Le Chatte De La Croix

Originally published in "Forever Cat Stories", 1996

-I-

Something was making a hideous noise, and it was disturbing his rest.

With annoyance, he rose, and went to see what it was.

It was grubby and grimy and reeked to high heaven; and it was yowling, making a sound like a rusty iron gate swinging to and fro in a fierce wind.

Fatigue had made him extra-irritable; he drew back his foot to kick it away...

...and it blinked up at him, with wide blue eyes that reminded him, absurdly, of Nicholas.

He blinked back, regarded it anew. "Go away," he told it, in his best disdainful voice.

"Mrrrrrrrauu," it responded mournfully, shivering in the coldness of the alley, still with that wide-eyed helpless look so reminiscent of another...

He let out a long sigh, a hiss of air through clenched teeth. "If you scratch me," he growled, "you will die."

It did not scratch him; instead, it settled against him comfortably and began to emit a sound like an idling car engine, badly tuned.

He found half a fast-food hamburger that one of the club's mortal employees or patrons had left behind and watched as the creature devoured it, its actions somehow graceful despite its ravening hunger; he filled a sink with warm soapy water, and managed to wash most of the filth from the creature's fur. Never having been told that felines dislike water, he was unprepared for any difficulty -- apparently, the animal had never been told either, and did not present any.

Afterwards, it leapt away from his grasp and began preening its wet fur. Which suited him perfectly. The thing was no longer making noise; it no longer exuded an odor; there was no longer anything obstructing his slumber.

He stretched out on his bed and closed his eyes.

All at once there was something warm and damp nestled against his side. "Go away," he told it sternly; but it did not move.

Too fatigued to enforce his prohibition, he ignored it and fell asleep.

When next he awoke, it was sitting on his chest.

Long silky grey fur, and those wide blue eyes set in an angular face -- rather elegant, actually. And though it was nearly tiny enough to fit into a teacup, it watched him with an expression of mature awareness...

Which was nonsense, of course; it was only an animal, after all.

It settled itself into a comfortable position, kneading his flesh with its claws to prepare its bed to its stisfaction, then curled up atop him and began to make that idling- engine niose once more.

He decided to let it live. For now.

-II-

The animal had brought him yet another 'present'.

He surveyed the tiny rodent corpse with distaste, picked it up by the tail and deposited it into the trash. The text he'd read had suggested that such 'gifts' from one's dependent life forms was most probably a token of affection.

It was a form of affection he was perfectly willing to do without.

He found the animal sitting on the control console in his broadcasting booth, preening its fur, and shedding it into the electronic works of the expensive machinery. "You will not continue this behavior!" he seethed at it firmly. "This is unacceptable!"

The animal looked up at him and blinked its huge blue eyes; it unfolded itself from its pretzel-like position with luxurious grace, stretched languorously, and proceeded to rub itself against him, all the while purring.

"None of that," he said sternly; but the animal paid no attention, instead continuing to cover his clothing with its silky grey fur.

It nuzzled its head against his hand, made a small inquisitive sound, gazed up at him plaintively...

He decided to let it live. For now.

-III-

"No animals," said the bored-looking health inspector. "That's a rule."

He looked at the city official, then at the subject of their discussion, which was stalking along a row of liquor bottles behind the bar, weaving sinuously through the array without disturbing a single flask.

With a small hiss of annoyance, he flicked another bill toward the inspector, who shook his head. "It's a rule," the mortal man repeated, stubbornly refusing to take the money.

He had long ago discovered that it was far easier to bribe away the inspectors than to attempt to comply with their regulations -- but apparently, some rules were less easily broken than others.

Another bill, and another... until finally, the mortal could no longer resist; he scooped up the pile of currency and tucked it away quickly. "Fine," muttered the inspector. "Now... while we're on the subject, I don't see any tags on that cat."

"Tags?" inquired his auditor politely, in a silky voice that spelled imminent doom.

The human was unfazed. "Yeah, tags," he said. "Gotta take the cat to a vet, get him checked out, get his shots..."

As the Raven's owner began to tally up the costs being inflicted by his 'guest', he glared at the animal perched so elegantly behind the bar; it met his gaze with equanimity, with a look that really was remarkably reminiscent of Nicholas...

He decided to let it live. For now.

-IV-

There was something on his bed.

It was alive.

It was wet.

It was yowling.

As he watched, the animal who'd taken up residence in the Raven came padding into his bedroom, carrying another small something in its mouth. It deposited the object on his bed, and glanced up at him with what almost appeared to be self-satisfied pride.

He took a closer look, and uttered a curse he hadn't spoken aloud since the days of the Roman empire.

The animal leapt down from his bed, departed -- returned with another of the small squealing things -- and another -- and another -- and another -- and another.

And when it was all over, the animal lay curled on its side in a cozy nest of imported satin sheets, while its seven younglings nuzzled close and sucked milk from its teats.

He stared at the mess that had been made of his bed, at the mass of writhing creatures -- they closely resembled rats, to his eyes; scrunched up faces, fur slicked down, thoroughly uncaptivating...

And then he stared at their mother, who blinked back at him with huge blue eyes and purred.

With a sigh, he retrieved a blanket from the closet, made himself comfortable on the sofa nearby, so as not to disturb the new family. After all, who was he to interfere with the new 'fledglings', such as they were?

He decided to let them live. For now.

-V-

Albinoni. Aretino. Pythagoras. Quirinus. Descartes. Cobain. Limbaugh.

The one who had been responsible for their presence, he still hadn't bothered to name.

They were perfectly at home at the Raven, wending their way across the floor, somehow avoiding the careless feet of the patrons -- a paying customer might stumble and fall, but the cats always escaped unharmed. Tails held high, they patrolled their territory with dignity, leaving no doubt as to who truly owned the club.

It was amusing, to watch the leather-clad ruffians and renegade blood-drinkers abandon their pretenses of unconcern to coo and burble to the catlings.

And at dawn, when the club lay dormant and silent, they rubbed 'round his ankles and whined while he set the can opener whirring, until he'd placed the platters of tuna before them.

Their progenitor, meanwhile, would watch with lazy, contented eyes, knowing there was no need to fuss and fight and claw for dinner like the rest: individual sustenance would be presented in the serene quiet of his personal suite, where the animal might daintily nibble to its heart's content.

Resourceful and self-sufficient though they were, there was a certain amount of... disruption due to the new arrivals' presence. The plethora of rat corpses. The too-frequent wet, slimy puddle, always coughed up in the one place where it would most likely be encountered by someone in stocking feet. The smell of stale tuna, and the necessity of changing the litter boxes...

The hirelings and the children of the night sequestered in the Raven knew better than to complain; they merely cleaned up the mess, and muttered to themselves.

Pythagoras had already been claimed by the postman, who'd made a habit of delivering a tidbit to the cat along with the daily mail. The liquor distributor had asked about Quirinus, and the cats' guardian knew that it would only be a matter of time before the annoying younglings were all spoken for, and whisked away to new mortal homes.

Leaving him with a measure of peace and quiet. And incidentally, with their predecessor as well.

The animal in question came to him, placed its paw on his hand; he picked it up, and it proceeded to make itself comfortable in his arms, purring idling-engine noise contentedly.

He stroked its soft grey fur absently, and decided to let it live. For now.

-VI-

Its lower body was almost entirely crushed.

It could barely breathe.

He knelt beside the wounded animal in disbelief. The door had been open for the briefest of moments; he had been distracted for only an instant...

The animal made a hoarse, squawking noise, and its head lolled limply against his hand.

Barely aware of his actions, he lifted it carefully off the pavement, senses alert to the sound of its labored respiration, its sluggish, halting heartbeat...

It looked up at him with pain-filled eyes, and tried to purr, but could not.

Animals die, he thought. Does it matter how or when?

And looked down once more at the creature in his arms.

It mattered.

With gentle fingers, he parted its fur, searching for a vein...

-VII-

A shadow stalked along the wall, distracting him from his study of the Raven's latest financial statements.

"Ma minoche, allons," he murmured, and the animal came to him, leapt onto the desk and sat down squarely atop the ledger he was attempting to peruse.

"You are in the way," he told it, and it responded by nuzzling his hand as he attempted to nudge it aside.

No more litter boxes to clean. No more tuna fish rotting in the trash cans. And while there was still a problem with rat corpses, they were much less distasteful now that they were routinely drained of blood...

Acceding to the inevitable, he let his hand glide along the satiny grey fur, his fingertips moving to scratch the perpetually itchy spot on top of its head.

If Nicholas were ever to discover this aberration, his condemnation would no doubt be severe. As well, the possibility of retribution was high -- but worse than that would be the humiliation of suffering his child's contempt. How unbearable that would be...

...of course, the chance of degradation could so easily be eliminated, by simply dispatching the animal in question.

He sighed heavily, and resolved to ensure that Nicholas never learn of the situation.

The cat reclined atop the ledger, effectively banishing any chance of him completing his audit; and he laughed at its single-minded self-centeredness, so akin to his own.

And he decided that it would live. With him. For a long, long time.

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