Ginger the Buddha Cat

by Frank Kusy

  It was a large black scarab beetle, and it was sitting on a small hand-mirror in the centre of the blanket.

  ‘Whoa!’ he cried. ‘That’s what I call a snackerel!’ And with one swift movement, he pounced on it and ate it whole.

  The monk looked on in awe and delight.

  ‘He has chosen correctly!’ he proclaimed. ‘He has chosen the old Buddha cat’s mirror!’

  ‘No fair!’ cried Bas, leaping forward to complain. ‘He’s an imposter! Pick me! Me!’

  But although he could read and write human, he could not speak it, and all the monk heard was an outraged series of squawks and screeches.

  There then commenced the second test.

  Three bowls were set before Ginger – one full of yak’s milk, the second with rice, the third, a dead mouse.

  He did not hesitate. He snatched the mouse.

  ‘Okay, it’s a bit used,’ he thought, avoiding the yukky yak and the boring rice. ‘But it’ll do in a crisis.’

  ‘He has again chosen correctly!’ the monk rejoiced. ‘That mouse was the ex-Buddha cat’s favourite plaything!’

  And then the plump, old holy man bowed down to the little orange cat and paid him homage.

  ‘You are now honoured above all cats,’ he said. ‘And you will come with me to the home of the Enlightened One, so that you may bid him farewell.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Ginger asked Bas. ‘And why is he so fat? I thought these bald Buddhist types didn’t like food.’

  ‘So did I,’ muttered Bas crossly. ‘I’ve been starving myself for nothing, apparently. Whatever, he wants you go with him to see the Buddha.’

  ‘Where is he, then? ‘Cos I’m not going far!’

  ‘You might have to,’ sighed the big black cat. ‘I heard the monk saying it’s six long days walk to Kushinara.’

  ‘Well, that settles it,’ grunted Ginge, setting his chin in a stubborn pout. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I mean, look at all this food they’re bringing me! These stoopid oomans think I’m a god or something – I’m set for life!’

  ‘You can’t tell them that!’ panicked Bas. ‘I know they’ve made a mistake, but if you don’t take up the job, and attend to the Buddha, how will it go with the rest of us cats? Our names will be ruined!’

  ‘Don’t know, don’t care,’ sniffed Ginger, downing a tasty river fish. ‘Tell that slaphead ooman to get lost. Oh yeah, and I’m the Boss round here now, so bow down to me – you base Bas, you – and bring me all your snackerels!’

  *

  I think Ginger just banned all cats from heaven forever! scribbled Sparky as he came awake. He refused to serve the Buddha!

  ‘Really?’ said Edna, suddenly interested. ‘When I was a young girl, my mother used to read me fable stories. And one of them was about the death of the Buddha. As far as I remember, he summoned all the animals of the world – or at least, one of each – to his side as he lay dying. And the only one who didn’t turn up was the cat. I don’t know for sure, little Sparky, but it could be – it just could be - your Ginger was that cat!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Sparky informed his orange companion. ‘It seems that, because of you, I’m not going to heaven when I die. None of us cats are. We are all going to go round and round – for endless lives on this earth – until you put things right.’

  ‘Me?’ said Ginger hotly. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because if you don’t bow your head to the Buddha, if you don’t set an example of humility and goodness for us cats, no-one else will. You are, whether you like it or not, the Chosen One.’

  Chapter 6

  He ain’t heavy, he’s my Buddha

  An hour or so later, Joe staggered back into the house. Weighed down by a huge sack of low-calorie sweets and crisps from the Fatbusters meeting he had just been to, he was looking forward to a long stay on the futon with his remote control.

  But it was not to be.

  As he entered the kitchen, he was immediately confronted by a bold felt-tip message, scrawled on one of the windows.

  Ginger’s in trouble! it said can you chant for him?

  Joe’s surprise at the message was outweighed by his surprise that it had been written at all. He thought Sparky had given up writing to humans. In fact, apart from the occasional note to local pet owners like buy Ben some mouthwash or give Tiddles his toad back, he hadn’t seen him with a pen in his mouth in ages.

  ‘It must be serious,’ he decided, and went looking for his favourite cat.

  Was he in his basket under the stairs? No.

  Was he pawing his woollen poncho from India? No.

  Was he in the garden talking to toads? No.

  Then at last Joe came across him.

  He was curled up under his Buddhist altar, sound asleep.

  ‘There you are, baby cat,’ murmured Joe. ‘Now what are you doing there? Are you trying to tell me something?’

  And although he didn’t feel like it, although he would much rather have been downstairs watching Quark go head-to-head with Odo on Star Trek, he opened the doors of his shrine and began to sonorously chant.

  Strange thoughts came into his mind. Disjointed memories of Victorian London, when he himself had been a cat and Sparky his loving owner. Snippets of dreams, where he was lost somewhere in India, unable to find his way back home. And over-riding all else, a fear of time running out, of failing to fulfil a sacred promise...

  A promise to who or what?

  Joe was still wondering this when, his mind too weary to think anymore, he slumped to the floor next to Sparky and fell asleep.

  *

  The time came when Dev – his witch-wife dead and his children grown – was free to seek the Way again.

  Old and decrepit, barely able to walk, he mounted his fleet black horse and rode many leagues north, in search of the Buddha.

  ‘Am I too late?’ he wondered tiredly. ‘Am I doomed to live forever in the world of Hunger?’

  At last he came to a place called Kushinara, where the Enlightened One lay bedridden, and sought audience with him.

  ‘Do you recognise me, young prince?’ he whispered. ‘I am Dev, who once was your secretary.’

  ‘Of course, lost scribe,’ murmured the ailing sage. ‘Although we are no longer young, but seasoned in the ways of the world. Have you come to bid me farewell?’

  The fat moneylender buried his face in his robes and wept.

  ‘Do not leave us!’ he cried. ‘How will we common mortals fare without you?’

  The Buddha stretched out his hand and placed it on Dev’s head.

  ‘I am but a vessel of the truth,’ he said kindly. ‘The Way I have preached will be your master after I have gone.’

  ‘The Way? The same Way I could not follow before?’

  ‘You have been absent a long time, old friend,’ murmured the sage, ‘and much has changed. For many years, I spoke in simple language, in children’s parables, so that all might understand. I wished them to know why people suffer and how they can, in other lives, escape their suffering. But then, as their understanding grew, I revealed to them the final truth – the Way of the Lotus – whereby all can become happy in this life, without waiting for the next.’

  ‘But how can I achieve happiness?’ sobbed Dev. ‘My soul is stained, my heart is heavy, and my belly is full. Should I go back to the forest, and cleanse myself through hardship?’

  The Buddha smiled through his pain.

  ‘I spent many a year in the forest, living on rice and berries. But it did not bring me happiness, only suffering. Then at last I grew weary, and sat under the Bo Tree, and invited all the evils of the world to tempt me. And when I awoke, I was filled with love for everything – even the smallest grain of sand. I saw the truth of the Middle Way – that everything, even earthly desires, are good in moderation. Denying yourself food and comfort, my friend, will lead only to death, not enlightenment.’

  ‘Then how can I make penance?’ queried Dev. ‘For my time is short, and my offenses grave. What deed can I
do that can wash my soul clean?’

  The Buddha thought long and hard.

  ‘I set you a task,’ he said softly, ‘that no other man can perform. Your pride is great – greater than the arrogant kings of legend – but although it has cast you down, it will now raise you up. Bring me a cat.’

  ‘A cat?’

  ‘Not just any cat, friend Dev, but the cat to replace the one that has gone – my constant companion. And do not think this an easy task, for the cat is the most cunning, the most free-spirited, creature on this Earth. His path to Heaven will be blinded by illusion.’

  Then did Dev part from the World-Honoured One, and – leaving his fine horse behind – travelled south on foot.

  But when he came to the village set out for him, he found only two cats there. And the one he selected, the one who would become the Buddha’s cat, was the most selfish cat in existence.

  *

  Joe and Sparky awoke at the same time, and looked at each other.

  ‘I see your problem,’ said Joe, raising himself up. ‘Only now it’s my problem too.’

  I know wrote Sparky sleepily I was there

  ‘You were there? You saw it all? You’re a dream-catcher? Golly, is there no end to your talents?’

  I don’t know. But what will you do now? Ginger needs help!

  ‘Don’t we all,’ Joe muttered to himself. ‘Let me chant about it.’

  And with that, ignoring the grumblings of his empty tummy, he resumed his mumbling of mantras to the wall.

  An hour passed, and then another, and then something suddenly struck him.

  ‘All this time,’ he muttered to himself, ‘I’ve been trying to improve myself from the outside. Weird diets, health spas, hair transplants – all just to improve my appearance. How vain, how selfish! What was it I read the other day? Oh yes. “Helping one other person is a far greater achievement than becoming the ruler of a country.” That’s what I should be doing – helping someone else instead of myself. That’s the Buddhist Way!’

  Now who should help first?

  Madge? No, she had no time for suffering.

  Sparky? No, he was good enough already.

  There was only one candidate left. Someone who urgently needed saving from himself.

  All this and more went through Joe’s mind as he was chanting, and when he had finished, he shook Sparky gently awake and said, ‘I think I know what to do with Ginger.’

  Chapter 7

  Bring on the Frou-Frou

  There was a ‘pop!’ of a bottle, and a guggling sound, and then a satisfied sigh as something large and orange collapsed on the back lawn.

  ‘Ginger!’ said Sparky, following the thud. ‘Are you on the rum again?’

  ‘It’s for me health!’ moaned Ginger, clambering back to his feet. ‘If I don’t have me daily constitutional, I’m gonna get scurvy and all me teeth are going to fall out. I learnt that in me sixth lifetime – in the navy!’

  Sparky sighed. He had tried his errant friend on several other beverages, notably Ginger beer, but in times of stress like these, he kept falling off the wagon.

  ‘I’ve been thinkin’,’ Ginger slurred slowly. ‘An’ what you said earlier was rubbish!’

  ‘You mean about being the Chosen One?’

  ‘Yeah (hic), that’s it! All I “chosen” today was somewhere to have a poo.’

  ‘Ol’ Joe says we choose everything, even our parents.’

  ‘Oh, does he now? An’ I suppose (hic) I “chose” this bloomin’ sticker on me head!’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be on your head if you weren’t so fat.’

  ‘Fat? Moi? I keep tellin’ you – I’m just “well-rounded!”

  Sparky hesitated before going any further. He was talking to a very tipsy Chosen One with an attitude problem.

  ‘About your dream,’ he said at last. ‘We think we can help you...’

  ‘We? ‘Oo’s we?’ grunted Ginger, taking another glug from the bottle.

  ‘Ol’ Joe and me. We think you should stop thinking about yourself for once – and make someone else happy.’

  Ginger fixed Sparky with a bloodshot glare.

  ‘You’re goin’ too far, matey’, he spat dangerously. ‘First “fat”, then “selfish” – you’re askin’ for a punch in the kisser!’

  Sparky held his ground.

  ‘We think you should apologise to that nice lady cat, Frou-Frou.’

  ‘You WOT?’ raged Ginger. ‘That catwalk queen? That pussy galore? That...that...

  MADAM? Well, I’m not doin’ it!”

  ‘Don’t you want me to go to Heaven, then?’ said Sparky quietly.

  ‘Corse I do (hic). But you’re askin’ too much. You’re askin’ me to change the habits of a nine-lifetimes!’

  ‘Would you rather say sorry to Ben the dog at number 25?’

  ‘No. He’d have my leg off.’

  ‘How about Valentino, the ladykiller cat up the road?’

  ‘He wouldn’t (hic) believe me.’

  ‘Old Ahmed next door? You’ve eaten all his pigeons.’

  ‘He hates me. He put a Hindoo curse on me.’

  ‘Well, there you go, then. Frou-Frou it is.’

  Ginger put down the bottle and gave Sparky a rebellious pout.

  ‘Frou-Frou, it is not!’ he declared with finality. ‘Females! They’re just as bad as oomans. Whenever I get close to one, I always regret it!’

  And with one last “hic”, he fell over in the bushes.

  *

  The villagers began to starve as the greedy god-cat bled them dry. Every day they brought him the fruits of their labours – milk, cream, fish, carefully prepared snacks and delicacies - and every day he demanded more.

  ‘I am the Chosen Cat of the Buddha!’ he crowed royally. ‘And there shall be no other cat before me!’

  ‘Will no-one rid us of this evil creature?’ the people cried and looked to the monk for help.

  But the monk could do nothing. His robes now hung loose on his once-plump stomach, and although he knew he had done wrong – that it was he who had brought this pussy plague among them – he just sat there under a tree, contemplating his ever-shrinking navel.

  In the end, it was Bas who took action. He climbed the temple steps, where the awful orange urchin lay on a throne, and took him to task.

  ‘Your place is with the Buddha!’ he cried. ‘Not here in the world of pleasure, indulging your appetites! Have you no thought for others?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ smirked Ginge craftily. ‘Others are here to serve me. Take these two female oomans, for instance. I’ve got them massaging my feet! Life don’t get much better than this!’

  ‘And you think the villagers will stand for much more of this? You’ve made their life a misery!’

  ‘They better stand for it!’ declared Ginge petulantly. ‘I’ve taken all their children hostage!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said a wide-eyed Bas.

  ‘Look behind you. They’re all sitting in the temple, crying their little eyes out. With the help of your notes, their stoopid mothers think I’m taking them to the Buddha, to get blessed, like. But they’re not going nowhere. They’re my insurance.’

  Bas looked at him horrified.

  ‘You evil little pussy!’ he said sternly. ‘Well, I’m not translating for you anymore. I’m packing up my bowl and leaving this place. And I’m taking the holy monk with me. You’re on your own!’

  ‘See if I care,’ simpered the little orange tyrant. ‘Good riddance to “Bas” rubbish!’

  But he did care. As the days passed, and loneliness set in, his heart grew as empty as his belly was full. He was a god-cat in crisis.

  *

  Ginger leapt out of the bushes like a pussy possessed, and clamped himself onto a surprised Sparky.

  ‘Where was you, mate?’ he cried, quaking with fear. ‘I was all alone in that dream, and it was horrible!’

  ‘My, that was quick,’ said Sparky, mumbling uncomfortably through his new ora
nge overcoat. ‘You were only gone a few moments.’

  ‘A few moments too long!’’ wept a hysterical Ginger. ‘It felt like a lifetime!’’

  ‘And did you learn anything?’

  ‘Well, I learnt to lay off the rum. I’m never touching that stuff again!’’

  ‘What else?

  ‘I’m in more trouble than I thought, mate,’ Ginger sobbed into Sparky’s left ear. ‘Bring on the Frou-Frou!’

  *

  Joe was in the kitchen, preparing his non-sugar, non-milk, bedtime beverage, when he did a quick double-take out of the window.

  Were his eyes deceiving him? Was that really Ginger out there, wrapped around Sparky? What was he trying to do to his favourite little pussy – smother him to death?

  Without thinking, he dashed into the garden in his pyjamas, flailing his arms about in a dramatic rescue bid.

  ‘BAD Ginger!’ he cried loudly. ‘Leave my Sparky ALONE!’

  But when he got closer, he grew calm. The one eye of Sparky that was visible beneath the huge bulk of Ginger registered not fear, but sorrow for his fallen comrade.

  Joe stepped slowly back into the kitchen. Yes, he and Ginger had never got on – indeed, they had several lifetimes of not getting on – but this was no time to take advantage.

  Ginger wouldn’t want him to see him like this.

  Chapter 8

  The Sausage of Love

  It didn’t take Sparky long to find Frou-Frou.

  Not long at all.

  The sound of her entourage – her yowling troupe of tomcat admirers – could be heard several gardens away.

  Frou-Frou sat at the window of her house – pink bow in hair and collar to match – while every boy-cat in the neighbourhood paid her loud and caterwailing court. Some were on her garden fence, singing love songs of their own composition. Others were on the lawn, either bringing her tasty dead things or strutting about the grass, looking important.

  ‘Golly,’ thought Sparky. ‘I don’t know what they see in her, with her long, shaggy hair, her smooshed-in face, and her don’t-bother-me-I’m-bored expression, but she’s very popular!’