Ginger the Buddha Cat

by Frank Kusy

  One look at the map told Sparky they weren’t going anywhere. Munich was at least a hundred Surreys away. And at least three Englands.

  ‘That ain’t gonna stop me,’ sniffed Ginger when he heard the news. ‘We’ll go by plane. I saw that Kylie’s kitty on telly last night. She was singin’ “Fly me to the Moonik” by that Sinatra ooman, so it’s got to be possible.’

  ‘I think that was fly me to the moon,’ Sparky corrected him. ‘And cats are only allowed on planes if they’re jabbed with needles. I’m not going anywhere near a needle – even for you.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ grunted his friend. ‘Then it’ll have to be Lee – he’s going that way soon to see his new missus. Come on, follow me!’

  Sparky opened his mouth to object, but Ginger was already on the move. He squeezed himself back into the house through the cat-flap and then out into the street through the open front door.

  ‘There you go!’ he said as Sparky joined him. ‘We just gotta wait a bit, till Lee’s done his bit of business, and then we’re off to sossidge land.’

  ‘How do you know he’ll take us?’ asked Sparky timidly. ‘That strange friend of yours, Sergei, stole his van in Barcelona and drove us – and all your ill-gotten Spanish food – home to Surrey in it. Won’t he be angry?’

  ‘Nah! He don’t know it was us, and anyways I just heard him sayin’ it was the best thing that ever happened to him. He should be grateful!’

  Just then, Lee swung into view, his Coco the Clown curls framing the back of his head and his eyes twinkling with joyous recognition.

  ‘Allo mate!’ he addressed Ginger cheerily. ‘I thought I might run into you here! Look, I’m sorry I left you stranded in Spain – some git nicked my wheels – but I’m glad to see you and your little chum back home safe again. What’s occurring?

  ‘Prrrrrp!’ said Sparky and advanced on him with a pen in his teeth.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Lee, backing away hastily. ‘I got a new pair of trousers on. You turned my last pair into a scribble board! Here, do your doodles on this...’

  Sparky switched his attention to the proffered piece of cardboard and wrote:

  Please take us to Munich

  ‘Munich?’ muttered Lee, scratching his head in puzzlement. ‘What’s so special in Munich?’

  The top sossidge in the world – It’s for Ginger’s girlfriend!

  ‘The top sausage in the world? Are you sure? I loves sausages, I do. I could definitely do with munching one of those. But I’m only going to Frankfurt. Munich’s another four hours down the line and what about my girlfriend? She’s not going to be happy being stood up for a sausage!’

  Ginger gave Sparky an urgent whisper. ‘Tell him what he’d like to hear. Tell him there’s a carpet cleaner’s convention in Moonik.’

  Sparky was running out of ink, but he conveyed the message.

  ‘Really?’ beamed Lee eagerly. ‘Well, blow me. Let’s get going, then!’

  And with that he leapt back into his cab and started up the engine.

  ‘Why did we have to lie to him?’ said Sparky, crossly. ‘There’s no carpet convention in Munich!’

  ‘We’ll just say we heard it wrong,’ giggled Ginger. ‘It must have been Chiswick.’

  *

  Ginger didn’t like it, but with a long night ahead in the back of the van and Lee (for once) not being in a talkative mood, his eyes were starting to droop. And suddenly, without realising it, he was back in the land of Nod again, dreaming the dream he had tried to forget.

  Bored to distraction by his chosen life of ease and luxury, the fat little god-cat struggled off his throne and left the village in search of his friends. He wandered deep into the woods and called out, ‘Oi! Bas! Buddhist bloke! Come out, wherever you are. It’s your ol pal Ginger!’

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ muttered Bas, emerging from behind a tree. ‘Have you seen the errors of your ways, then?’

  ‘No, I just come for a chat. ‘Ere, I thought you and that monk ooman went to see the Buddha?’

  ‘Yes, we just got back. And he’s got a message for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. I told him you weren’t coming, that you preferred to gorge yourself with food instead, and he wasn’t happy. He said to tell you this:

  Now, if you wish to attain Pussyhood...

  Ginger’s brows knitted in puzzlement. ‘Hang on. Wot’s “Pussyhood”?’

  ‘It’s like Buddhahood,’ sighed Bas patiently. ‘Except it’s for cats. It’s the highest state of life a cat can aspire to, just as greed, anger and stupidity are the lowest.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m stoopid?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything, I’m just passing on the words of the Buddha.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Ginger, slightly mollified, ‘I can take it.’

  Now, if you wish to attain Pussyhood,’ repeated Bas you need only to cast aside the bowl of your gluttony and come immediately to my side, so that cats throughout the land may find salvation. Foot massages and snackerels are mere baubles of your present estate, and greed and sloth are ties that will fetter you in a future one. Ah, you should be ashamed of them! And you should fear them too!

  ‘He said all that?’ giggled Ginger. ‘Blimey, he’s not doin’ bad for an almost dead ooman, is he?’

  ‘Please take these words seriously,’ said the old monk, appearing at their side. ‘The World Honoured One has but a short time to live. Will you deny him his wisdom and your presence?’

  ‘Okay, he’s got a point,’ admitted the truculent orange tyrant. ‘If I have one more foot massage, I won’t ever want to walk again. And as for payin’ him a visit, well, I guess I could use the exercise. But he better have a top snackerel for me when I arrive, or I won’t be stayin’ long!’

  ‘A top snackerel?’ echoed the monk thoughtfully. ‘Oh yes, I think we can promise you that...’

  *

  Several hours later, Lee flung open the back of the van and said, ‘Okay mateys, we’re coming into Munich. Stretch your legs, why don’t you, I’m just off for a Jimmy Riddle…’

  ‘Jimmy Riddle?’ yawned Sparky, peering out into the daylight. ‘Is he going to see a friend?’

  ‘No, he’s goin’ for a piddle,’ replied Ginger. ‘Not a bad idea, aksherly…’

  And with that, the large orange cat tumbled to the ground and sloped off into the nearby woods to relieve himself. He was still reflecting on his dream and was gone a long time.

  ‘Oi, Sparks,’ he called up on his return, ‘I’ve been thinkin’. How are we going to know the top sossidge in the world? Will it have a sign on it or sumfink?’

  There was a pause, as his sleepy friend jumped down to join him.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Sparky quietly. But I think we should really, really believe it’s going to happen and then maybe it will. Ol’ Joe does that a lot – especially when he’s chanting.’

  ‘Is that how he found those scrumptious sossidges in the market? I had that one that Frou-Frou turned down and I’m still dreamin’ about it!’

  ‘I’m still dreaming about my basket,’ said Sparky. ‘But if you want your top sossidge, maybe we should chant for it.’

  Ginger glanced around nervously.

  ‘Okay, but make it quick. I don’t want to look ridick’lus. What do I do, then?’

  ‘Well, you put both paws together, stare at a wall – okay, we haven’t got a wall, so the side of Lee’s van will have to do – and say “Nam Miaow Rinky Cow” again and again.’

  ‘Nam miaow wot?’ echoed Ginger. ‘That is ridick’lus!’

  ‘No, it isn’t. According to ol’ Joe, if you say it long enough, everything you need for your happiness will just jump into your bowl.’

  ‘Including my sossidge?’

  ‘Well, let’s try it and see...’

  Minutes later, Lee returned to a very strange sight indeed. Both cats appeared to be meditating on the back axle of his van. Sparky was sitting upright, making polite parping noises
, and Ginger was lying in a heap, grunting along in uncomfortable harmony.

  ‘What are you two doing?’ he chortled, gobbling down a slice of fast-food pork. ‘Have you joined the Harry Krishnas? All you need is a pair of cymbals and a begging bowl!’

  Ginger fixed him with a killing look and climbed back in the van.

  Chapter 12

  Ginger does his Wurst

  Lee’s van came to rest at Victualienmarkt, one of the main tourist drags of Munich.

  ‘Here you go,’ he told his two pussy passengers. ‘That fast-food guy back there told me this place was sausage heaven. All you got to decide now is what kind of wurst you want. There’s all sorts here – bratwurst, weisswurst, rotwurst. knockwurst, bockwurst, currywurst – just to mention a few!’

  Sparky went into a quick huddle with Ginger and gave him the choices.

  ‘I don’t want any kind of wurst,’ said Ginger grumpily. ‘I want a sossidge. And I want the best one, not the worst!’

  ‘Wurst is a sausage,’ laughed Lee when Sparky translated. ‘Wurst is the German name for a sausage. Look, I’m going to leave you here for a bit while I check out that carpet convention. That’ll give you time to make your mind up.’

  Then, all of a sudden, he was gone and the two cats found themselves in a madhouse. Strange foreign smells and sounds filled the air, and the whole place was seething with loud humans – mainly overweight Germans swilling beer and singing loud oompah songs.

  ‘Cor,’ muttered Ginger, taking in the wide square of little restaurants and butcher’s shops. ‘Look at all these fat oomans! And they’re all scoffin’ sossidges! I could definitely live ‘ere!’

  Sparky sighed inside. The only place he wanted to live right now was back home in his basket in Surrey. All these crowds, all these noises, were making him very nervous. In his mind, his only chance of survival was finding somewhere to hide until Lee returned. He hoped that wouldn’t be very long.

  But Ginger was impatient. The huge old clock in the adjacent Marienplatze had just struck twelve, reminding him that it was time for lunch.

  ‘We’re not waitin’ for Lee,’ he told his frightened friend. ‘I’m starving! Let’s go see if we can score some grub of our own.’

  With that, he dragged Sparky to a nearby water fountain and gave him his instructions.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I know this didn’t work in Surrey – you were too fat to get anyfink – but everyone’s fat here, so go into your act. Maybe you’ll get lucky!’

  Sparky wasn’t very hopeful, but he did his best. He just sat there, looking sad and forlorn, and stared at the pavement. It was enough. Sympathetic diners went ‘Ach, du armes Kätzchen!’ or ‘aah, you poor little cat!’ and began tossing food at him – bits of meat, cold deli items, and, every so often, half a juicy sausage.

  Sparky rewarded each new offering with a pathetic little prrrrrp! Then, to move things along a bit, he picked up a nearby piece of chalk in his teeth and scrawled Hello my name’s Sparky I’m very hungry on the pavement.

  Well, that did it. People began simply throwing food at him – even local fatlings who had never parted with a calorie in their lives. It was the best animal act they had ever seen, and they all wanted more.

  I like sausages, he scribbled awkwardly, thank you very much

  The deluge of food astonished even Ginger. He sat behind a nearby tree, his eyes glistening wide and his tummy groaning with anticipation.

  ‘Golly!’ said Sparky when the crowd finally dispersed. ‘There must be twenty sausages here. It’s a miracle!”

  ‘Har, har, that chanting really worked then!’ crowed Ginger, lumbering happily into view. ‘I dunno about you, but I’m gonna eat myself sick!’

  Just then, however, he heard a voice from the not-too-distant-past.

  ‘Ere, freunde,’ it said. ‘What’s that sparkly doo-dah between your ears? Are you goin’ into show-business?’

  Ginger’s Buddha-stickered head whipped round and he saw a familiar face.

  ‘Good gawd!’ he blurted. ‘Scampi, ain’t it? Wot you doing ‘ere? I ain’t seen you since Barcelona!’’

  ‘…Where you stitched me up a kipper, dint’cha, mate?’ retorted the big, black tomcat. ‘I helped you fight off all those Spanish cats and what did I get out of it? One prawn. One lousy prawn!’

  ‘I didn’t stitch you up,’ protested Ginger hotly. ‘You just didn’t want to split the loot with my little mate Sparky ‘ere.’

  ‘Well, you got a lot more loot right now,’ said Scampi, eyeing the pile of sausages between them. ‘What you goin’ to do with it all?’

  ‘Eat it,’ said Ginger without hesitation.

  ‘He can have my share,’ interrupted Sparky quietly. ‘And don’t be greedy, Ginger. You only came here for one sausage, remember?’

  ‘All I heard was “blah blah, sossidge, blah blah,”’ snorted Ginger. ‘How am I goin’ to know the best one unless I try ‘em all?’

  With that, he scooped up his plunder into a nearby shopping bag and clambered up the water fountain. It had a statue of a man with an umbrella on it, and – having hooked the bag on an overhanging stone gargoyle – Ginger balanced unsteadily on his top-hatted head.

  ‘If you don’t want none, Sparky,’ he announced stubbornly. ‘I’m gonna sit up ‘ere and chomp the lot.’

  At that moment, however, two brutish local cats came into view. They were large and grey and battle-scarred, and they had just caught sight of Ginger and his sausages.

  ‘Mein Gott,’ boomed the bigger cat. ‘Vot kind of animal is this, Fritz? Is it ein katze?’

  ‘Ha, ha, Max, it is not ein katze,’ observed his friend. ‘It is ein zeppelin like ve have in our first world war. Maybe ve can climb on zis zeppelin and fly up into ze sky!’

  Ginger was not amused.

  ‘Oi, pack it in, you two!’ he shouted down, the remains of a spicy currywurst dripping out of his whiskery mouth. ‘You’re askin’ for a punch in the kisser!’

  ‘Ach, so you are British?’ said Max nastily. ‘First, you take our World Cup in fussball and now you take our sausages. Is there no end to your terrible crimes?’

  A large plump weisswurst came sailing down from the fountain and struck him on the nose.

  ‘I didn’t like that one,’ commented Ginger. ‘You can have it.’

  Scampi gave a nervous shiver. ‘Ere, mate,’ he called over, ‘I know these two, and you don’t want to go windin’ ‘em up – they’re a really bad lot!’

  But it was too late. Max and Fritz were already circling the fountain, looking for a way onto it. For a moment, the wide moat of water at its foot defeated them, but then Fritz held his nose, jumped in the water, and made a back for Max to leap over him.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho, I am coming for you, Herr Zeppelin!’ said Max, scaling the fountain. ‘Und ven I am done, ven I haf taken back our sausages and I do not haf to speak any more bad English to make myself understood, I vill go down and make…how you say…”mincemeat”…of your freunde – the one with the dumbkopf name Scampi and the kleine dickemops, the little fat one.’

  ‘Oh, you will, will yer?’ roared Ginger, his tail fluffing up into a large, bushy feather duster. ‘Well, come on then. Come on!’

  For a moment, it looked like Ginger would have the advantage – he whipped out a long, hard salami stick from his bag of treats and began bashing Max over the head with it. But he was an old cat, his glory days of street-fighting close to an end, and the younger cat had both strength and agility. With one mighty paw, he snatched up Ginger’s sword of salami and poked him in the eye with it.

  ‘Aaaargh!’ howled Ginger. ‘I’m blinded!’

  ‘Now you are like your British “Nelson”,’ hooted Max triumphantly. ‘Next I vill take off your arm, and you can die just like your famous navy human!’

  Scampi gave an inner groan. ‘Oh gawd,’ he said to himself. ‘’Ere we go again!’

  And with that, even though he knew there was nothing in it for him, that Ginger probabl
y wouldn’t even say ‘thanks’, the big, black cat rushed reluctantly to the rescue. He jumped on Fritz, who was just climbing out of the fountain, and sank his teeth into Max’s ample rump.

  ‘Gotterdammerung!’ shrieked the stricken foreign feline. ‘Typische Englander! You come from behind!’

  ‘And on your behind!’ jeered Ginger, nursing his hurt eye. ‘Nice one, Scampi! Now hold him while I get my sossidge stick back and I’ll knock his German block off!’

  ‘No, mate!’ croaked Scampi, suddenly releasing his grip on Max’s bottom. ‘Look – that Fritz cat just made off with all our sausages. Let’s get ‘em back!’

  Ginger surveyed the empty shopping bag floating in the water below – and then the small figure bobbing silently next to it.

  ‘Oh, nooooo!’ he cried in anguish. ‘It’s Sparky!’

  Chapter 13

  Sausages or Enlightenment

  Ginger did not hesitate.

  He dashed down the monument, dragged Sparky to safety by the scruff of his neck, and then sat on him.

  ‘Blimey, Ginge,’ called Scampi. ‘I thought the little guy was your mate. You tryin’ to finish him off?’

  But Ginger knew what he was doing – he had saved enough sailors this way in his sixth incarnation on the pirate ship.

  ‘Being fat does have its advantages,’ he mumbled back and bounced heavily up and down on Sparky’s swollen tummy.

  There was a shiver, and then a sharp intake of breath as the small cat’s body registered the weight on top of it, and then a huge jet of water flew out of its mouth.

  ‘I saw that, Ginger!’ boomed Lee, newly arrived on the scene. ‘You’re a hero, that’s what you are!’

  But Ginger didn’t feel like a hero. He had been a bad cat, perhaps the worstest bad cat in existence. He had put his little pal’s life in danger, and all for a bag of sausages!

  ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he murmured guiltily as Sparky came to. ‘Not much of a Chosen One, was I?’

  ‘Is that you, Ginger?’ whimpered his friend, one eye fluttering open. ‘Why did that bad cat Fritz throw me in the water? I was so afraid!’