by Alex Howard
“Grrrrrrrooaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrooooooooooooooooow wwwwww…”
And then it happened. Suddenly the scene became a throbbing ball of fur, fangs and noise. Hisses, scratches, swipes and bites all tumbled over each other as Saaf Landan Tom – originally enjoying the company of an amorous she-cat near a litterbin – bounded into the middle of the scene like a lion, thrashing this way and that.
And then nothing. Library Cat was alone. The alley was empty, with the cats seeming to have evaporated into thin air. He had no idea where they had all gone, and was loath to cry for Tom, lest the baying throng stampeded back for some reason. A dog barked nearby. He shivered. Looking down at his paw, he noticed a few red beads of blood beginning to plush up on its white tip like tiny berries. He dunked it down in a nearby puddle to wash it.
And then he saw her again. PUDDLE CAT! Her whites ripped and silver; her blacks velvety and ethereal; her eyes flickering like emeralds and her whiskers like white lace; and her expression seeming to speak the secrets of a thousand interminable years of knowledge and wisdom.
Library Cat was speechless and, more to the point, thought-less. Gently with the sweet-terror of a Petrarchan prince, he moved his mouth closer to the image. (She moved in too! Oh the joy!) He wanted to contain the moment forever but couldn’t think how. Could he kiss her? He must kiss her. I have to kiss her! And with that, he lowered his head down to hers, and was just about to rub his cheek against her soft head when…
“Eow!”
Saaf Landan Tom jocularly sat down in the puddle sending a raft of muddy ripples fleeing in all directions from the sheer bulk of his enormous fluffy backside. He had something in his mouth. It was a note:
Sorry about that mate. Not what I planned. Home?
As the two cats wended their way back along Lauriston Place, their breath pluming little clouds of condensation in front of them, Library Cat began to feel a little… how might we put it… unusual. He had only had a few snickets of catnip, and was initially feeling a little woozy and lightheaded – a perfectly normal response. But now things were turning strange. Objects began to take on the shape and fluidity of a Salvador Dalí painting, with melting colours and sounds. Fireflies seemed to buzz above his head, and he found himself bounding up joyfully to snap at them only for them to disappear into the black. Traffic lights and dustbins suddenly seemed to gain an alarming and inexplicable sentience. All of a sudden, shimmering in front of his eye line, he could see himself linking with Puddle Cat in an ensouled room, red with light and ablaze with bitter sublimation. Her black fur was interminably deep like jet, while her white fur was glowing moon-silver like platinum. Now she emerged purring through the gloom to Library Cat on the street, nuzzling him gently. And then they were eating mice after it had happened, and then… nothing… All images vanished as a diorama of blackness passed across his vision.
Recommended Reading
Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh.
Food consumed
Watery lumps of jellied chicken, a mouse, half a lamb kebab, and some grade-one catnip.
Mood
Heady excitement, to delirious, to a crushing nihilistic disappointment.
Discovery about Humans
Their abuse of chemicals at night isn’t as incomprehensible as previously thought.
…in which our hero recalls the night
before, and eats potentially poisonous tuna
Shame. That’s what Library Cat felt right now. Pure, unadulterated cat shame.
He had been sick. On his turquoise chair in the library. The vomit clearly contained the dark brown threads of the previous night’s catnip. His memory of the night was a blur. There had been Puddle Cat, and a beautiful tortoiseshell, he remembered that much, but that was all. Now his lamentable loss of dignity in the sober surroundings of the library led to him being shooed out into the cold square.
My head feels like a lead ball, thought Library Cat, the effects of last night’s debauchery forcing him into the heady heights of metaphor.
But there was more. An hour of so earlier, Library Cat had headed home only to discover Saaf Landan Tom drinking from his water bowl once again, contaminating it with large chunks of chicken jelly. And then something terrible happened. Library Cat lashed out. For the first time in his life, the red mist had descended. Incensed by his cousin’s boorish impertinence, and still fat-tailed with jealousy over Tom’s evidently more successful time On The Prowl the night before, Library Cat had dealt his cousin a smart blow to the neck, with all five claws fully deployed. It was over in an instant. Saaf Landan Tom had fled the house and Edinburgh hissing curtly, his great ginger tail swishing through the air like a medieval torch.
This was worse than the vomit in the library. This was worse than ostracism to the square. This was a slight of character. Up until this point, Library Cat had fought all his wars with two deeply coveted weapons – weapons of infinite virtue, that brought their bearers certain victory against cats and Humans alike, and which were brandished by thoroughbred thinking cats all over the world. The two weapons were: thoughts and expressions. They’d never failed Library Cat before and, he assumed, they never would. But he’d swiped, there was no escaping the matter. And it was his own flesh and blood at the receiving end – his dear, well-meaning half-thinking cat cousin, Saaf Landan Tom. For a thinking cat to engage in warfare at all is a slight of character; but for a thinking cat to lash out rather than stare down or outsmart brings even greater embarrassment to the thinking cat community. And yet the only thought Library Cat had had at the time was, to put it succinctly, Take that you slobbering, ginger, nip-addled, toilet-brush-tailed b*****d!
Library Cat looked mournfully at the trees in the square and at the tiny fractals of ice that were beginning to encircle their boughs as the teeth of winter sank deeper into the land. Beyond, he could see the Humans in their tenement houses, moving to and fro in their yellow-warm lounges behind world-muting glass. This was definitely the lull
after the drama – the cold, cobble-contemplating lull, the bleak, autumnal, dank tumbleweedy solitude. Library Cat almost felt as if the weather was conspiring to make him feel even guiltier.
What came over me? Oh, the humiliation. Vomit and a swipe on the same day!
His long held dream of becoming university rector cat seemed to slither away before his eyes.
Is this the cat I’ve become? Am I to live a life punctuated with violence and covert catnip deals beneath flickering street lamps? Shunned by thinking cats, and exiled from the delicious warmth and literary pleasures of the Towsery?
“Yo! Cat! Hey, wait up!”
A Human was running towards him, his red satchel bouncing off his waist. Just as Library Cat thought he’d stop, he continued running past him.
Fine, run on by me sir, your indifference means nothing to me, seethed Library Cat inwardly.
But now another Human, a girl this time, approaching him more slowly.
“Hey Library Cat! Hey, come here…”
She bent down and kissed the air in his direction. Pleased for the company, Library Cat rose and moped over, avoiding eye contact.
“There, there, no need to look so sad! Here, have some tuna.”
TUNA!
“There, there. Good boy.”
BOY? … hmmm strokes, yes, strokes, strokes, strokes… mm… KEEP STROKING!
“More? OK, here you go.”
No, not more Tuna, you cretin, more strokes!
“Mmm? No more? OK… Your coat is so soft…!”
YES! Strokes… Mmmm… strokes. That last stroke was scrummy.
The Human eventually rose, towering up above him, turned and walked away smiling. Then the night before came flooding back to Library Cat once more.
But it had disappeared for a moment. During the strokes, his mind had become unstuck. It had lifted away, beyond the past and lingered in the present. For a second, he had forgotten about the last twenty-four hours.
It was a start.
Recommended Re
ading
‘Whatever Happened’ by Philip Larkin.
Food consumed
1 x lump of tuna (probably more than a day old so technically “illegal”).
Mood
Cyclonic. Slowly stabilising.
Discovery about Humans
Sometimes, they are a much-needed distraction.
…in which our hero
reasons with a raven
Still extradited from the library some hours later, Library Cat had taken to sleeping on the concrete benches just outside the library café. It was better than nothing. But cold concrete is a poor substitute for the lavish turquoise fabric of his usual chair in the foyer.
His tummy heavy with tuna, he had just dozed off into a tail-twitched sleep when he was rudely awoken.
“Squark,” said the Proximate Bird.
Oh shut up, thought Library Cat.
“Squark! Squark!,” said the Proximate Bird, with vigour.
Look it’s quite simple, seethed Library Cat. I am here to sleep and think; you are here to irritate and be eaten.
“SQUARK!” repeated the Proximate Bird, unheedingly.
You really are daft, aren’t you? Look, I’ve had a tough forty-eight hours, so let me substantiate what I just thought: I am here to sleep and think. You are here to irritate and be eaten… potentially by me. I kindly draw your attention to the latter part of your measly commission on this earth – the “be eaten by me” part. I accept it’s a thought in the passive voice, but…
“SQUAAAAAAAAARK” interrupted the Proximate Bird.
OK that’s it, thought Library Cat, an early dinner it is.
Library Cat rose, and yawned. He carefully stretched his white paw, and then his black paw, markedly extending his claws each time. He gave his coat a lick (for hunting should never be undertaken with a dirty coat), and shook his head.
If he will insist on interrupting me right while I’m about to have a dream about Nietzsche, mused Library Cat, then frankly he deserves to be eaten. Right where is he? Proximate Bird? Where are you Proximate Bird? I want to be friends after all. Come now Proximate Bird, I have a worm for you. Proximate Bird…?
But no sooner did Library Cat rise than Proximate Bird had flown off to meet his wife, to create many Proximate Chicks, and generally increase the already infuriating din of birds around George Square.
Peace at last! reflected Library Cat. No birds, no Humans. Bliss! Come at me, Nietzsche.
He settled back down for a nap.
“Oh my God, yah, the people sitting opposite me on level 4 just WON’T STOP talking, yah. One of them was even SKYPING! Oh Library Cat! Hi Library Cat! Hi! Library Cat, LIBRARY CAT!”
Oh for goodness sake! fumed Library Cat. The Humans are worse than the birds and they don’t even know it!
Recommended Reading
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.
Food consumed
Almost one bird.
Mood
Grossly irritated.
Discovery about Humans
Sometimes, they are utterly blind to their own hypocrisies.
…in which our hero confronts
what no cat should ever have to confront
That afternoon saw Library Cat sitting in a ray of sun. Suddenly an intense feeling of imperiousness washed over him. Riding its balmy wave were his father’s words, remembered from a time when he was no more than a bounding Library Kitten.
“Everything the light touches, Library Kitten, is your kingdom.”
“But what about that far-off shadowy place?” Library Cat had responded. “That’s the Hugh Robson Essay Bunker: you must never go there, Library Kitten.”
Hmm, the Hugh Robson Essay Bunker, thought Library Cat now, some six years on. What’s so unpleasant about it, I wonder. And why should I be denied entrance? More to the point, from what archaic law does my untimely forbiddance derive? Biblio Chat had visited it during his last stay in Edinburgh and had claimed it was an “inspiring” experience.
Then a new thought occurred to him. What if my father were enacting a kind of subversion to put me off the scent of something exciting? A scent such as… say… books, or MICE? Mice live in bunkers after all.
Library Cat recognised his thought development as highly stupid and illogical. His relationship with his father had been strange at times but he never really thought him capable of hoodwinking him away from rodents in the manner that was now occurring to him. But the thought of mice had entered his head. And when the thought of mice enter a thinking cat’s head, they scurry around in there until their presence is so ubiquitous that the cat in question must seek out a mouse to appease the craving.
And so it was that Library Cat, filled with the image of large, tasty mice, ventured from his sunny, concrete throne beside the library on that late October day, and headed to the enigmatic Hugh Robson Essay Bunker. Down the stairs he went.
All at once a sight of terror met his eyes. Humans typing. Constantly typing! Typing and shuffling notes in a pallid hot void of whirring machines. But worst of all were the mice! There were mice everywhere, but they were strange robotic mice with long, genetically modified tails and no eyes. Each one seemed stunned into enacting the Humans’ dastardly deeds, only emitting an eerie “click” as they were dragged across the desks. To hungry Library Cat, they were a parody of temptation.
Get me out, NOW! thought Library Cat, and with that he turned and galloped back up the stairs, crossed the square and resumed his concrete throne.
But the thought stayed with him – the Humans, their robotic rodents complicit and eyeless. Library Cat wanted to shut out what he’d seen, and all its Camus-esque existential hideousness.
Well, at least I now know, thought Library Cat, calming down. But I think I need a normal mouse to get over this. Mmm, normal mice… Normal tasty mice…
Library Cat left his concrete plinth and began to stalk the dirty perimeters of the library, keeping his head low and his breathing soft, hoping for a tasty snack.
There! Just in the corner of the library and George Square Lecture Theatre, he spied what he was looking for: a turgid, naïve field mouse snaffling around for crumbs. Library Cat’s eyes widened. He tiptoed stealthily forward… one paw down… then the other… and…
“Library Cat, Library Cat! Are your thoughts academically citable?”
From behind him there bellowed the stricken voice of a nervous student.
Obviously they are, I’m Library Cat, thought Library Cat, turning his head back to face the student – a girl smoking and wearing a pashmina scarf – in anger.
“Ya, OK, but which referencing system should I use to cite your thoughts, Library Cat?”
MLA, thought Library Cat.
“Why?”
Because the letter L reminds me of the curvature of a mouse’s tail when fleeing in abject fear from my pernicious paw. It stirs me. Now do you mind? I was trying to hunt…
“Thank you, Library Cat, you’ve helped me a lot!”
Honestly, thought Library Cat exasperated. He turned back just in time to see the mouse’s backside disappear down a tiny hole in the concrete behind the library.
And yet another mouse I’ll never see again… fumed Library Cat, his ears twisted back in fury.
Recommended Reading
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig.
Food consumed
(Almost) one mouse.
Mood
Frustrated and cheated.
Discovery about Humans
They are self-absorbed when stressed and should practise feline-inspired mindfulness.
…in which our hero
“welcomes” his French cousin
Library Cat watched in horror.
A few yards off, walking imperiously over the cobbles, was his French cousin Biblio Chat. Unlike last year, when Biblio Chat arrived in Edinburgh having given up France for Lent, this year he was on the hunt for a particular book, entitled Mice and Mousing: Towards a C
amusian Phenomenology of the Hunt.
It was difficult to describe the level of hostility Library Cat harboured towards his French cousin. Biblio Chat’s jaunty air, his frilly red collar, his late-night Refléxions de Sartre (whatever they were) and his showy rejection of Whiskas wet food all stirred a strange rage in him which he could neither fully understand nor control. He was, in deportment and character, the complete antithesis of Saaf Landan Tom.
Honestly, he should take a look at himself, seethed Library Cat as his cousin trotted, high headed, towards him past the David Hume Tower, ignoring the inevitable attention he garnered among those Human students around him by keeping his eyes semi-closed and his head held high as if he might be bathing in a bright ray of sun, while maintaining his trademark Cheshire Cat smile. He didn’t so much walk as glide and there was something so ethereally learned about him which made Library Cat jealous. Everything about him was preened and shimmering with self-aware Frenchness.
Needless to say, Biblio Chat was spawned from a long line of thoroughbred thinking cats, apparently dating back to the time of the French Revolution (though Library Cat suspected there might’ve been a bit of alley cat thrown in along the way – an addition that would annoyingly only add to his Gallic charm). It was around this time that his line began a long, deep-rooted alliance with Scotland profiting greatly from the former’s academic advances during the Scottish Enlightenment, and gravitating towards their warm public hostelries and rat-infested fourteen-storey tenements. Moreover, Scotland at that time offered refuge for many French thinking cats. When a bloody class war raged forcing the more succulent rodents to flee from the immutable sound of the slicing guillotine, Scotland and its new civilised society of sedentary Adam Smiths, David Humes, William Robertsons, Henry Playfairs and Adam Fergusons offered a welcome oasis for the French thinking cat. Biblio Chat’s great grandfather (x 104) had been such a cat, and had stowed away on one of the many claret vessels shuttling between Scotland and France at that time. He had ended up being David Hume’s cat, and Biblio Chat’s line had never forgotten it.
