Ginger the Buddha Cat

by Frank Kusy

  ‘Oh, I get it!’ said Ginger with a greedy glint in his eyes. ’You want to be top cat and get all the grub they’re giving him. You crafty old boss, you!’

  Bas raised one paw to his face and rolled his eyes in pain. Why had he rescued this food-mad orange urchin? Why had the inscrutable Law of karma delivered him into his care? Most important of all, how was he going to feed him?

  ‘That’s not exactly it,’ he said at last. ‘But if you stick with me, and try – just try – to observe the rules of the temple, I’ll try and make you the Buddha’s friend too.’

  ‘Fair enough, boss!’ said baby Ginger, and reached for a beetle.

  *

  When the two pussies awoke, the moon was riding high in the sky. Two hours had passed, yet it felt like just two minutes.

  ‘I was in your dream again!’ said Sparky happily. ‘And oh, weren’t you a funny little cat!’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t laughing,’ grunted Ginger. ‘I had the same problem back then as I do right now. I’m bloomin’ starving!’

  ‘I’ll get you some food in a moment, but let me ask you one thing. If you became the Buddha’s cat – which I find hard to believe – why haven’t you changed at all in nine lifetimes? You’re still, as far as I can see, living in the world of Hunger.’

  ‘Quite the little filosopher, ain’t you?’ sneered Ginger, licking his bum. ‘Well, let me ask you one thing. How come that precious ooman of yours – wot calls himself a Buddhist – eats so many sossidges? I mean, if he eats many more, he’ll turn into a sossidge!’

  Sparky hung his head in shame for his master.

  He had no answer.

  Chapter 3

  A Mid Previous-Life Crisis

  By some strange twist of fate, while the two cats were discussing his shortcomings in the garden, Joe was having a dream of his own.

  In this dream he was no longer a tired old hippy with a bad leg watching Star Trek on his futon, but a well-born young scholar in olden India.

  *

  Dev was his name, and he was secretary to the prince Siddhartha, the man who would become Buddha. He had watched with envy as the young prince lived the life of luxury in his fine palace. He had watched with scorn as the royal one then gave it all up to live like a hermit in the forest. Then, as the Buddha gained his enlightenment under the Bo tree and began preaching the Way for all people to escape suffering, Dev grew respectful of him and stopped watching. He joined the assembly of the World Honoured One, and sought out his special favour. And when this was not granted, when he was told that all men were equal and no one should hold court over another, his arrogance had bested him and he left the company of monks forever. To find his own truth, he said, but the only truth he found was in the arms of a woman – a beautiful but scheming witch named Rashila.

  Intrigued by the innocence of the lonely monk, Rashila cast her spell upon him, and then put him to work as scribe to a rich money-lender. He found that he had a head for business, and when the moneylender died, he took on all his customers and became rich himself. The years passed, and with them his simple faith and values, and before he knew it, he was a fat, middle-aged merchant – his senses dulled by wine and excess - with a whiny, complaining wife (Rashila) and four whiny, complaining children. Oh, how he wished he had stayed with the Buddha!

  *

  Joe awoke in a sweat. This dream had been so real! And as he staggered to his feet, and caught a shock-glimpse of himself in a mirror, he realised how real it was. Who was this balding, grey-bearded, pot-bellied person staring back at him? Not himself, surely. When had he got to look so old?

  He tried to remember when he had last taken joy in anything, but couldn’t. The eager young seeker who had first travelled to India 30 years before – in search of the Buddha – was gone. In his place was a lazy, bored businessman – a part-time purveyor of hippy glad-rags – with an insatiable appetite for money and food.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he muttered miserably. ‘What have I done to myself?’

  The answer was simple. He had lost the Way. And here he was, his spirit broken – his left leg too – and he was so tired of life, all he wanted to do was retire from it.

  ‘Is it too late to change?’ he wondered. ‘Can I ever be happy again?’

  And that was when he thought of FatBusters.

  Chapter 4

  Ginger meets his Match

  Ginger sat miserably under the mimosa tree at the bottom of the garden. Sparky had brought him some tit-bits through the cat flap, but he was still hungry.

  ‘Well, this is a fine to-do,’ he grumbled to himself. ‘Everyone’s warm and toasty in their baskets, and I’m out here = all on my own – with no-one to play with!’

  Just then, there was a rustle of leaves, and a deep, husky voice addressed him.

  ‘Hello there, big boy,’ it purred softly. ‘What’s a fine figure of a cat like you doing in a neighbourhood like this?’

  Ginger’s head whipped round and he saw the most wondrous sight: a snow-white Persian lady cat with a pink bow in her hair and the greenest of eyes.

  ‘Where did you come from?’ he said, alarmed. ‘This is my manor, and all the other cats round here take one look at me and leg it. What’s your game?’

  ‘No game,’ murmured the pretty pure-breed. ‘I’m just curious. Why are you just sitting here? Why aren’t you hunting and killing things?’

  ‘Why do you fink?’ said Ginger, showing her the flashing Buddha on his head.

  ‘Oh, that’s what caught my eye. It’s very fetching!’

  ‘Well, I wish it would fetch me some food. I’m starving!’

  The fluffy white cat looked around briefly and saw something small and furry moving in the grass.

  ‘There, look,’ she whispered. ‘A mouse. Shall I kill it for you?’

  ‘Oh, would you?’ said Ginger gratefully. ‘But don’t you want to play with it first?’

  ‘No, it’s bad manners to play with prey. I’ll be back in a minute...’

  And with that she vanished. There was a brief lull, then a surprised squeak, and then she was back again, a retired rodent dangling from her mouth by its tail.

  ‘My name’s Frou-Frou,’ she said, dropping her gift at Ginger’s feet. ‘And I’ve just moved in, a street down from yours. What shall I call you?’

  ‘Muggins’, sniffed Ginger, tucking into the mouse. ‘Well, I must be, mustn’t I, to let those stoopid oomans stick this grinnin’ fat bloke on me. I look ridik’lus!’

  ‘Not as ridiculous as I look in this pink bow,’ said Frou-Frou. ‘Especially when my owners add a pink hat and little pink booties. All I hear are cat-calls of “Oo la, la!” and “Wussygirl!”’

  ‘“Wussygirl”, har, har!’ laughed Ginger ungraciously. ‘That’s even better than wot I’ve been getting: “Flash”, “Third Eye”, and “Glam Cat”.

  ‘You haven’t got many friends, have you?’ said Frou-Frou coolly. ‘I brought you a mouse, and tried to be nice to you, but you’re just making fun of me.’

  ‘I would say “sorry”’, sniffed Ginger. ‘But I don’t do sorries. As for friends, well, I just don’t need ‘em. Except for Sparky, of course...’

  ‘Sparky?’

  ‘Sparky is my mate, my only mate. He’s the cutest cat in the universe. You should meet him.’

  *

  As if on cue, Sparky arrived. With a sausage in his mouth.

  ‘Oh, you have company,’ he mumbled shyly, offering the pork treat. ‘I thought you might like a late snack.’

  ‘Isn’t he adorable!’ trilled Frou-Frou happily. ‘I just want to take him home and put him in my basket!’

  Sparky shot Ginger a look of alarm. He didn’t want to be put in anyone’s basket but his own.

  ‘Blimey!’ said Ginger. ‘Ain’t I the popular one, then? Nine lifetimes of nuffink, and suddenly everyone’s givin’ me stuff!’

  The two smaller cats watched silently as Ginger gorged his sausage, and then Sparky said quietly, ‘I know what – or rather wh
o – is on your head.’

  ‘Oh, how exciting!’ commented Frou-Frou. ‘Is it a celebrity like Rihanna?’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Ginger, shivering. ‘I’d have to top myself.’

  ‘No, it’s your old friend, the Buddha!’ announced Sparky. ‘You can’t get away from him, can you?’

  ‘Apparently not. But he weren’t fat when I last saw him. He was thin as a rake. ‘Ere...do you fink someone fed him some sossidges?’

  ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ complained Frou-Frou. ‘Have you both been at the catnip?’

  ‘You tell it, Sparky,’ said Ginger, lying down to digest his food. ‘I’m havin’ trubble understandin’ it myself.’

  ‘Well, the Buddha was the wisest, nicest human to ever walk this earth. And Ginger thinks he was the Buddha’s cat. He – or rather, we – have been dreaming of how this came to be. Yes, I know it sounds strange, but it’s true!’

  ‘Tell her about the chantin’,” interrupted Ginger. ‘That’s even stranger.’

  ‘Chanting,’ explained Sparky, ‘is what my humans do every morning and every evening, when they talk to the wall. They speak fluent Buddhist!’

  ‘They talk to a wall?’ marvelled Frou-Frou. ‘Does it say anything back?’

  ‘They’re not crazy,’ said Sparky quietly. ‘My master, ol’ Joe, told me that if he hadn’t have chanted to find me – when I got lost one day and first met you, Ginger, remember? – I would have been lost forever.’

  ‘And you believed him?’

  ‘Well, I was sitting in that bush, at the edge of the forest, for two whole days before he found me. He hadn’t thought to chant before that.’

  ‘Which was bad for me,’ chipped in Ginger. ‘Cos if he hadn’t done his bloomin’ chanting, we could’ve gone to Barcelona – my number one food destination!’

  Sparky rolled his eyes. It was no good telling his brash, scheming friend that he never wanted to get on that lorry, that he would have been far happier hugging his litter tray back home. Ginger would never have believed him.

  It was also no good telling Frou-Frou any more about Buddhism.

  ‘No wonder you two get on so well together,’ she snapped as she suddenly remembered a hair appointment. ‘You’re both as mad as each other!’

  *

  Sparky and Ginger looked at each other in dismay. Maybe Frou-Frou was right. Maybe they were mad.

  ‘Ere, Sparks,’ said Ginger cautiously. ‘Wot’s the name of that cat counsellor you keep mentioning? Edna, weren’t it? I don’t know about you, but I fink we should pay her a visit...’

  Chapter 5

  The Choosing of the Chosen One

  Edna peered through the window of her small council flat with trepidation.

  She wasn’t sure who or what had rung the bell. Or why they hadn’t used the security intercom to give their names.

  All she knew was that she was now holding a small slip of paper, shoved through her letter-box, with four scrawled words on it – We need your help!

  Then she looked down and saw Sparky.

  ‘Oh, what a lovely surprise!’ she said, clapping her hands together. ‘My favourite little toy boy!’

  She was just about to let him in when a second cat appeared at his side. It was Ginger, and he was wearing a macabre grin.

  This is Ginger scribbled Sparky, pen in mouth, Don’t be scared. He’s just trying to be friendly!

  ‘I’d hate to see him when he’s unfriendly,’ muttered Edna as she let them both in. ‘That grin gives me the willies!’

  Sparky and Ginger entered the tiny flat hesitantly. This was the first human dwelling apart from their own they had ever been in, and everything was unfamiliar.

  The most unfamiliar thing, as far as Sparky was concerned, were all the dead cats lying around. There were some in the living room, some in the bedroom, and one on its own in the kitchen, draped over a tea kettle.

  ‘Oh, that’s Nando!’ said Edna, noting his alarm. ‘Don’t worry, darling, he’s not real. The council won’t let me have a real cat, so all I’ve got are my fluffy toy ones!’

  Sparky was not so sure. Did he really want Edna putting him into another of her famous trances? He might wake up as a tea cosy.

  ‘I’m sorry the place is such a mess,’ apologised the elderly cat-medium, clearing up the crockery and smoothing down the tablecloth, ‘but I’ve just had Kylie over. Yes, that nice little Australian girl who used to be in Neighbours. I don’t know how she got my number, but she heard of how I cured you, young Sparky, of your fondness for chicken roll and she brought over her little cat Mimi to see me...’

  THE Kylie? interrupted Sparky. I LOVE Kylie!

  ‘Yes, dear, I know you do. Your missus Madge told me all about it - how you like to watch her on TV and sing along with her on the radio. And you go right ahead and write your messages on my windows. I’ve heard you’re quite good at that too!’

  I didn’t know Kylie had a cat! scribbled Sparky excitedly. Tell me more!

  ‘Oh yes indeed,’ said Edna, putting two plates of milk down for her guests. ‘Mimi is a very special cat. But very sensitive. And she had a bad case of pet celebrity paranoia. I’m sorry, dearie, I mustn’t use big words – what I meant to say was, she couldn’t be doing with all the fame. All those photo-shoots, all those cameras going off in her eyes, all those nasty reporters wanting to know about her latest boyfriends and diet plans. It all got too much for her, poor thing. She was a pussy in crisis!’

  And then you cured her?

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ sighed Edna. ‘I made her remember her past life as Elvis Presley. Which cured her of her problem with fame – she now wants to go on I’m a Celebrity Cat, Get me a Can Opener! – but which brought up a whole new problem. She thinks she can sing better than Kylie!’

  ‘I’m bored,’ Ginger told Sparky. ‘Why can’t we just get on with it?’

  As if she had heard him, Edna picked up the two empty saucers and said, ‘I don’t know what your problem is, my pretties, and I don’t want to know. Let me just go and get you some Horlicks, to help you relax, and we’ll make a start.’

  The moment she was gone, Ginger turned round to ask a burning question.

  ‘Okay, you sneaky little pussy!’ he accused Sparky. ‘What’s with you and this ooman writing lark? I thought you’d given up stickin’ pens in your gob!’’

  ‘Well,’ said Sparky hesitantly. ‘Do you remember those dreams I said I’ve been getting?’

  ‘Wot, the ones where you was an all-reading, all-writing clever clogs?’

  Sparky shivered.

  ‘Yes, that’s right – a learned temple cat in a land called Egypt. Only in my dreams I was a bossy boots, know-it-all cat who was very good with words but very bad at using them. One day, I was so careless with my words that I was sacrificed on a blood-stained altar. That’s why I only write to humans who I trust. I’m scared that if I write to anyone else, I’m going to die again!’

  Just then, Edna reappeared with two new saucers of milk – heavily laced with Horlicks.

  ‘Here you go, dearies,’ she told the two cats. ‘Now drink this up, make yourselves comfortable, and just listen to the sound of my voice...’

  And with that, she sat down next to them on the sofa and commenced a trance-like little chat that had no beginning or end, no rhyme nor reason, no point or purpose. It reminded them of when their mothers soothed them to sleep as tiny, newborn kittens, and before they knew it, they were back in slumber-land...

  *

  ‘Humans are quite different from us,’ Bas was telling baby Ginger. ‘And in a lot of ways too...’

  ‘How many ways?’ Ginger grunted back. ‘And am I interested?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, they don’t eat their snacks fresh. They like to keep them for a bit, in glass or in a cage.

  ‘How do you mean?

  ‘Do you see that cage up there with a bird in it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, that’s Ping. There used to be a P
ong, but then the previous temple cat ate it. He got tired of waiting for it to come out of storage.’

  ‘Is that how you got your job?

  ‘Yes, it was, actually,’ smirked Bas with a satisfied grin. ‘Plus of course a dash of superior intelligence and an impeccable interview technique.’

  ‘How could you lose?’ said Ginger sarcastically. ‘But tell me more about these oomans. You’ve got me going now.’

  ‘Well, they are very particular about having a poo. They like to hide away in boxes, or behind bushes, instead of doing it in the open. And they can’t lick themselves clean, so they use water.’

  ‘Poor ol’ oomans,’ jeered Ginge. ‘They don’t know what they’re missing!’

  And with that, he dug his nose into his fat little bottom and gave it a jolly good licking.

  ‘Do you have to do that?’ sniffed Bas disapprovingly.

  ‘What? Lick my bum? Well, it keeps my tongue busy and not thinking about food. And I don’t just lick it. I lifts me leg right over my head, as you can see, and I gets stuck right in there. I love my bum, I do. It’s tasty!’

  At that moment, there was a huge commotion in the village. A holy monk had arrived, and all the people ran out to meet him.

  ‘The Buddha! The Buddha is coming!’ they cried, and surrounded their saffron-clad guest with joy and expectation.

  But the monk had sad tidings. The Buddha was not coming. He had reached the end of his long, long life and lay close to death in a town called Kushinara.

  ‘Then why are you here?’ enquired the villagers. ‘What is your purpose?’

  ‘To choose the new Buddha’s cat,’ the monk declared. ‘For the World-Honoured One is too sick of body to choose for himself.’

  And with that, he laid a large blanket on the ground and said, ‘Here are objects beloved of the previous Buddha’s cat – with these, I will make my selection...’

  Little Ginger was sitting bored on the sidelines, watching the monk spread out his trinkets, when something caught his eye.