Though the sill was oddly high, he could perhaps reach it—barely—if he stretched up on his hind legs. I would go out the window, climb down the stone. In fact, I started to do just that—until I spied three sleek-coated pointers far beneath me. I couldn't smell them, but I was certain they were ogres, too. I spun and looked about the room. There was an iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and if I sprang just right I could catch it, pull myself up and get beyond the ogre-dog's . . . .
I bunched my leg muscles and prepared to leap, then I stopped myself when his ugly eyes caught and held mine.
"Ya talk too much, cat," the dog said. Twin strands of drool spilled from his mouth. "Ya shouldn't've went blathering like ya did to the Marquis. Shouldn't've exposed our secret, not that he believed ya. Shouldn't've suggested he drown us. Wasn't polite, cat. An' here I surmised that you were a critter with some brains."
Blathering. Surmised. Big words for an ogre, I thought. Perhaps they weren't all so utterly stupid as the one whose head I . . . .
"Them stray cats we caught a month or so back, they seemed pretty smart—and real tasty. 'Fore we ate 'em they talked to us 'bout how you killed the ogre what used to live here. Ya shouldn't've told them cats 'bout it."
No, I shouldn't have, I agreed. I risked another glance at the chandelier. It was higher than I'd ever jumped before, but perhaps I could . . . .
"If ya had kept your mouth shut, we wouldn't've known. Grizwald wouldn't've learned ya ate his brother, my second cousin once removed and Ratigan's and Zebedee's best friend. Griz wouldn't've got us all together and had us come here. Should've kept your mouth shut, cat. 'Cause now I'm gonna see if you're tasty, too."
"I guarantee you I'm all gristle," I replied. If I missed the chandelier, I'd fall right in front of him. There had to be another way out . . . .
The dog sat back on his haunches, watching me. "Should've kept your mouth shut," he repeated. "At least the Marquis didn't swallow a word ya said. At least . . . ."
"What are you going to do to him?" Despite my master's unwillingness to believe me, I held a fondness for him.
The dog made an exaggerated gesture that approximated a shrug. "Griz . . . Prince . . . likes the Marquis well enough. So we probably won't kill him. Probably keep the human tied up in the dungeon. Bring him out and set him to waving at merchant wagons to lure 'em in."
"And everyone else?"
Another shrug. "Once upon a time we ogres was peaceable sorts."
Not any longer, I knew.
"So I 'spose we'll kill 'em. Maybe we'll keep the Princess and one or two others around to cook for us. Maybe we won't. Ratigan can cook when he puts his mind to it."
The dog's tongue lolled out and his eyes took on a hungry gleam. As I contemplated my options—either the chandelier or climbing out of the window, both bad options—I saw him change. The fur melted off him like butter, seeping into the cracks of the stone floor and disappearing. The skin beneath was a pale green, dotted with warts and festering boils. There were muscles, and they were growing as I gaped. The entire dog was growing, and its limbs were changing, becoming manlike and thick and long. Arms extended and front paws turned into massive hands with fingers ending in ugly, cracked nails. The chest became defined and impressive, and the head became hideous. The ogre's face was shaped like an egg, hairless save for a dozen uneven strands that jutted from the top. His eyes were crooked, the right being slightly higher and larger than the left, and the nose was wide and puglike, looking as if it might have been broken a few times. The lips were large and bulbous, licked by a wide black tongue.
"I like gristle," he said in a sonorous voice that echoed off the walls.
He gave a chuckle then and reached for me, and in that instant I abandoned the chandelier notion and leapt from the windowsill and into the room. In a heartbeat I was through his legs, speeding across the floor and out the door, scrambling over the landing and down the stairs. I was a blue-gray blur heading toward the music room, intent on trying one final time to get the Marquis to listen.
"Puss!" the Princess exclaimed as I ran past her. She was still ensconced in the sitting room, a half-dozen golden-furred ogre-puppies around her dainty slippered feet. "Dear kitty, have you . . . ."
I barreled into the next room, my clawed feet skittering over the polished floor and taking me to my master.
"Father's cat!" A sneeze. "You still have father's cat."
My master had company, the new voice belonging to the middle brother. The man was sitting several feet away from the Marquis, leaning against an enormous harp and sniffling into a handkerchief.
"Yes, Puss is still with me, and . . ."
"Listen," I blurted, eyes darting from one pup to the next to "Prince," who had taken a discreet position behind the Marquis. "You have to listen to me!"
"Father's cat talks?" Another sneeze. And another.
"Yes, brother, and sometimes he . . . ."
"Listen! They're ogres. All of the pups are ogres. And if you and the Princess and your brother and the servants and the armed and armored guards don't leave, you all could be dead by nightfall."
The Marquis didn't laugh this time, and for a moment I thought I'd reached him. That notion vanished, however, when his eyes narrowed to thin slits.
"You listen to me, Puss."
The brother sneezed quite loudly this time.
"And you listen good. I like these pups. I like Prince. I like them better than you."
What? His words were daggers, and I heard them well, just as I heard the castle's dark heart beat faster and stronger, just as I smelled the stench of the ogre-pups. I was reeling from all of it.
"I never liked you, Puss. I only tolerated you because my father liked you. Then I tolerated you because you got me this castle and the Princess."
The brother sneezed again and again.
"I don't like any cats, Puss. Never did. In fact, I hate cats. They're too aloof. They're too independent. Can't stand the hairballs and the finicky behavior. Dogs, Puss. I like dogs. No. I love dogs. All of these pups and Prince are staying, and . . . ."
"Ahhhhhhhhh-chooooooooooooo!" The brother was caught up in a sneezing fit.
". . . and you're leaving, Puss," the Marquis continued, raising his voice. "You're leaving right this very instant."
"I'm leaving, too, I'm afraid." The brother stood, handkerchief over his nose. "I can't sit here another moment. I am so allergic to dog fur." His eyes watered as if he'd been to his best friend's funeral. "I can take the cat with me if you'd like. I rather fancy the notion of having a talking cat."
"The pups," I tried one final time, catching the angry gaze of the Marquis. "They're ogres. They're going to . . . ." Then I felt myself being lifted and held beneath the middle brother's arm. He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket, sneezed again, and petted me with his free hand.
"You're damp," he said to me, as he carried me out of the music room and paused in the sitting room to bow to the Princess. "However did you get so damp?" he continued, as he started down the stairs. "And you're out of breath. I bet those pups were chasing you."
"Yes, chasing," I said.
"No pups will chase you in my house," he returned. "It's a good house, sturdy and small, nothing like this castle. But you'll like it."
"No dogs," I said.
"No. No dogs. I'm so terribly allergic to them. I've a donkey, though. He doesn't talk, but you'll like him."
"I'm sure I will," I replied, as he carried me out of the castle's front door, strode to the stables, and deposited me on the donkey's saddle.
"Your paws!" he exclaimed, taking note of the rest of my condition. "You've got a few broken claws, and your pads are bleeding."
All the running, I thought, the climbing up and down the wall, the scrabbling up the stairs. I wasn't used to it, and my paws were paying the price.
"Perhaps I should buy you some boots," he continued, as he led the donkey across the drawbridge.
Behind us I could hear the playful yi
p of the fourteen puppies and the loud bark of "Prince." Fifteen ogres. Eighteen if the three pointers outside the window were ogres, too. A veritable force of monsters! The Marquis' guards couldn't possibly . . . .
Then my breath caught, as on the grounds beyond the moat I saw seven more dogs, a motley looking crew—terriers, shepherds, and a one-eared shaggy sheepdog. They smelled just like "Prince." Thankfully they waited until we were over the drawbridge and headed away from the Marquis' lands before they scampered across and hurried to join the other ogres. The Marquis would be going to the dogs, all right. I fervently hoped at least some of the people within the castle walls could find their way free before . . . .
"Did you hear me, Puss?"
"Minew, my name's Minew Milakye."
"Would you like some boots, sweet Minew?"
My eyes took on a faraway look as I thought of the fine cloak and hat, bag and boots I'd lost beneath the spreading fern.
"Yes," I answered with fervor. "I indeed would fancy a new pair of boots. Suede this time."
This story originally appeared in Magic Tails, DAW, 2005.
USA Today bestselling author Jean Rabe has written more than thirty fantasy and adventure novels and more than eighty short stories. When she's not writing, which isn't often, she edits … more than two dozen anthologies and more than one hundred magazine issues so far. She's a former news reporter and news bureau chief who penned a true crime book with noted attorney F. Lee Bailey. Her genre writing includes military, science fiction, fantasy, urban fantasy, mystery, horror, and modern-day adventure. She shares her home with a Labrador retriever, a graying pug, and a lively young Boston terrier. Visit her at www.jeanrabe.com.
Afterword
IF YOU ENJOYED these stories and would like to read more, Unidentified Funny Objects publishes an annual volume of stories just like these. Many of the authors featured in this book are regular contributors. There is also fiction by Robert Silverberg, George R. R. Martin, Esther Friesner, Piers Anthony, Jody Lynn Nye, Kevin J. Anderson, Gini Koch, Neil Gaiman, and many other excellent and very funny writers.
The following titles are available from UFO Publishing:
Unidentidied Funny Objects
Unidentidied Funny Objects 2
Unidentidied Funny Objects 3
Unidentidied Funny Objects 4
Unidentified Funny Objects 5
Funny Science Fiction
Funny Fantasy
Funny Horror
Coffee: 14 Caffeinated Tales of the Fantastic
About the editor
Alex Shvartsman is a writer, anthologist, translator, and game designer from Brooklyn, NY. He's the winner of the 2014 WSFA Small Press Award for Short Fiction and a finalist for the 2015 Canopus Award for Excellence in Interstellar Writing.
His short stories have appeared in Nature, InterGalactic Medicine Show, Daily Science Fiction, Galaxy’s Edge, and a variety of other magazines and anthologies. His collection, Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories, and his steampunk humor novella H. G. Wells, Secret Agent were published in 2015.
In addition to the UFO series, he has edited the Humanity 2.0, Funny Science Fiction, Coffee: 14 Caffeinated Tales of the Fantastic and Dark Expanse: Surviving the Collapse anthologies. His website is www.alexshvartsman.com
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