‘Not like that,’ Arthur growled as together he and Winkles watched the Woman-Giver-Of-Food, henceforth to be known as Woman, leave the kitchen. Arthur continued to stare for some time after she’d disappeared just in case that improved the situation. Winkles watched Arthur, but when watching proved unfulfilling, Winkles shuffled forward and sniffed Arthur’s flank instead.
‘Oi, watch it.’ Arthur broke off his intense, brooding stare into the middle distance located somewhere between the rectangular door frame and the hallway skirting board and turned back to Winkles.
‘How should I do it then?’ Winkles asked eagerly.
Arthur flicked his right ear. In the room of soft furnishings Woman had turned on the Crackle- Box-Of-Moving-Images. ‘Do what?’ he asked, briskly striking the back of his ear with his right leg. Ahh, that was the spot. But of course, satisfying the itch only led to more developing and soon Arthur was forced to park his backside on the cold tile while he dealt with some troublesome tufty bits in his creamy belly fur.
‘You know what,’ said Winkles. ‘You said “not like that”, remember?’
No, Arthur did not remember. How should he be expected to remember something that happened fifteen licks and several scratches ago? He regarded Winkles with a level stare, still hunkered over his belly with right leg all grand battement as the French say. Alarmed, Winkles dropped his gaze to the floor. Then he sniffed the floor, following a trail that led him the base of the wastebin.
Arthur, concerned that Winkles may have discovered something interesting he was not previously aware of located on the floor at the base of the bin or caught up in the overhanging folds of stinky black bin liner, hustled over. He sniffed the tile. Distracted by either a very small flying insect or absolutely nothing at all, Winkles skidded over the tile and struck the smooth, brushed metal door of the humming monolith that was the Receptacle-Of-Food-We-Do-Not-Get-To-Eat in a determined and forceful manner.
Arthur looked up from the tile, blinking. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Dunno,’ replied Winkles. ‘I’m not doing it anymore.’ He cracked his jaws open around a tremendous yawn and whined, ‘I’m hungry.’
Oh, yes. Arthur remembered now. Food. Woman was in dereliction of her duties. This must be remedied forthwith. ‘Come young one, watch and learn,’ Arthur ordered, marching out of the kitchen, tail all-a-swish. Winkles bounded after him, skidding on the tile and almost face planting the ceramic. Arthur afforded him the great dignity of pretending not to notice.
In the passageway containing the Mountain-Of-Many-Sitting-Ledges, Arthur confidently led the way toward the beckoning welcome of the soft, bouncy human lounging spot with its solid inner bone work covered by eminently scratchable fabric that felt so good wrapped around his claws. He made a mental note to instruct Winkles on the fine art of upholstery kneading at a later date. A note that was, naturally, forgotten as soon as Arthur crossed the threshold and a host of new smells greeted him.
There was the burnt dark beans smell permeating the air and the burned sponge slices with melted oily, creamy good-to-lick yellow stuff on it that the Woman liked to slurp and munch respectively, combined with the smell of static from the crackle-box and the tantalising reek of the outdoors wafting in through the open window, all underlaid by his own reassuring scent, marking his territory in proud pheromonal manner. Smugly, Arthur noted that Winkles scent was but a whisper in the room.
The enticing flicker of daylight shining through the window meant that Arthur was forced to restrain himself with lordly discipline from leaping up on the window ledge immediately to make sure everything was exactly as he left it beyond. This was an important part of his day, the constant inspection of the manor and its environs. Passing birds hopping about the garden needed to be verbally threatened. Falling leaves needed to be observed on their slow passage groundward. Intruders needed to be watched for. The slightest variation in plant pot positioning had to be noted for later, so a considered investigation could be undertaken during the early morning territorial patrol.
But that was later. Now Arthur was on a mission. Woman must be held to account. Stopping with rump on the ground, head held aloft and feet neatly side-by-side, Arthur looked haughtily over the round of his shoulder to Winkles, who looked up guiltily from his rump-waggling wind-up to an attack on an unknown assailant that was possibly, but not conclusively, nothing more than a ball of dust caught in the short fibres of the carpet. Arthur despaired of him. Briefly. Then he remembered what it was he was doing. ‘Observe,’ he commanded. ‘This is how a master works.’
Leaping from a sitting start to the jutting rise of the Woman’s squishy lounging nest, Arthur landed deftly on four paws to announce his presence with a proud yowl. At least that had been the plan. Alas for the grand plans of cats, a cruel twist of fate led to a sudden commotion at the front door. The Metal-Mouth-Of-Doom vomited a deluge of rectangular waste of no particular utility onto the scritchy-scratchy mat that was Not-Good-To-Sit-On with such force Arthur found himself performing an impromptu grand jete very much en l’air and falling back to the carpeted floor. Horrified by the intrusion, the indignity and the noise, he and Winkles took off up the mountain at top speed. To make matters worse, Winkles had the audacity to lick Arthur on the face.
Several wrestling holds later and to the detriment of the contents of an incidental table that found itself, incidentally, the staging post for a fabulous flying leap onto Winkles’ back, Arthur recalled himself. Food. The mission was food. Discipling the stripling’s impertinence would have to wait. The mission took precedence.
Arthur bumpity-bumped down the mountain, Winkles thumping down after him in mournfully inelegant fashion. Returning boldly to the upholstery paradise, Arthur wasted no time singing his own praises. After all, if he didn’t, who would? Woman could not be trusted to know his worth if he didn’t tell her. After all, she didn’t even know he was hungry. Her negligence was truly abominable. Forgiveness could only be bought with food. And perhaps a round of combat training exercise involving the stick with a brightly coloured feather dangling from a string? But first, food. Food always came first.
Alas, Woman was in particularly stupid form this day. Athur endured a round of petting with strained patience, his loud purring and headbutting as he strutted back and forth over the table a clear warning to all intelligent beings that diversionary tactics would only be tolerated for a short time.
Watching the pampering from the floor, Winkles could not endure. Leaping up onto the bouncy cushion beside Woman he lent his own voice to Arthur’s campaign and received a welcome head scritch for his troubles. Arthur was not impressed, but Winkles, drunk on sensation, did not care. He collapsed onto his side and presented his belly, front paws demurely tucked in as his four legs assumed that rarest of moves performed only by cats in moments of glorious abandon known as le grand battement quatre!
Arthur’s disgust at this display of weak-willed surrender required nothing less than a full body leap into Woman’s lap, followed by a quick pirouette and a tail side-swipe to the face. Someone had to take a stand for honour. Alas and alack, acts in defence of principle were never without risk. Arthur was unceremoniously dumped from Woman’s lap onto the carpet. To make matters worse, Winkles sat on the cushions licking his paw. Arthur’s ears went back, his eyes went wide. His stare promised retribution. In fact, so intent was he in communicating Winkles doom, he was forced to perform a quick pas de chat to get out of the way of the seismic thunder of Woman’s feet.
This was it. The pivotal moment of the campaign had arrived. Woman was on the move! Arthur tore after her, yowling in a continuous stream of complaint punctuated only by his paws striking the floor. Winkles hurdled the escarpment of the cushion nest and bounded after Arthur who made sure to shoulder check the young pretender at the door to the kitchen. Hierarchy must be upheld!
More than the strategizing, more than the feint and the attack, more than the yowling, this was the hardest part of any operation. The wait.
The important cupboard was opened. Bowls were rattled. Plastic wrapped sachets flapped in the air a moment before Woman mercilessly loped off their heads, spilling meaty goodness first into Arthur’s bowl and then into Winkles. Arthur began purring loudly, serenading Woman with his praise. The smell, oh the smell! Arthur was tempted to chase his own tail in pure joy. Agonised by anticipation Arthur and Winkles experienced raptures in the time it took for Woman to deposit the food in front of them.
The first mouthful was life. The second mouthful was heaven. The third mouthful was…okay. Arthur looked up from his bowl and found Winkles watching him. ‘I don’t like this,’ said the youngster.
Arthur concurred. He sat back on his haunches and licked his chops. His mood deflated. Victory, now achieved, lacked savour. How could this be? After all that had been risked and endured, could this cold, lumpy slop truly be their reward? No, something had gone horribly awry! ‘This is your fault,’ he told Winkles. ‘I said you were doing it wrong. The timbre of your whining has resulted in this poor fare.’
Winkles ignored him. In his despondency, he had begun earnestly grooming his belly fur. Arthur watched him for a moment, observing his technique until he could take no more, exclaiming, ‘Not like that!’
ALDLIS CHRONICLES 