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    I AM THE CAT: Dick Whittington's companion tells his side of the story
    I AM THE CAT: Dick Whittington's companion tells his side of the story
    I AM THE CAT: Dick Whittington's companion tells his side of the story
    Ebook309 pages4 hours

    I AM THE CAT: Dick Whittington's companion tells his side of the story

    By William Stafford

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    About this ebook

    Dick Whittington is familiar from history, folklore and pantomime but never before has his story been told like this: by that faithful companion, his cat! Join the pair on a journey that takes them across medieval England to London, and from London to exotic climes and back again in this humorous take on a well-known tale - with a few additional twists and surprises along the way.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAG Books
    Release dateMar 14, 2016
    ISBN9781782342953
    I AM THE CAT: Dick Whittington's companion tells his side of the story

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      Book preview

      I AM THE CAT - William Stafford

      business

      On the Road

      A talking cat! the Boy exclaimed - well, he would. Anyone would. He was staring too, which I imagine would also be a typical response. I cursed my carelessness and occupied myself with licking my front paw, avoiding eye contact and taking myself out of the conversation. Anyone happening along that uneven and rutted road would assume he was railing at some other cat.

      He got to his feet and came over to where I was performing my ablutions. He knelt before me, trying to catch my eye. Please! A little privacy! I might want to lick my personal bits.

      Say it again! he urged me. Say something else! Say my name!

      I continued to ignore him. I didn’t say his name although I was thinking it all right.

      Dick.

      I turned around and gave him the one-eyed stare. Let him talk to that ’cause my face ain’t listening.

      - I realise I am getting ahead of myself. I am new to this storytelling business. Come to that, I am new to this cat business too. Perhaps I ought to explain.

      First of all, I am older than I look. I don’t know how cats’ ages are calculated. I know dogs have some seven-year thing going on but that’s beside the point.

      You see, I’m not really a cat. You probably already had your doubts; cats don’t usually recount their life stories - well, not in any way humans can decipher. You might say a picture paints a thousand words but we prefer - or rather, they prefer - Oh, I’m confused! - cats prefer to tell their stories through the medium of stink. They - but again, I’m getting ahead of myself. I think I better start at the beginning, which is what I should have done in the first place.

      I have too many thoughts, you see, crowding my consciousness from all directions. You humans have it easy, with your linear experiences of time. I have seen things - such things! - that won’t take place until after you are all gone. I witnessed your beginnings too. I knew you when you were little more than mudskippers lurching around at the water’s edge.

      I must try to keep focussed on the story I have to tell. I ask for your patience, crave your indulgence; I take a deep breath (breathing! There’s a thing!) and start again.

      Ahem.

      The Boy found me in a barn. He was pleased to see me. I just wanted to be left alone. I wasn’t used to my new body, my new form, and I wanted time to stretch my legs and get the feel of it before anything else could happen.

      Fat chance.

      Cooing and clucking, the Boy gathered me in his arms and pressed me to his chest. I wriggled and struggled, bending my new back in a bid to get away. Then I realised I was now in possession of a set of needles at the end of my extremities. I sank my claws into the rough fabric of his shirt. The Boy yowled and dropped me but did not run away. He was lucky I didn’t take a swipe at his face.

      He dropped to his knees and put that as yet unscratched face close to mine. What was he, an idiot? I shrank from him, my mind racing. I tried to think, from all my aeons of observation, what a cat would do in such a situation. I froze. I became a reasonable impersonation of a cat statue, a tribute to a much-loved pet. That was right, wasn’t it? Or am I thinking of rabbits in headlights?

      Either way, the Boy persisted with his attempts to make friends. His voice was soft and low. He instructed me not to be afraid and to go towards him. I didn’t move. Even though my face was fixed in a decidedly un-feline grin, I thought it best not to move. The Boy didn’t notice or he knew little of the ways of cats - as little as I did at that point - and he twitched his fingers as though that would draw me to him.

      I know it’s only your fingers, I wanted to tell him in my most disdainful tone. I know it’s not a (flying thing) bird or (squeaking thing) mouse. But I had enough presence of mind to keep my mouth shut and my tongue still - even if I was grinning like a bloody fool - like the cat in that story, you know it, the one that disappears leaving nothing behind but his grin. How I wished I could disappear! But I couldn’t. For the first time in my existence, I had lost that ability. I was stuck. Stuck as a cat, a stupid mortal cat in a barn with an idiot of a human boy giving me the come-on.

      Idiot. As if I’d approach a stranger with no treats to offer.

      I waited until he glanced away and finally let the grin drop from my aching face. He was responding to the sound of human voices. The way he perked up at the word being barked repeatedly from outside the barn led me to conclude this was his name.

      Dick! cried the voice. It was like the squawk of a tropical bird. It grew louder as the squawker approached. The doorway was soon filled by the figure of a human female, older than the Boy, and reeking of cooked things, of fat and flour. The warmth emanating from her body was at odds with the stern expression brutalising her face and the dun colours of her attire. This was no macaw. And she was blocking the way out.

      Mother! said the Boy, standing up.

      What are you doing, footling around in here for? the woman griped. Useless waste of space.

      Look, Mother! The Boy sounded cheerful, as though he was attempting to distract the woman from her aggressive mood. His face fell when he saw the empty space where I had been. I watched him from behind some hay bales.

      Idiot, muttered the woman. I felt affronted. If anyone was to call the Boy an idiot, it was going to be me. I saw him first.

      Well, that’s not true. These two humans were obviously well acquainted. He was her offspring, her spawn or whatever it is they call them. Kitten? No, that’s not it. Child.

      The cuff she awarded the back of his head didn’t strike me (well, it struck him, obviously) as particularly or demonstrably maternal.

      Get back to the kitchen with you! she scolded him. He flinched lest her raised arm deliver another blow. Useless, idle creature.

      But he was there, Mother! A cat! He continued to point at my vacated space. The woman’s face scrunched up. The Boy flinched again, but the woman was already leaving.

      I don’t care if it’s the bloody man in the moon, she squawked. You have chores to do and errands to run. Yon cat can shift for himself. Now, come on!

      The Boy gave the interior of the barn one last wistful glance. I hunkered down even though he couldn’t see me. The poor lad actually looked sad.

      Dick! the woman barked from outside. He started and scurried out. I heard him say something about a cat being useful at keeping the rats off the grain. There was the sound of a door slamming and a head being smacked and that was that.

      What a good idea!

      It was the last voice I wanted to hear. I wailed inwardly. Of all the barns on all the worlds, he had to materialise in this one.

      I’ve never had a brother. We don’t go in for that sort of thing but this particular being has plagued my existence since Day One (literally, Day One) so I suppose he’s the closest thing to a brother I would ever have. An evil twin.

      A beam of sunlight from a high window was illuminating a square of the floor. Dust motes dancing in this spotlight began to swirl and move with more organisation than is usual. A shape coalesced from the dust and within seconds my evil twin brother was leering at me in physical form. He moved his front paws up and down to model his new shape.

      What do you think?

      You bum looks big, I jeered from behind my hay bales. He twisted his head backwards to check the veracity of my declaration. He flicked his scaly pink tail dismissively.

      Well, I like it. I think it suits me.

      It’s definitely you, I agreed. Of all the creatures on this planet, the rat sums you up perfectly.

      Intelligent and adaptable, he spoke like he was on a shopping channel. Survival skills second only to the cockroach.

      Just go! I told him, although I might have used stronger language. Leave me alone.

      He laughed. His black bead eyes flashed in the sunbeam and his buck teeth, yellow and sinister, moved liked blades.

      Oh, no, and he used our word that approximates ‘brother’. I can’t leave you to your - exile all on your own.

      I bristled at the word. Exile! It was his bloody fault! Why, I ought to -

      Then it struck me that I could.

      I’m glad you’ve chosen such a form, I called out, before leaping onto the top of the hay bale. I’m going to enjoy tearing you apart.

      I pounced but landed on nothing but the sunlit square. My eyes darted around the barn. Where had he skittered off to?

      He hadn’t skittered anywhere. In a puff of straw, he materialised on top of the hay bale.

      You forget, brother, he shook his head as though sad, I am not bound to this physical realm, whereas you are doomed to spend the rest of your many, many days as a - a- whatever you’re supposed to be. Road kill, is it?

      My hackles rose at this insult. My front legs padded the floor, claws at the ready. I didn’t realise I was doing it. I told him again he should leave.

      He laughed and his usually deep voice contained more than a few rodent squeaks, like a hinge in need of oiling.

      Oh, no, he said. I intend to stick around and make sure you do your penance. Oh, I’m going to have such fun. He clapped his little paws together with glee.

      The door opened, flooding the barn with daylight. My rat of a brother dropped from the bale and hid in the shadows.

      There you are. It was the Boy. He placed a wooden bowl on the floor some distance from me. I sniffed the air. It’s milk, said the Boy as if I didn’t bloody know.

      I didn’t move. He seemed disappointed.

      Oh well, I’ll um, leave you to it. With his shoulders a little lower than they had been, he trudged out and closed the door.

      Oh, isn’t that sweet? The Rat dashed to the bowl before I could get there. He hung his posterior over the rim and defecated into the creamy white liquid.

      What did you do that for? And how?

      I can do anything, remember? He jumped from the bowl and stood on his hind legs in the most un-ratlike posture, Whereas you will need food in order to continue your existence.

      Thanks to you! I snarled.

      You’re very welcome. Now, that human... The milk bringer...

      Leave him alone!

      He laughed. So, you’ve become attached already! Excellent!

      I baulked at the idea. What I mean is, leave me alone. Leave the whole planet alone, for that matter.

      He continued to laugh. Oh no, oh no. It’s too much fun down here. And, check your history; the fourteenth century, as they call it, is a good time for rats. I can have a lot of fun - and by that I mean cause a lot of damage. Starting with that boy.

      I sprang towards him. It took him by surprise. I pinned him to the floor and looked him in the eye.

      Go, I told him. Or when I get out of here, I will find you and I will end you.

      He made a display of shuddering with fear. Then he poked out his tongue - not an easy feat given those enormous incisors - and vanished.

      His voice hung in the air like the motes of dust in the sunbeam.

      It’s an empty threat, my brother. I shall personally see to it you will never leave. Now, for starters, that boy...

      Don’t you dare! I roared. I leapt at the sunbeam but my forepaws were batting only at dust.

      I felt like the universe’s biggest fool.

      I looked at the spilled milk. I wasn’t going to cry over it but my stomach was jumping around inside me at the thought of it. What my brother was going to do to the Boy I couldn’t guess. Whatever it was, the Boy didn’t deserve it. He had been nothing but kind - the wasted milk was proof of that.

      I let out a lengthy breath of annoyance and resignation.

      I was going to have to help that boy.

      I was going to have to stop my brother.

      It’s a dog’s life being a cat.

      ***

      I explored every inch of the inside of that barn. My search didn’t yield any means of escape but it afforded me the chance to become better acquainted with my newfound agility. I found, from a standing start I could spring over four times my height. I was able to leap onto vantage points and survey the scene from on high. I padded nimbly along the rafters. Now that I had legs, I was pleased to discover how surefooted I was. Of course, when I had no corporeal presence at all, my movements were not limited in any way but that’s beside the point. I was glad to have such an agile form to work with. It could have been worse. I could have been forced into a sloth or an amoeba or a clown.

      My cockiness almost led to disaster. I was so quick to let my feet do their thing without any conscious attention from me, I slipped and down I plummeted to the hard packed dirt floor. For a split second I thought I was going to have my pride and my senses knocked from my silly head but then a few feet before impact, my spine twisted, my body rolled in the air and I came to land, lightly and painlessly, on all four paws.

      Golly.

      While I was grateful to escape injury, I was a little disturbed to realise I wasn’t exactly alone in this new body of mine. There was a co-pilot: instinct. My body was reacting without my say-so. I wasn’t sure if I was entirely happy with this.

      How do you creatures with bodies cope? Are you unaware of what your body’s up to most of the time? All those internal processes ticking along, can you feel them?

      I stopped. I became aware of my little heart pumping blood around my circulatory system. I hadn’t noticed it before this point. Now it was proving difficult to ignore. I held my breath. And released it. And held it.

      Great. I was no longer hypnotised by my own heartbeat but I was hyper-aware of my breathing, watching my chest rise and fall. I shook my head and then set to licking myself all over. That distracted me from the breathing.

      If you’ve never licked yourself all over, you’re missing out. The compulsion to clean myself after my exploration was irresistible but, more than that, it was comforting. The sensation of the rough surface of my tongue raking through my black and white fur was very pleasurable; it’s no wonder cats do this all the time.

      A foggy image formed in my mind. A larger cat used to do this for me - or rather, for the cat that I have... inhabited.

      Mother?

      The image faded but I kept licking, stretching my hind legs, contorting my body so I could reach every spot. The only part I couldn’t do was my head. Immediately, my instinct jumped into the driving seat. I loaded my paw with saliva and rubbed this around my face and ears.

      Job done.

      My eyes began to close. Instinct was telling me a nap was required. I tried to fight it, keeping all four feet on the floor, rather than lying down and getting comfortable. I was soon to find that a cat can sleep in virtually any position.

      Very well, I told myself. I’ll rest my eyes while I think about what I can do about getting out. And the Boy. For some reason, he sprang to mind. Why would he spring to mind? It was something else to think about while my eyes were resting...

      My head jerked up and my ears twitched, rousing me from my drowsy contemplations. There was commotion somewhere outside the barn and there was an acrid smell seeping through the cracks between the planks of the walls.

      Black smoke snaked its way into the barn. My heart went into overdrive. I leapt to the windowsill and from there to the rafter. The noise was louder now. I recognised the woman’s squawk, louder and more shrill, as she barked instructions and swore in a most unladylike fashion. A man’s voice echoed her instructions - her mate, perhaps. Both were urging the Boy - Dick - to hurry up with that water. They wailed and cried as with creaks and cracks something collapsed.

      Fire!

      Their house had burned down.

      They scolded the Boy, appearing to blame this unfortunate turn of events on him and accusing him of dawdling on his way back from the pond with his bucket. I couldn’t make out the Boy’s responses, if indeed he made any, but I could picture him diligently fetching water while the other two - his parents? - wept and wailed and carried on providing more in the way of melodrama than practical assistance.

      The smoke was beginning to climb to my perch. A red glow was licking at the lower walls. I heard a plaintive mew and then almost bit my tongue as I realised it had come from me.

      The barn! the woman cried.

      Dick, the barn! roared the man. Quickly, you fool!

      Other voices joined the cacophony. Neighbours from nearby Pauntley village had arrived to help or gawp at the display. Instructions and opinions added to the noise but I was more concerned about the increasing lack of breathable air in the barn. Below me, the smoke was like a carpet, a soft bed. I was sorely tempted to jump into it but I knew it was an illusion. I would plunge straight through it to the floor beneath. Would my feet be able to do their landing trick if I couldn’t gauge the distance I was to fall?

      Soot and smuts were rising on hot air. I’d just washed my fur as well. Marvellous.

      And then there was a roar of voices, a mixture of words, ‘No’ and ‘Go on’ and ‘Dick’, followed by a crash. The smoke below me parted to reveal a rolling figure that came to a stop, while flames licked around the hole he had made in the burning wall.

      Puss! the Boy called, his gaze darting around. He coughed and choked, holding his sleeve against his nose and mouth.

      I made a sound that went something like raoaowr and clung to the rafter, digging my claws into the wood.

      The Boy heard me. He dashed to the far wall and produced a ladder from the floor. He staggered under its weight as he carried it across the barn and positioned it against the rafter. He climbed up, cooing at me and calling me by that ridiculous epithet. Well, I wasn’t going to respond to Puss. I’d rather burn.

      Well, no I wouldn’t, actually. The hot and poisoned air was proving intolerable already. I forced my instincts down and didn’t shrink away or scratch the Boy’s hands to pieces when they cupped around my body. He tucked me into his shirt and cradling me with one hand, he made his way down the ladder, which was already at the mercy of the flames.

      Hunching over me, the Boy ran from the structure using the way he had come in. The assembled people cheered and then gasped as behind us, the structure collapsed in on itself, no longer recognisable as a barn. It was now a bonfire.

      People were patting the Boy on the back but whether this was a congratulatory gesture or a means to extinguish flames, I couldn’t stay. It was warm where I was in his shirt; a pleasant warmth unlike the searing heat of the conflagration. My head was filled with the sound of his heartbeat. I rubbed my cheeks against his skin and he wriggled.

      You’re tickling! he laughed and withdrew me from my sanctuary. He held me up and after a cursory inspection declared me to be fit as a fiddle. I was about to point out that was something of an insensitive remark, knowing as I do that violin strings are made of catgut (That the material doesn’t come from cats, but rather from other beasts such as sheep and cattle is beside the point!) when I reminded myself it was probably better not to respond as if I knew his, or any other, human language. I had to play the dumb animal. Now, you already know, in a spot of prescience awarded to you by the way this story started, that I turn out to be unable to hold my peace for long, but at that moment I decided to be as ordinary a cat as I could. I wrested myself from his grasp, dropped to the ground and licked my front paw.

      Poor Puss, said the Boy sounding soppier than I was comfortable with. I hoped he wouldn’t lean down and try to stroke me. I had to make myself presentable first.

      Yuck. Smoked fur.

      The Boy had other things to think about. The woman I’d seen before and a man like a hanging carcass of beef had approached and were shoving and poking the Boy as accompaniment to their castigations. How did this happen? They wanted to know. How could he let it happen? How could he be so ungrateful?

      They asked a lot of questions but did not seem at all interested in allowing him time to give answers. They seemed to think the fire and loss of their property was the Boy’s fault. Through carelessness or design he had brought this about and they seemed to think this was unsuitable recompense for bringing him up and feeding and clothing him and all the rest of it.

      They were probably annoyed their nomination for Parents of the Year had got lost in the post.

      The Boy hung his head, allowing himself to be buffeted by their blows. He seemed inured to this, knowing that protesting his innocence would be futile. Meanwhile, the neighbours finished dousing the flames, having formed a human chain to transport buckets of water from the local pond. They slunk away, murmuring goodnights and don’t mention its when the ungrateful couple failed to recognise their efforts.

      I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the Boy. I could imagine his upbringing at the hands of these brutes, how they had exploited him, how they had abused him, and how lonely he must have been - must be.

      They were at the end of their tether, they announced, and I considered what a good idea tying them up would be. They had had enough and could take no more. They hoped he was satisfied now that he had finally destroyed their home and livelihood and he considered himself lucky they weren’t going to beat him with sticks as due and proper punishment.

      Instead, they were ‘letting him go’. He was on his own from this point on. He would have to shift for himself and they never wanted to see him again and good riddance.

      The man gave the Boy’s arm one last punch. The woman slapped the Boy’s face and spat. They stumped their way through the smouldering debris of their farmhouse, muttering something about going to her mother’s and the man opining he’d rather die first.

      The Boy waited until they had gone before he moved. Only then did he rub himself where they had bruised him. Only then did he wipe away the tears that had been welling for so long. He looked around at the destruction. There really was nothing left. Oh, you could probably stock a stall with charcoal and sell it to local artists but prudence told me not to give voice to this suggestion.

      He looked at me but I kept him in my peripheral vision.

      I didn’t do it, Puss, he said sadly.

      Stop bloody calling me Puss! I wanted to yell but I made no outward reaction.

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