The Word Cloud

"Hello, a stowaway.   Come on, fleabag, out of there."

"!?"   The cat was dumbfounded.

     Dangling like a silly kitten it its mother's jaws he reflected on all he might've done to avoid being dragged out of his hidey-hole by the scruff.   He could've spat at least.   He could've arched his back; bristled; thrashed his tail in the classic warning of vicious intent and if the man still wasn't unnerved he could've unsheathed his claws, laid back his ears and let out his best, blood-curdling caterwaul, thereby giving old grizzly-beard a terryfying view of his deadly fangs.

     As it was ... limbs paralysed and the skin of his throat pulled tight ... he had only three weapons left in his armoury:  the sudden ear-twitch, the low menacing growl and the evil eye.   He used all three at once and killed the man stone dead.

     Later he realized how reckless that first reaction had been.   Mabel's cossetting must've softened his brain for he had broken a rule imbibed with his mother's milk:  always check for scent-markings.   He had strayed onto the territory of an alpha male and it wasn't as if he'd needed to; he'd been led up the gangplank by blessed curiosity.

     The ship was already under sail and Grizzly-beard could have chucked him overboard without further ado but he hadn't.   The man was okay, and so were all his mates.

     When finally he got over the sulks (and it must be admitted that hunger was the catalyst that brought about this change of mood) the cat found himself treated with more respect than he deserved.   The crew shared their suppers with him, their warm bunks and sometimes their thoughts.    They named him Lucky which, though not as classy as Jet was appropriate in the circumstances since he could not walk on water.

     Once settled in, he found life on board honestly commendable.   Exercise on the horizontal was limited but there were challenges for one blessed with a lithe body, built-in crampons and a good head for heights.   Mostly he stretched his legs in an upward direction; developing his basic skills to a fine art.   He memorised every inch of his gymnasium and learned to compensate for its heaving.   He learned to dodge the sweeping boom; to avoid the rigging as it slapped perilously close to this or that chosen perch.

     In the early days he occasionally chanced one of his nine lives and this always attracted the attention of the crew.   They would shout and whistle encouragement while he wrestled with the problem and applaud him all the way back to his supper dish where a sad, appealing look got him a tasty treat to compensate for his nasty experience.

     Even when he became proficient he would sometimes feign a slip while performing a highly skilled manoeuvre; just to provide a little excitement for the men.   That his acting earned him a bite to eat at any time of day was merely a side-effect.

     Oh yes!   This was the life for him alright!   His acrobatics had never been appreciated before (except grudgingly by Mrs. Halliday's fat eunuch) and he now realized Mabel's yard was a back-water ... her cosy kitchen a bushel under which his extraordinary light had been hiding.

     There were uncomfortable moments of course:  when rain slaked a louring sky and his little bit of terra not-too-firma was buffetted along by high seas; when brilliant light clawed the night and explosions made his eardrums sing.   At such times, the cat acknowledged that under Mabel's sink was the safest place to sit out a storm and he would head for the nearest thing:  under a bench in the galley.   There he would exude an air of quiet confidence which he certainly did not feel.   The crew were always too busy to notice his absence from duty at such times anyway.

     All in all, the good days far outnumbered the bad.   Male companionship was invigorating and taking up the challenge had made him fitter, leaner than he had ever been.   Mabel's cat had found his place, by accident, true, but he liked to think that Providence had recognised his potential and given him a nudge in the right direction.   Although the ship called at many a port during its long voyage he was never tempted ashore by exotic scents and sounds.   This was a good home and he wa sticking to it.

     However, having found his place he managed to lose it in a most spectacular fashion.   Nemesis spotted his hubris and decided to humble him.   This is how she did it.


The day was rich with golden sunlight poured from an aquamarine sky onto a sapphire sea.   Land-scented breezes, carrying faint sounds of cheering from the shore, drifted out to greet them as the crew coasted their sleek white world gracefully home.

     Heavy cargo boats, standing off to await top of the tide, saluted them in basso profundo as they passed and a flotilla of smaller boats came out to escort them in; weaving white wakes as they jostled for position, and all the while there was a syncopated rhythm of hooting  from everyone with a hooter to hoot.   A long-legged, laughing girl with flying hair scrambled aboard to be swept off her feet by the captain and bottles were brought out to pop and fizz, sending fountains of foam high in the air.

     Oh it was such a grand occasion!

     The cat, at his fairweather watch on the bowsprit, was dazzled by the grandness of it all.   He had joined a band of heroes, albeit unwittingly, and now wondered how best to claim his share of the glory.   He had never performed for such an audience before and may never have the chance to do so again.   Licking his lips, he dropped onto the deck and loped for the mainmast, pausing only to savour the daring of what he was about to do before leaping six feet up the great spar.   Then, satisfied that his claws were dug in securely he climbed.

     Up he went, higher and higher until his hindquarters were level with the top-most yard.   The swaying of the mast was more pronounced here but all the better; his display would be truly death-defying.   Keeping two sets of crampons in play throughout the manoeuvre, he eased around the mast until his tail found the yard directly beneath him, then settled on his rump; one paw hooked above his head for reassurance.

     Now he surveyed the audience and found it much bigger than expected.   Shoreside, the crowd in summer clothes looked like a brightly coloured shawl the harbour had thrown over its outstretched arms, like a mother welcoming home her sailor sons.

     The mast shuddered as the ship heeled into the wind, sending a delightful shiver up the cat's spine.   Prophetically, as it turned out, he thought that if he lived through all of his nine lives he would never, never again experience  a day as thrilling as this.   Right on time an excited squeal rang out:  "Look!   Look at the cat!"  and a wave of flesh pink flowed around the shawl as every face turned up to look at him.   He was On!

     This was his moment.   With all eyes upon him the cat let go his hold on the mast and tippy-toed along the yard, taking care to lash his tail from side to side dramatically as he went.   He checked before over-stepping the coil of rope fixing the skysail:  this would be a vital prop for his piece de resistance.
The audience hissed in its breath as he reached the end of the spar and appeared to consider walking on air, then sighed as he drew back.   It Oooohed when - having completed a very wobbly U-turn - he dived for the coil of rope, latched on firmly with all his front claws and threw his back-end off the yardarm.

     There were shrieks of alarm and shouts of encouragement as he scrabbled at the sail with his back feet and heaved mightily with his forelegs; then Aaaahs of pity as he feigned defeat and hung limp for a while, swaying with the ship's motion like a bit of black washing pegged out to dry.

     Finally the people fell silent.   They were waiting for him to lose his grip ... to plummet deckward and splatter his guts like a seagull's droppings.   But death was not on the programme.   He held them in suspense a little longer before pushing against the sail and hauling his body back onto the the spar; then - to wild cheering - he ran to pull his claws triumphantly on the mast.   Oh!   There was no sweeter sound than the roar of a crowd!

     Looking down to acknowledge his audience, he was surprised to see how far the ship had travelled during his performance.   Most unusually for them, the crew had left trimming her sails a little late this time and she was running for the dock at quite a lick!

     Pity, the cat thought.   Once docked, all eyes would revert to the men and their ship while he would be left to avoid the tail-crunching feet that were sure to scramble aboard unless ... ...

     A long-buried memory nudged his elbow and he remembered how he had once held the attention of an entire neighbourhood for hours, simply by sitting on top of a telegraph pole.   It had been embarrassing - waiting for the fire engine - but he was a know-nothing kitten then, not the top-class performer he had become.

     He studied what little there was left of the mast remaining above him and a worm of fear wriggled in his belly.   It was only a flag-pole really; nothing like a telegraph pole.   "Impossible"  whispered the worm but pride had something to say too:  "Not!   Grab the bulbous bit with your front claws and dig your back claws into the pennon.   That way you could keep'em interested for hours."

     It would be dangerous.   He looked down at the crowd.   Most had turned their attention back to the ship; now swinging her stern toward the dock like a shameless hussy.   The crew were running around and shouting at each other; one was throwing a mooring rope from the prow.   It was now or never.

     The cat set his eyes on the pinnacle, took a deep breath and jumped.   Only his front claws had connected when the ship hit the jetty broadside.   The mast arced landward, flying the cat like a ragged black pennant; trembled to a halt and hung for what seemed an eternity before recoiling with a Whhooompff! swinging his extended body through 180 degrees before catapulting him far out to sea.   He went like a stone out of a slingshot!

     The last impression Mabel's cat had of a sailor's life was not on the ocean wave but under it.   Immersion in water was more horrible than he could ever have imagined and the taste of salt was truly foul.   Mercifully, he was not aware of it for long:  he passed out pretty quickly.

     Fortunately for him there were plenty of boats in the area.   Also very fortunately he didn't land on one but right beside it.   Most fortunate of all the owner was handy with a net and fished out his limp body as soon as it bobbed up to the surface.

     All that happened a long, long time ago.   Mrs. Halliday's fat eunuch went disbelieving to his grave and generations of young toms have since accused him of making it all up but it doesn't matter any more.   He had his time in the sun and Mabel knows it's true.   Often on winter nights, when the winds howl in from the sea she cradles him in her lap by the fire and reminds him he was once Lucky.