want to be a singer?” Murphy shouted.

  “One hundred ten percent, Simon,” I replied, giving Murphy a big smile.

  “What are you going to sing?” Bella ventured timidly.

  “Well . . . blond one . . . I’m going to sing the classic ballad by Christina Aguilera: ‘Beautiful.’”

  “We’re ready when you are,” said Brambles, finally starting to get the hang of it.

  I have to admit I felt genuinely nervous, and my nerves were not helped by hearing the birds in the surrounding trees head for the sky as I started singing. But I kept my performance on track, and as the song drew to a close Murphy rose to his feet to give me a standing ovation. My face broke into a big smile, and I looked across at the judges.

  “Well, what did you all think?” I asked.

  “Amazing,” said Murphy.

  “Why, thank you, Simon!” I replied coquettishly, and he winked at me.

  I looked at Bella. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

  “Blimey, Bella. You really are like the blond one in the middle! Did you like it?”

  She nodded, wiping her eyes. I knew I was unlikely to get a rational response from her so I turned to Brambles.

  “Well, what did you think, Piers?”

  Brambles wrinkled his nose thoughtfully.

  “Honestly? I think the overall effect was ... like a drunken aunt at a wedding.”

  There was a tense silence as Murphy and Bella stared at him in shock. I narrowed my eyes.

  “Brambles. You’re meant to be Piers Morgan. Not Simon Cowell. Let’s try that again.”

  Brambles looked suitably shamefaced and closed his eyes to think for a few moments.

  “In that case, I think you’re exactly what this show needs!”

  “Much better. Thank you, Piers.”

  I took a big stretch, then said, “Good work, team. You’re free to go.”

  A little later, I was sitting at the bottom of my garden, tuning up for my last rehearsal of the day, when I heard another cat yowling in the distance.

  “Do you mind?” I called. “This isn’t a duet!” The yowling stopped.

  It was a balmy early summer’s evening and there was no one around, apart from a neighbor watering his garden.

  It felt good, finally to know what my true calling was.

  Channeling my inner Aguilera, I closed my eyes and began to sing, my vocals soaring as I reached the first chorus.

  Christina’s right, I thought, as I belted out the lyrics: I am beautiful!

  Suddenly I felt the force of a jet of cold water on my back. I turned to see the neighbor pointing his garden hose over the fence at me, a vindictive grin on his face. Furious, I ran across the lawn and into the house.

  The philistine! How dare he?

  It took me a good half hour to lick the water off, during which time I heard the neighbor talking to my owner over the fence. I heard him use the words “never heard meowing like it” and “please make her stop.”

  A few moments later when my owner came in, I pretended to be asleep.

  “No more singing, Nancy. Please.” And she walked off.

  Yet again, my ambitions had been thwarted by small-minded people who didn’t have an ounce of talent in their bodies. If I couldn’t practice, there was no way I could audition for Britain’s Got Talent. And if I couldn’t get on Britain’s Got Talent, how would I ever become famous and meet Mr. Kit-e-Licious?

  Was I ever going to get the break I deserved?

  I slumped on the sofa in despair.

  Then again, I concluded, maybe it was for the best. I couldn’t ignore the fact that, apart from Murphy, no one had outright complimented me on my singing. And did I really want to risk the jeers of a live audience and humiliation in front of the nation if the judges didn’t like me? In hindsight, perhaps this particular plan had not been one of my better ideas. Even if I had given it 110 percent.

  I had a nap, and when I woke I felt refreshed and surprisingly optimistic.

  When one door closes, another one opens, I figured, and I would just have to keep looking till I found the right door.

  I jumped down from the sofa and headed out onto the street. I had not visited the corner shop for some time, and I felt a hankering for their fresh ham. I trotted through the open door and chirruped hello to the girl behind the counter. True to form, she picked up a few scraps of ham and put them on the floor for me.

  As I was leaving the shop I noticed a poster pinned to the notice board.

  “Auditions: this weekend!” it announced. The Smalltown Players (the town’s amateur dramatics society) was planning to stage a “groundbreaking adaptation” of George Orwell’s Animal Farm and would be holding open auditions on Saturday.

  “Everyone welcome: even animals!” read the poster.

  Could this be right? A drama society inviting animals to audition for a play? Surely this must be the door I was looking for.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Show Must Go On

  All cats are equal, but some are more equal than others.

  —(Adapted from) George Orwell

  At the appointed time on Saturday I made my way to the church hall where the Animal Farm auditions were being held. I could hear the hubbub of chat and laughter inside, and my stomach lurched in anticipation. It crossed my mind, as I hovered outside the door, that aside from my mock audition in front of Team Nancy, I had never actually performed for anyone before.

  I slipped into the hall and looked around. There were a couple dozen people milling about, clutching biscuits and plastic cups of tea. I was somewhat underwhelmed by the group, which seemed mostly comprised of middle-aged housewives and men who probably used to be accountants but had long since retired.

  One woman had brought along an overweight golden retriever, who lay at her feet licking biscuit crumbs off the floor while she chatted. Apart from the dog, I couldn’t see any other animal auditioners.

  Observing the room from my place by the door, I spotted a man whom I deduced was the show’s director. He was, like nearly everyone else in the room, on the wrong side of middle age. As well as being almost completely bald, he had a physique that betrayed a love of rich food. The only thing that marked him out from the rest of the throng was a silk neckerchief at the collar of his shirt, and a pair of red-rimmed glasses, which he would theatrically sweep off his face and gesticulate with when talking.

  After about ten minutes of chat, the director jumped (or rather, belly flopped and scrambled) onto the stage.

  “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”

  The room quieted.

  “Thank you all very much for coming. I’m Quentin and I’ll be directing this stage adaptation of Animal Farm. It’s lovely to see so many familiar faces, but it’s also fabulous to see some unfamiliar faces, too. I’m referring especially to our animal auditioners.”r />
  At this there was a murmur of laughter and a few “awwws” as the others looked at me and at the retriever, who was working his way across the floor, systematically vacuuming up crumbs.

  “I’m rather excited about this,” Quentin went on. “No one has ever staged this play using a combined human and animal cast. It’s going to be a truly groundbreaking production and a totally immersive audience experience.”

  He paused, waiting for a reaction. Someone called out a halfhearted, “Hear! Hear!” and Quentin smiled and bowed his head.

  “So, without further ado, let the auditions commence!” he announced with a final flourish of his glasses.

  I moved forward from my position by the door and jumped up onto a pile of tables stacked at the side of the room. The auditioners took turns reading a passage of text from the script, after which Quentin, rather indiscriminately, I thought, lavished praise on them: “Beautiful, darling. You moved me to tears!”

  When the human auditions were finished, Quentin said, “Thank you, everybody. There were some really exciting auditions and I’ll announce the parts next week. However, there are a couple of roles I can cast today, and I think you can probably guess which parts I’m talking about.”

  He cast a sly grin in my direction.

  All eyes turned to me and the dog, who was now asleep underneath my table.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, can I please introduce you to . . .” He fumbled with my name tag. “. . . Nancy, who will be playing the Cat, and to Toffy, who will be playing the Dog.”

  There was a cheer and more “awwws.”

  “Thank you, everyone,” Quentin shouted over the melee.

  “Please come back same time next week, when I’ll be handing out scripts.”

  The auditioners started to disperse, several of them stroking me on their way out. One man said, “Well, Nancy. I daresay you’ll be purr-fect for the role,” much to his own amusement.

  “Very good. You should be a journalist,” I shot back, but he couldn’t hear me over the sound of his own laughter.

  Is that it? I thought, when everyone had gone.

  I was rather disappointed that I had not been asked to audition like everyone else. Although, given that no other cats had turned up, it was not as if I had any competition.

  I jumped down from my table and made my way outside. It was a glorious sunny day and as I walked home I began to feel rather excited about my forthcoming stage debut.

  If Toffy the retriever was to be the only other animal cast member, I felt confident that I would shine onstage. And who knew where this foray into acting might lead? The local press would no doubt come to review the opening night, and there might even be talent scouts in the audience. This could be the start of a whole new career.

  At home I headed upstairs to the little people’s bedroom and jumped onto one of the beds. An innate professional, I knew it was important that I get enough sleep. I curled up in a ball and was soon dreaming of the show’s first night, in which a certain famous cat sat in the front row, applauding my performance.

  The following Saturday, I made my way again to the church hall for rehearsals and sat patiently as Quentin announced the parts for the human cast. He started with the main parts, the pigs. Why the author had chosen to make all his main characters porcine was a mystery to me. Don’t get me wrong, pigs are intelligent animals, but they are totally uncivilized and definitely not natural leaders in the animal kingdom. There were also lesser parts for horses, a pony, some sheep, and a few human characters, too. Being a perceptive feline, I could sense envy among some of the players as the main parts were announced. Toffy and I sat side by side, observing proceedings.

  “Have you been in one of these plays before?” I asked.

  “Huh? Nope. I’m only here for the biscuits,” he replied before flopping onto the parquet floor and closing his eyes.

  Once Quentin had read out the cast list and handed round scripts, he gave us some background about the play. Animal Farm, he explained, was Orwell’s satirical fable on the development of the Russian revolution under Stalin.

  My mind began to wander, and I was vaguely aware of Quentin using phrases such as “corruption of socialist ideals” and “dystopian allegory” as he explained the historic significance of each of the play’s characters.

  When he finally got round to my part, he said, “Now, Nancy. The Cat. You symbolize the Lumpenproletariat. Your feline charms belie your insincerity, in adhering to ideology for personal gain.”

  He smiled at me, and then moved on.

  I’m sorry, my lumpen what? I thought.

  I couldn’t argue with the bit about insincerity and personal gain—as a cat that was second nature to me—but no one had ever described me as lumpen before, allegorically or otherwise. If anyone here could be described as lumpen it was the aging divorcée playing one of the shire horses. I began to wash furiously: I hadn’t come here to be insulted.

  But when I heard Quentin explain to a dozing Toffy that the Dog represented Stalin’s secret police, I realized that his words needed to be taken with a pinch of salt. The idea that an overweight retriever could represent the ruthless enforcers of an authoritarian regime was laughable.

  As the first rehearsal drew to a close Quentin waved his glasses around.

  “Just one last thing, everybody; I’ve got one more cast member to introduce to you.” He disappeared off the stage. A few moments later he returned, leading a confused-looking goat on a makeshift rope lead. The crowd “awwwed” in unison as Quentin said, “This is Fudge. She’s going to be playing Muriel, the wise old goat, and, as those of you who have read your scripts will know, Muriel is one of the few animals on the farm who can read.”

  Well, that’s just ridiculous, I thought, everyone knows goats can’t read! Why on earth had this Orwell fellow written a book called Animal Farm when he clearly knew nothing about animals? I looked in Toffy’s direction to see if he had noticed the irony, but he was fast asleep.

  “Fudge will be joining us for the dress rehearsals and performances, when I also hope to have some other exciting additions to the cast as well.”

  I remained skeptical about Quentin’s interpretation of the play’s meaning and was also disappointed to see, upon flicking through the script, that the Cat did not actually have any lines to say. This seemed to me to be a gross underestimation of the role played by felines in historical events. I could see from the stage directions, however, that I would be onstage for most of the play’s duration, and this went some way to soothing my bruised ego.

  As rehearsals proceeded over the next few weeks I took the “Method” approach to my role, ingratiating myself with my fellow cast members purely for personal gain. I would curl up on their laps and allow them to stroke me, and in return they would offer me scraps from their sandwiches and saucers of milk. As the first night approached, excitement among the players began to grow. The performances would be taking place in the town’s public hall, which could seat an audience of a couple hundred. I did my bit for publicity by circulating flyers to all the houses on my street and was gratified to hear my owners making reservations on the telephone for four seats on the opening night.

  I tried to drum up interest among Team Nancy, too, but my friends were unanimous in their view that the public hall was too far from home for them to attend.

  Finally opening night arrived. The cast gathered onstage for a technical run-through in full costume.

  Fudge the goat had been tethered to a wooden post near the back of stage left. I was to sit on a stool next to Toffy at stage right.

  The costume designer had made white masks for all the humans playing animal parts, which they wore with plain black clothes. It was not a naturalistic look, but I had to admit that, with the lighting rig in place, the overall effect was striking.

  As we milled around, Quentin walked onto the stage.

  “Quiet, everybody. I’ve got something to show you.”

  I turned to see him pushing a port
able wooden chicken coop.

  “In here are the finishing touches to our cast: the chickens, who, as you all know, represent the Russian peasantry. These bantams have very kindly been loaned to us for the performances. For obvious reasons,” he said with a glance in my direction, “we won’t be letting them out on stage.”

  He wheeled the coop over to where Fudge was standing, parking it alongside her post. The coop had wooden sides but its front consisted of a hinged chicken wire door.

  As Quentin pushed it into place the hens and I made eye contact.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I heard one of them cluck.

  “Oh, my god. It’s a cat. Where are we?” said another.

  The human cast filed off the stage for one last cup of tea to settle their nerves. I was quite happy basking in the warmth of the stage lights so I stayed put, my calm mood disturbed only by the mutterings of the bantams.

  After a while I heard the audience start to file into the hall on the other side of the curtain, their hushed voices murmuring as they flicked through their programs. Quentin led the rest of the cast back onto the stage and gave us a final pep talk as we took our positions for the first scene. I ran through my stage directions one last time in my mind: Wash. Sit. Sleep. Look insincere.

  The audience fell silent as the lights dimmed in the hall, then the curtain rose and I looked out onto the darkened rows of faces. I could just about make out my owners and the little people, five rows back.

  Act One was under way, and, true to the amateur dramatic tradition, the acting quality was patchy.

  I could hear muffled clucking on the other side of the stage. Fudge the goat had got bored and begun to nuzzle the side of the coop, chewing at its edges and starting to paw at it with her front leg. Although I couldn’t see them, I sensed that the hens were becoming agitated.

  At the end of the third scene the lights dimmed, allowing for a quick reset of the stage. I hopped down from my stool and ran over to assume my next position beside a polystyrene tree.

  The chicken coop was also repositioned for this scene, turned forty-five degrees to the left so that the chickens could now see the front section of the stage as well as the audience through their chicken wire door. This new position also meant that Fudge was within nuzzling distance of the hook-and-eye lock that held the door of the coop in place. I could tell she was fed up with being tethered to her post and was looking for new stimuli.