A. K. A. Fudgepuddle

by Fin J. Ross

  'Well I am tough, I'll show you all my scars to prove it,' Rocky protests.

  'Young man, if you were so tough you wouldn't have any scars because you'd never come off second best. I bet Big Dan doesn't have any scars, do you?' Zsa Zsa says condescendingly.

  'No madam, you're quite right, I have no scars and you have to look very closely to see my tattoo.'

  I wish I could get to see Big Dan. His voice is enough to make me go weak at the knees; I'd love to know what he looks like. He sounds like such a gentlefeeli.

  'When I was young, all the other kisskies in the street would goad and taunt me, trying to get me to fight, I guess because I was always so much bigger than them. I did box professionally for a while, but I found it all a bit pointless really, because I always won.

  Sometimes I'd just give my look and they'd back off and wuss away with their tail between their legs. But I was quite famous there for a while. I still have some clippings from the Cat 'o' Nine Tales Weekly.'

  'Wow,' Roger says, 'maybe you could teach me some basics. There's this absolute ratbag feeli next door at home who's always picking on me.'

  'Well, I guess I could run classes, if anyone else is interested, eh Rocky?'

  'I really doubt you could teach me anything. Like I said before, I'm tough.'

  'I would be honoured to join your class,' the snobby-sounding British blue says. 'I never got to learn boxing while on active duty. That was something that was frowned upon by us officers, but secretly I always wanted to try it. Maybe I could be your enrolment officer, it would give me something to do.'

  'Sure thing, if you'd like, Colonel,' Big Dan replies.

  'Colonel Montgomery Enfield the Third at your service.'

  'Shhh,' Maharani hisses, 'my favourite song's coming on.'

  With that, Tom Cat Jones starts crooning, 'What's new pussycat? Whoa oo oh oo oh oh'. Maharani starts singing along and I hear a few other voices chime in too, so I figure I might as well join in too. 'Pussycat, pussycat-'

  'Who on earth is that singing so flat?' comes a voice from a few pens down. 'If you're going to join in, please allow me to give you some private tuition first. We can't just have anyone piping in and spoiling it all.'

  'Who's that?' I ask Maharani.

  'Oh that's Finny, the singing teacher. You should listen to her, she's a beautiful singer. Voice like an angel. But then she's gorgeous to look at, too. She's a really pretty ragdoll. Some girls just have it all. Actually, I take that back; because there's one thing she can't do. She can't dance, she's just too floppy. You know, typical ragdoll. She lifts one leg and just falls over sideways. Completely and utterly uncoordinated. Her deuxjambs call her Sheba but Miss Steph calls her Bootiful.'

  'So does Miss Steph have her own name for all of us?'

  'Some of us, but I think it's only if she thinks you're special or if you're here long enough,' Maharani says.

  'So what does she call you?'

  'Princess, which I'm quite happy with really.'

  'And what does she call Rocky?'

  'Boofhead, or sometimes just Boof or Boofy,' Maharani says with a giggle.

  'That's nearly as bad as Ralph, which is what my deuxjambs call me,' Rocky confesses.

  'And before you ask, it was Miss Steph who first called me Zsa Zsa, and it's sort of stuck.'

  'Oh, okay, so what does she call you, Big Dan?'

  'Fess. She calls me Fess and I have no idea why.'

  'Oh Big Dan,' says the Colonel, 'it's so obvious. Haven't you ever watched Daniel Boone?'

  'What or who is Daniel Boone?' Big Dan asks.

  The Colonel explains and I can almost hear the light globe going on over Big Dan's head. 'Huh, well I had no idea. That explains a lot. Oh yes, it explains a lot of the things she whispers in my ear.'

  'Like what?'

  'That's for me to know. But let's just say we have a bit of an understanding, Miss Steph and I.'

  'Oh do you now,' says Rocky. 'Miss Steph and I have an understanding, too. She whispers to me too, you know.'

  'And me,' says Maharani.

  'What does she call you, Colonel?' I ask.

  'Ahem. Monty Boy. Very unflattering for a feeli of my rank and social standing.'

  'I'd take it as a compliment. She either thinks you're younger or cuter than you are.'

  'I'd never thought of it that way.' The Colonel nods. 'Maybe you're right, young lady.'

  'Jeez, I haven't been called that for a while.'

  'So what does she call Beethoven and Roger and Blacky?'

  'Beethoven she calls Snowman, and Roger she calls… Roger,' Maharani answers.

  'Oh so she doesn't think you're special Rog?'

  'She hasn't even got to know me yet. I've only been here a couple of days. But she calls Blacky, Possum, which is really not that far off because we call him Rabbit.'

  'Why Rabbit?'

  'Because when he runs, he always lifts both back paws at once, so he looks like he's hopping.'

  'Oh,' I nod knowingly. 'Don't know how I'm going to remember all these names; it's all so confusing,' I confess.

  'Don't worry darl, you'll get the hang of it in no time,' Big Dan says soothingly.

  'Hey guys, isn't it time for drama class to start?' Roger asks excitedly.

  I'm not sure I'm up for this so I meander back up the ramp and turn a few circles on the bed, prodding, clawing and pronkledonking it into shape. I plonk down. No, it's not quite right. I stand again and repeat the routine just to be sure.

  Yep, that's better. I feel like I'm in a front row dress-circle seat in a fine theatre, just waiting for the show to begin.

  'Now', says Zsa Zsa, 'we're up to the balcony scene, so Maharani you need to get up on the top shelf pronto and you need to look sort of innocent but sexy at the same time.'

  'Yeah, I can do that. So where's Rocky?'

  'He's down below in the courtyard sort of mincing around when he sees you appear.'

  'Okay, I'm ready,' says Rocky.

  'Okay, off you go then,' says Zsa Zsa.

  Rocky clears his throat, paces to the front of his pen and adopts a statuesque stance. Then he looks up in the air as though he sees something important. I can't imagine what. And then he speaks:

  'But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet's in the sun-'

  'No, no Rocky, it's "Juliet is the sun" not Juliet's in the sun,' Zsa Zsa corrects.

  'But how can a deuxjamb be the sun? I don't get it. Where do they come up with this stuff?'

  'Never mind, just keep going.'

  'I would if you'd stop interrupting me. Where was I? Ah yes:

  'Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon…'

  Rocky's voice puts me into a sort of sleepy daze and I struggle to keep my eyes open. I look across and see Maharani pacing along her shelf, waiting for her lead in.

  '…And sails upon the bosom of the air.'

  Rocky cracks up: 'Bosom of the air - how can the air have bosoms?'

  'Oh Rocky, please try not to live up to my expectations of you. You've spoiled my scene, can't you ever just do it right?'

  'Come on Maharani, just ignore him and keep going,' Zsa Zsa says.

  'Okay, okay,' Maharani resumes her pose, and says"

  O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

  Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:

  Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

  And I'll no longer be a Catlet.

  'Very good, Maharani, very good,' Zsa Zsa applauds.

  Maharani flicks her tail and rubs her face up the wall as Rocky continues.

  I've got to confess I've got no idea what they're going on about, nor can I figure out why she doesn't just jump down off the shelf and talk to him at eye level. But hey, I'm not going to interrupt.

  I also can't figure out all the mewly-mewly. Why don't they just say what they want to say instead of beating around with a brush? And why on earth doesn't the girl want to be a catlet any more?

 
Beethoven's probably lucky he can't hear this; it's pretty yawny stuff. I glance across to his pen and see him with his ear to the ground.

  A rascal called Raffles

  'Shh, she's coming,' Beethoven calls out. 'Miss Steph is coming.'

  He runs up his ramp to the top shelf and curls himself in a tight ball, feigning sleep. Maharani is quick to follow. I can't figure this out. When I arrived this morning everyone was up and screaming; now they're all pretending to be asleep.

  'Psst Maharani,' I whisper 'how come we're all pretending to be asleep?'

  'D'oh Juno, you know that all deuxjambs think we sleep all afternoon. We just like to live up to their illusions - you know, play along. That maintains the cattus quo. They think they're in charge and we go along with it so they think they've got us sorted out,' Maharani says.

  'I see. That's clever. I mean, I do that at home but I didn't realise it was part of some grander scheme.'

  'There's a bit of reverse psychology there too,' Big Dan whispers, 'because if we make them think we want to sleep all afternoon, they'll think we're being yawny and they'll go away and leave us alone, which gives us cat blanche to do whatever we want.'

  I purse my lips and nod, my head tilted slightly. 'Makes perfect sense to me.'

  I follow the others and curl myself into a pretzel shape. But I keep one eye open just enough to see what's going on. I see Miss Steph tiptoeing past, carrying a cage. Two green eyes the size of dinner plates peer out of a face, the likes of which I've never seen before. It looks like a cross between a spoffum and a hootle. Certainly I haven't seen a feeli that looks like that before.

  'Here we are then, Raffles, number 25 for you. Now you settle in there and I'll be back in a tick with the camera, oh, and maybe I'll get a photo of Miss Fudgepuddle while I'm at it.'

  Fudgepuddle! I crack up. Who does she call Fudgepuddle? What a scream. I roll on my back and try hard to stifle a big giggle just as she's walking past again, but I can't help accidentally letting out a raspberry.

  'What's up with you then, girl?' She stops at my gate and peers in. I roll back over, give her a benign smile and put my head back under my armpit. I can't help wondering which poor sucker it is that she calls Fudgepuddle and I titter again. A few moments later I hear her coming back. I keep my head down and hear her footsteps pass by, followed by the click of a gate opening.

  'It's okay boy,' she says soothingly. 'Now, smile for the camera, c'mon, stay still, no stay still. Oh c'mon, just for a second, will you? No, don't come towards me, just stay there. No, c'mon look at me, look at me. Ohh…'

  She sounds exasperated so I guess this new boarder is giving her a hard time. Maybe he's camera shy. Not like me. I just love having my picture taken and I love all the gushy noises my deuxjambs make when they look at the pictures. They obviously think I'm some sort of screen goddess. I hear a click and then another.

  'Good boy, Raffles, that should do me nicely,' Miss Steph says.

  Which gets me to wondering. If deuxjambs think we don't understand what they say, how come they don't feel really stupid talking to us? They might as well be talking to themselves. I mean it's not like we're going to answer them. At least not in a language they understand.

  I start to ponder about how misunderstood we feelis are. I mean, if TS Eliot had understood Mr Mistoffolees better, he'd have realised there was nothing 'magical' about him. He was just the master of feelichatra; which apparently just takes a lot of practice, not magic. But at least he acknowledged that we feelis all have our own name, which is ours to conjure up and ours to keep.

  Really, not many deuxjambs do understand us. The Egyptians had it right. I mean it's obvious in the way they revered their feelis. After all, you don't see many quiffo mummies, do you? Yes, we were worshipped and adored just as some of us are today - if our deuxjambs have been properly trained. Emily Bronte, my favourite author 'cos she invented Catty and Heathcliff, knew what she was talking about when she wrote: 'A cat is an animal which has more human feelings than almost any other.'

  And it's common knowledge that many well-regarded statesmen owe their greatness to their feelis. I mean Winston Churchill's feeli, Jock, actually directed most of the negotiations at wartime cabinet meetings. And Theodore Roosevelt's feeli, Slippers, made it his mission to ensure that guests to the White Home followed the right protocol. I know all this stuff 'cos I like to sit on the back of Hayoo's chair and read over her shoulder.

  But when you think about it, it's obvious: we feelis only want to associate with good and kind deuxjambs. That's why Napoleon Bonaparte was terrified of us; because somehow he knew that we knew what he was up to. And we swore we'd tell everyone unless he was kind to us. We made him cross his heart and hope to die - that's why he always had his hand in his jacketfront.

  I'm disturbed from my reverie by Miss Steph.

  'Hellllooo Fudgepuddle,' she says as though introducing a quiz show contestant. My hair stands on end when I realise she's addressing me - and opening my gate.

  'Whaaat,' I let out an agonising groan, or maybe it's a yarl. I can't quite tell. And then I'm drowned out by a dozen feelis all cacking themselves with laughter.

  I'm mortified. And petrified - literally; I've turned to stone. I just sit like a statue with my mouth gaping. Miss Steph approaches me and raises the camera up to her eye.

  'In your bloody dreams,' I spit. I snarl. I schpiff. I'm on the verge of a schpitzo and then I decide that a pfutt is a more appropriate gesture. So I huff, I turn around, I show her my back. I ignore her. Completely.

  'C'mon Fudgepuddle, that's not very sociable.'

  I continue to ignore her, stare at the corner and contemplate my next move. Burying my face in the pillow in ignominious shame feels like the most logical thing to do.

  Fudgepuddle! Why me? Why Fudgepuddle? It's Juno, JUNO, don't you understand? I want to cry. And to think I thought she was nice.

  'Okay, girl, I can see you're not ready for the camera yet. I'll come back when you're a bit more settled,' Miss Steph says. And then my whole spine shivers as she runs her hand down my back. If I were prepared to acknowledge it I'd have to admit it feels really good but I can't forget myself. I swish my tail from side to side and issue a low growl. She gets the hint and leaves me alone.

  'Oh shut up you lot,' I schpiff when Miss Steph's gone.

  'Fudgepuddle ha ha ha,' Maharani splurts. 'Fudgepuddle, Fudgepuddle…' she starts to sing and before long Rocky, Rabbit, Zsa Zsa and even the Colonel start to join in. I just want to shrivel up and die.

  'What's so funny? Who's Fudgepuddle?' a tiny, cheeky voice asks. 'Hi everyone, I'm Riley. I'm the new one.'

  'Hello Riley, I'm Maharani Shani, but you can just call me Maharani if you like. And I gather they call you Raffles, yes?'

  'Yes that's right.'

  'Why's that? Do you know? And, if you don't mind me asking, where did you come from? You don't look like any feeli I've ever seen. You're so tiny and you've got such big eyes. Actually you look like your umbi or fuddy was a ringtail spoffum or a slow loris. A-ha-he-hee,' Maharani titters.

  'There's nothing slow about me. I'm a Singapura if you must know and I come from Singapore. Well I don't come from Singapore but my grandifeelis did. That's where we originated and that's why we look so ecsotique. No idea why they call me Raffles though.'

  'Oh,' says Maharani. 'Anyway, you were asking about Fudgepuddle. Well, Juno over there, known by her deuxjambs as Megsy, has just been dubbed Fudgepuddle by Miss Steph… and, well,' she starts to chuckle, 'we think it's really funny but she's not too happy about it'.

  'Ha ha ha, I wouldn't be either. Why, is she fat or something?'

  'No I'm not fat,' I blurt out, 'I'm voluptuous. And voluptuous, for those of you who don't know, means sexy.'

  'In whose thesaurus?' Maharani asks.

  'Oh shut up. Shut up the lot of you,' I pout.

  'Don't take offence, girl,' Big Dan croons, 'some of us do like a girl with a bit of meat on her bones'.

  It's a
pity I can't see Big Dan, because I'd love to know if his face matches his voice, which is just so dreamy.

  'Thank you, Big Dan. At least someone has good taste around here.'

  'Well actually, I'm a bit partial to a well-built girl too,' says the Colonel, 'I never could understand why the lads in my regiment got so besotted with all those bony bits of fluff, there's just no substance to them. No, I like a girl with plenty of flesh-'

  'Stop drooling Colonel,' says Rocky, 'you're forgetting your good breeding.'

  'Oh yes, yes, of course, excuse me, lad,' Monty apologises and changes the subject. 'So how long are you in here for, Raffles? And Raffles, for those of you who don't know, is known as the Father of Singapore. He was a British colonial official who founded Singapore. It's no shame to be named after him. So, just so long as you demonstrate the utmost integrity, I shall, from here on in, call you Raffles.'

  'The 'father' of Singapore,' Raffles says in awe. 'I had no idea at all. And integrity is my middle name now, sir. I think I'm here for a couple of weeks. That should be long enough.'

  'Long enough for what?'

  'Long enough to escape.'

  'But you've just got here, why on earth would you want to escape lad?'

  'Why? Because I hate these places. They shove you in here and forget about you while they go off and see the world. It's not fair.'

  'I should inform you, Raffles, that around here I'm the instigator and leader of the escape committee.'

  'Oh, so what have you worked out?' Raffles asks cheekily.

  'Well. I have worked out that these pens are impenetrable, so making an escape from inside here is impossible. The enclosures outside also are escape proof so that's out of the question and, ah… Miss Steph spends most of the morning in here, so that's no good. I think it would have to be a midnight run, but I'm still pondering the modus operandi.'

  'So how long have you been here?'

  'Two months.'