I had heard enough.
I walked back to the bedroom and climbed into bed, feeling utterly dejected. The Baron must have been laughing at me all evening, knowing that I was so starstruck by him that I would have done whatever he asked. All for the sake of a photo in a gossip column, designed to mislead the public about his romantic proclivities.
“Bancy,” I said bitterly.
How naïve I had been.
I drifted into a restless sleep and woke a short while later to find that Helen had gone out to a meeting. For the first time since moving to London I felt a longing to know what was going on in the life I’d left behind, so I logged on to Helen’s computer.
There were dozens of e-mails in my in-box, mostly from Facebook friends asking what I was up to and why I had gone so quiet. I felt a pang of guilt upon seeing several e-mails from my owners asking me to get in touch. They had been annoyed with me at first, but their messages became more desperate in tone as the weeks had gone on. Continuing to scroll down the list, I stopped in my tracks when I saw an e-mail from Murphy.
Its subject heading was “MY bIRthdaY.”
I smiled, remembering my own problems with the caps lock button when I had first learned to type.
HI nancy.
It’s Murphy. How is London?
It’s my birthday this weekend and I’m having a party at home. Please come if you can.
We all miss you. Brambles says do you need antibac wipes he will send them if you do.
Love Murphy
I checked the date, but the e-mail was over a month old; the party had been and gone. I had not even known it was Murphy’s birthday. I felt a dull ache in the pit of my stomach and my eyes started to tingle. I read Murphy’s e-mail again and couldn’t stop the words forming in my mind: I miss my home.
I thought about the birthday party. I thought about my owners and the little people. I thought about Murphy struggling with the keyboard and mouse in order to e-mail me. I knew how much he hated computers, but he had persevered, determined to get an invitation to me somehow.
The tingling in my eyes was getting worse, and I quickly closed my e-mail account before the tears could come.
Hoping to distract myself, I opened Facebook.
My news feed was full of the usual mundane updates about my friends’ lives. The humans moaned about work or the weather. Troy the show cat had posted photos of the latest addition to his trophy collection.
A few friends had posted a link to a new cat blog, which they said was the funniest thing they had read in ages. I felt a pang of jealousy as I remembered how people used to say the same about my blog, which I hadn’t updated since I had moved to London almost six weeks ago.
The blog was called Cat Confidential, and I nearly fell off the desk when I saw that its author was Molly.
I could feel my heart pounding as I read some of her posts. The blog was a wryly observant account of life in a small town—our small town—in which she poked gentle fun at her human and feline neighbors. She was nothing if not prolific, blogging several times a week, sometimes even several times a day. The comments from her followers read “LOL! Molly, you rock!” and “Ha ha, Molly. Another hilarious post!”
How dare she? I fumed. Blogging was my thing. Molly had never even heard of a blog until I’d started mine, and she had shown nothing but disdain for it. Yet here she was, a few months later, blogging as if her life depended on it. And by the looks of it, with more followers than I’d ever had.
I closed Cat Confidential and stared at the computer screen, my tail twitching with annoyance. Then I jumped down from the desk and walked into the bedroom. Unusually, all three of my cat housemates were in the room.
Gerald was measuring out his prescription food into a bowl placed on kitchen scales. He carefully poured the dry food in, studying the digital display. He picked three biscuits out of the bowl then put two back in, his eyes still fixed on the tiny screen. He smiled, evidently satisfied, and placed the single leftover biscuit carefully back in the box. Then he began to eat the biscuits in his bowl one by one, making sure to chew each of them the requisite number of times before swallowing it.
On the other side of the room, Princess was trying on her collars. When she had fastened one around her neck, she would practice her facial expressions in the mirror, tilting her head coquettishly and placing her paw in front of her mouth with her lips slightly parted. Then she would return the collar to its stand and move on to the next one.
Oscar was working on his new act. He had spread some objects out in front of the window and was sitting next to a row of picture cards turned facedown. He stared intently at the back of a card before walking over to his collection of objects. With an expression of concentration he selected the roll of tape. Then he turned the card over, to reveal a picture of a ball of wool.
“Damn it!” he shouted, before returning the tape to its original position and taking another card. This time he purposefully selected the toy mouse, then turned the card over to reveal a picture of the tape. He emitted a strange growling noise through his gritted teeth.
“Oscar,” I said after he failed to match the object to the picture for the sixth time in a row. “What am I about to do?”
“Er, dunno, Nance. Have a nap?”
“Wrong,” I said. “Guess again.”
Oscar scowled. “I never guess, Nancy. I’m psychic.”
“Of course you are, Oscar,” I replied.
Then I walked back into the living room and jumped up onto the desk. My Facebook page was still open on the computer.
In the status bar I typed, “Nancy . . . is coming home.”
When I stepped off the train the following morning I was struck by the smell in the air. Rather than the exhaust fumes and smog of London, I could smell the autumn leaves on the trees, and berries on the hedgerows. I made my way up the hill from the station, listening to the birds in the sky above me.
“Isn’t that that cat?”
“Which cat?”
“The one who killed six chickens onstage, of course!”
“Oh, my god, it is!”
Turning right at the corner shop, I trotted along the pavement toward NHQ but as I approached the driveway I stopped. I knew that my owners would have seen my Facebook status and would be expecting me, but I hesitated. Once inside it would be difficult to leave, and there was something else I had to do first.
I turned away from the house and padded along the pavement to the end of the street, where I turned right and headed up the hill toward Murphy and Molly’s house.
All was quiet as I pushed my face through the cat flap. I slipped into the kitchen and looked around. The food bowls stood empty, and I could hear the kitchen clock ticking on the wall. Then I heard another noise, a tapping coming from the living room. It was a noise I knew well: the sound of typing on a computer keyboard. I crept over to the door and pushed it open a crack. Molly was sitting at a desk in the corner, with her back to me. I could see she was typing a new post in Cat Confidential.
“Oh, Murphy please don’t put it on again; I’m trying to concentrate,” she said without taking her eyes off the screen.
I peered around the door and saw Murphy sitting on the arm of the sofa next to the CD player.
“Just one more time, Molly, please. It’s Nancy’s song,” he said before hitting play.
The familiar introduction to “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera came through the speakers, and I could see Molly’s head sink into her paws. Murphy’s eyes were shut as he swayed from side to side to the music. He hummed the tune softly at first, but soon could not resist singing along, bravely attempting the higher-range notes in a voice that could politely be described as falsetto.
I saw Molly stuff her paws into her ears.
Murphy was singing at full throttle now, if not fully in tune. I stifled a giggle and crept into the room, where I sat on the floor in front of him, waiting for the song to finish. As the music faded I cleared my throat and said, �
��Hello, stranger.”
Murphy’s eyes sprang open and his jaw dropped. I was aware of Molly spinning around at her desk behind me.
“You should enter Britain’s Got Talent, Murphy. You’re exactly what that show needs.”
His face broke into a smile. “Nancy! You’re home!”
“Yes, I am,” I answered, my eyes starting to tingle.
He jumped down from the sofa and walked toward me.
“You look ... beautiful,” he said, coyly.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” I replied, and I meant it. He may not have had the Baron’s dimples or beautiful coloring, but the affection in his eyes was worth more to me than anything the Baron had to offer. A look of concern flashed across his face as he asked, “Are you staying?”
I smiled at him.
“Yes, I’m staying.”
As we made our way along the footpath toward NHQ , I asked Murphy if he wanted to come in to meet my owners.
“Not this time,” he replied, “but I’ll wait here for you.”
I understood in that moment how long he had been doing just that. Not only waiting for me to come home, but waiting for me to realize what he meant to me.
“Thanks,” I said before padding down the garden path toward the house.
I heard one of the little people squeal with excitement as I poked my head through the cat flap, hastily followed by a “shh!” from one of my owners. I tiptoed out of the kitchen, across the hallway, and into the dining room, where I was greeted by a huge cheer from my owners and the little people. I noticed a homemade “Welcome Home” banner strung from the picture rail. I was pounced on by the little people and smothered in kisses, and in return I bit their noses playfully, like I had when I was a kitten.
When they finally put me down, I noticed Pip sitting in the doorway, trying his best to look disapproving, but with a trace of a smile on his lips. I walked up to him and said, “Hi, Pip. Did you miss me?”
“Hmmm,” he replied noncommittally before turning his back on me and walking over to the food bowls.
It’s good to be back, I thought.
CHAPTER 22
. . . Or Whatever
Success is getting what you want; happiness is wanting what you get.
—Anonymous
Nancy’s back fur good!” the local newspaper proclaimed shortly after my return, and for a euphoric few days I felt like an A-list celebrity in my own town. Everywhere I went a crowd of well-wishers gathered to pat my head and tell me how much I’d been missed. I may have been on the pavement outside the corner shop rather than at the PAFTAs, but those heartfelt expressions of affection were better than any award.
“Where are you off to next, Nancy?” people joked, but I knew I would not be going anywhere. My compulsion to have adventures had gone. I no longer felt the urge to follow strangers home from the pub or to jump into a car if its door was left open. “You’re quite the homebody now, aren’t you, Nancy?” my owner commented one day as I lay sprawled out on the sofa, and I could hear the relief in her voice. I suspect she missed the late-night “taxi for Nancy” routine even less than I did.
I wanted to tell Murphy about the Baron, to reassure him that, however the newspapers had depicted our “relationship,” I had found him vain, dishonest, and boring. I knew Murphy would have seen the pictures of us at the PAFTAs, yet that night was the one part of my London adventure he never asked me about. He loved to hear about my disastrous art exhibition and television commercial, and he laughed heartily at my stories of Helen and my cat housemates. But if I mentioned the PAFTAs his eyes glazed over and he would get distracted or change the subject.
I desperately wanted to explain that my night with the Baron had been the turning point for me, but somehow the opportunity never arose.
That was the way Murphy wanted it, and I had to respect his wishes.
What with people stopping me on the street, and the local newspapers sending photographers to the house, life was something of a whirlwind, and it was a while before I could check in with Team Nancy.
I was particularly keen to catch up with Brambles, worrying that his phobias and irritable bowel might have got the better of him in my absence.
Making my way across the back gardens one morning about a week after my return, I was relieved to see him sitting on his patio, enjoying the autumn sunshine. His delight at seeing me was evident.
“I heard you were back, but I couldn’t quite believe it!” he said, a happy smile on his face.
“Well, I couldn’t stay away from Team Nancy forever, could I?”
“Tell me all about it, then,” he said, making himself comfortable.
So I told him about my London adventure and described my feline housemates. When I mentioned Gerald’s Litter Kwitter seat he was, as expected, fascinated.
“I might have to get me one of those!” he exclaimed.
By the time I told him about my night at the PAFTAs his eyes were like saucers. While I talked I studied him closely, trying to gauge the mental state behind his happy facade. There was something different about him, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Suddenly it came to me and I stopped midsentence.
“Brambles! You’re sitting on a crack in the paving!”
Brambles smiled shyly.
“I know. It’s something I’ve been working on with my therapist. I’ve got rid of the antibac gel, too!”
It was my turn to listen in awe while Brambles explained that he had started seeing a pet psychiatrist, and together they were tackling his phobias and obsessive-compulsive behaviors. It was going to be a long process, his therapist said, but he was making excellent progress.
“Good for you, Brambles!”
“Go inside and check out my food bowl,” he replied with a grin.
“Now, there’s an offer a girl can’t refuse!” I joked, heading into the kitchen.
There I found his food bowl on a mat dotted with spilled crunchies and covered in muddy paw prints—something that would have sent the pretherapy Brambles into a tailspin of anxiety.
“Wow, Brambles, that’s amazing!” I said, and his smile spread from ear to ear.
“Thank you,” he replied. “I couldn’t have done it without Bella, though.”
Bella, it seemed, had found her calling at long last. She had taken on Brambles as a project, a focus for her endless reserves of affection. Rather than sitting on her owners’ front doorstep fretting that she was about to be abandoned, she spent her time with Brambles, patiently helping him to work through his OCD issues. In Brambles, Bella had found what she had always sought: someone who needed her as much as she needed him. Some might say they were codependent, but it worked for them.
Of course, Bella still welled up with tears when she saw that I was back, but I could see that they were tears of happiness, rather than tears of concern.
Number 29, I discovered, was still pursuing an itinerant lifestyle, sleeping in sheds and stealing food. It had been months since his escape and people had long since forgotten his fugitive status, but he continued to wear his eye patch, lest anyone recognize him and report him to the authorities. To be honest, I think he just preferred life that way: being answerable to no one was what he had spent his years of incarceration dreaming about. His friendship with Pip had also continued to blossom in my absence. I counted myself lucky if I got more than five words out of Pip on any given day, but he and Number 29 would chat for hours, finishing each other’s sentences and laughing at private jokes.
The two of them often disappeared for hours on end, roaming the neighborhood like vagabonds. One night I saw them staggering home along the footpath, their skinny frames virtually indistinguishable from one another. I darted behind a tree so I could observe them unnoticed. Pip was wearing Number 29’s patch and they were both giggling like schoolgirls. Number 29 was telling a story that Pip found so hilarious he could barely walk: it took them nearly half an hour to stagger up the verge to our back garden. Watching them from my hi
ding place I realized that, in all my time living with Pip, I had never seen him laugh. Number 29 brought out a side of Pip’s personality that no one else got to see.
I resolved there and then that, one day, I’d get the two of them onto Jerry Springer for a DNA test.
If they’re not related, I’ll eat my collar.
My friendship with Molly pretty much picked up where it had left off, which is to say she tried her best not to be in the same room as me, and if she had no choice in the matter, she alternated between ignoring me and giving me withering looks.
I wanted to show I had no hard feelings about her blog, so I logged on to Cat Confidential and signed up as a follower. A few days later I noticed that she had done the same for my Mog Blog.
We never discussed what we had done, but I like to think it was our unspoken acknowledgment that the cat blogosphere was big enough for both of us.
My new, domesticated lifestyle meant that I had more time for my blog, and I was surprised to find that writing gave me far more pleasure than any of the other careers I had tried my hand at. Murphy was happy to sleep on the desk at NHQ while I tapped away at the computer, and in spite of the long break, the Mog Blog soon picked up new followers.
I worried that no one would want to read a blog written by a boring, “normal” cat; but Murphy reassured me, “If it’s funny, people will read it,” and, as usual, he was right. I discovered that there was just as much humor to be found in the minutiae of everyday life as there was in a tale of crazy capers.
As Murphy put it, “Crazy capers are so last year.”
Making the final adjustments to a blog post one afternoon, it struck me that perhaps writing was the special talent I had been searching for; that maybe “writer” was what the “W” in MIAOW had stood for all along.
And do you know the best thing about it? It was something I could do from home.
Sex and the Kitty Page 18
