The Word Cloud

I understand that crits should be requested on forums but the forums are a little quiet as of late. So I'm posting this here, I hope no one is overly slighted. 

This is the very rough first draft on my prolouge and first chapter. It's a bit on the short side at the moment but before I start adding to it I wanted to know what people think. In particular I am looking at atmosphere, tone and characters, although any comments would be welcome.

Thank you in advance

AMENTI

A story about Myth, Murder and Cats

 

 

Prologue

 

Somewhere in the empty abyss without end

 

It is a dark place, cold and empty.

 

This is the place between sleep and awake, between life and death. This is where dreams and nightmares are born and where they return to when they die. It is also a point of convergence for Gods and Mortals. It is here that two figures shrouded in darkness meet. Upon arrival they are still, watching each other intently in the pitch dark. A word is spoken by one and a dim light is born. It is dull and illuminates very little. But eyes that reflect the light shine brightly, one pair pure gold, no white and no pupil break the gold. The other pair pure unbroken purple.

“Harendotes.” A female voice whispers in the shadows. It is a low voice very deep for a female and resonates through the vast emptiness of this awful place. The dim light reflects off animalistic teeth, illuminating a short but savage jaw line, the jaws of a lioness or tiger. Jaws that were never meant to voice human words.

“Bast.” A second voice answers, a sneer obvious in its tone. The light reflects boldly from this one, as if the creature were lighter than it really was, or glowing. The light reflects off the masses of golden jewellery, rings on fingers and jewels on chains. But no light reflects off teeth, for this creature has none. Instead the light reflects off a long hooked beak. “It has been a long time.” A low growl echoes in response.

“Far too short a time, fowl.”

“Calm yourself Bast.” the second voice chuckles cruelly, “Anyone would think you were a mortal Kitten for your lack of proper manners.” Faintly the light shows a human hand littered with rings. It reaches across and the female called Bast jerks backwards, avoiding the touch as if it were diseased.

“I am more deserving of my status and my title than you Harendotes.” She speaks. A smile is evident, as the light hits feline teeth once more. Harendotes laughs quietly as if afraid to be too loud in this terrible place.

“That remains to be seen.” He chuckles. There is a sudden movement and feline claws rake across golden eyes. Harendotes hisses, it is a sound that belongs to a bird not a snake

“You threaten me.” Bast’s voice is smooth and calm despite her actions.

“Impudent child.” The hatred in Harendotes’ tone flows like water over smooth rocks. There is silence for a long moment, the weak light becomes dimmer and flickers. A sigh breaks the stillness.

“Shall we do this properly then Harendotes?” the female asks slowly, anger evident and restrained.

“Yes little Bast we shall.” Harendotes’ voice echoes in the darkness as the two leap at each other.

It is only moments before the silence returns and the darkness is absolute once more. The meeting has ended and blood has been spilt, the place of meeting is abandoned until the next time when words must be had.

 

Chapter One

 

It was during the thick, oily days of midsummer that they moved. The car puttered down the duel carriageway, barley fast enough to keep pace with the lorries and caravans. The heat reached thick fingers inside and sat heavily on the air turning breathing into an effort. The driver pushed his foot down hard on the accelerator and groaned with disappointment as the caravan he’d been racing for the last twenty miles over took him and pulled away. It was the twelfth one in the last three hours.

The car banged over a pot hole and Jonathan woke with a start. Bodies surrounded him squirming wildly at first but rapidly falling still. Cold wrapped around him and stole his breath. The darkness made him blind. He leapt up fighting against the press of bodies and landed on dry and slightly bent cardboard. Turing wildly Jonathan hissed and when the grey cat suddenly appeared in front of him.

“Hey buddy calm down, it was just a little bump.” A large hand ran gently over his ears and rubbed softly at the point where his neck joined his skull rubbing his fur the wrong way and making little quivers run down his back. Jonathan blinked and the grey cat in front of him changed. Grey fur and bright purple eyes became brown spotted fur and overlarge ears. Jonathan looked away from his reflection up at Steven.

“Thanks.” He said softly, embarrassed by his own fear at the dream. Steven couldn’t understand his words in the strictest sense but they had been together for long enough that Jonathan was pretty sure that Steven understood him. Some of the time at least.

“Almost there lad.” Steven turned his attention back to the road. “I told you I’d get us out of that flat.”

“Wonders will never cease.” Jonathan muttered and leapt from the front passenger seat into the back. There wasn’t much room to move in the car. Most of what they owned was crammed into boxes which in turn were crammed into the car and small trailer. But Jonathan found space enough to curl up in the shade. Licking his paws he tried to forget the dream. Licking was a habit he had established when he was a kitten and the dream had first started. Cleaning distracted him and ground him firmly into reality. Nothing like picking grit from your claws to help you distinguish reality from dreams.

“Want some?” Steven ripped open a packet of cheap, processed meat with a single hand and his teeth. Pulling a slice free he dropped it onto the back seat. Jonathan sniffed at it but his stomach was still in knots. The dream always left him tense and afraid, despite him having it nearly every night since kittenhood. It had always been the same, bodies in the cold and dark but in the last weeks it had changed. Now every time he slept he saw the grey cat and every cat worth his whiskers knew what that meant.

The Grey Cat was an Omen.

A cat made of smoke and nightmares. He came to those soon to die. Jonathan had heard many stories about him. Some said he was a friend to the dying, there to take away their pain. Others said he was a guide, a guardian to take the dead to Paradise. But most said he was a demon, a cat so evil that when he died his spirit roamed the land of the living. Jealous of those still alive he made it his business to end life. A few however said he was none of these things, instead they said he was simply doing a sad duty. Although the stories all gave different motivations they all agreed on one point, seeing the Cat made of Smoke meant your time was close.

“Stop it. Just stop it.” Jonathan snapped at himself. “You’ll drive yourself mad.” He snapped up the cold meat in front of him and forced it down in a few bites. “See you’re fine.” He hopped up onto one of the boxes by the window and looked outside at the passing woodland. The sun was starting to set and the trees looked as if they were made from charcoal and cast long pale shadows. The window was open slightly and the wind had whipped at his fur, caring new and interesting smells.

Jonathan put his nose to the wind, and inhaled the damp, scent of the local trees and earth, mixed with the fragrant spice of humans with their gunpowder and blood. He began to settle down watching the surroundings plod past. But his peace was short lived as within minutes of his watching the trees became stone houses and grass became concrete streets.

“I think this is it.” Steven sounded pleased. Jonathan was unimpressed. The town was like most others Jonathan had seen on his travels with Steven. They rarely remained in one place longer than a year. The town was unremarkable and dull. The wind whipped into the car again and Jonathan frowned. Sitting up straight he sniffed at the air. Something wasn’t quite right. He looked out of the window at the bland buildings and cracked streets and licked his nose to clear it. A cold sense of dread washed over him. Something was wrong here, the air tasted of blood.

“Nice huh?” Steven reached over again and rubbed his ears. Jonathan felt a growl start in his throat and swallowed it. He was just jumpy after the move and the dream and the stupid summer heat, it had all addled his brain. Jonathan shook himself and tried to ignore the way his fur was standing on end. The car drove through the town centre and into the estates. Jonathan became lost almost instantly, the winding streets and cul-de-sacs caused his bearings to become well and truly jumbled. “Aww that’s cute.” Steven purred as the car drove over a rickety wooden bridge.

“It looks like it’s going to collapse.” Jonathan grumbled then glanced at the sky “Please don’t let me die in this car.” He said half serious. The road became narrower and Steven turned left into a dead end. The houses were tall and dark and a few were obviously empty but most had light peaking out around the curtains. Steven turned into a driveway overgrown with weeds and stopped. For a moment the car juddered and started to roll back but with a quick hard pull on the hand brake Steven managed not to embarrass them. Jonathan continued to look out at the house in front of them and his fur rose again. The house, the whole town, it all stank of death. Steven’s big hands slipped under Jonathan and lifted him.

“Come on, we can unpack the car later.” Steven jostled Jonathan until he was pressed against the man’s chest. Jonathan dug his claws into Steven’s jumper when the man let go with one hand and grabbed an overnight bag. Together they made it to the front door which Steven opened without knocking.

“Steve?” a male voice called.

“Mike?” Steven called back stopping to put his bag down by the door. Jonathon took the opportunity to jump down. “Hey.” Steven carped, Jonathan looked at him. “Alright but don’t go far, I don’t want you getting lost.”

“It’s a house.” Jonathan grinned back. “How lost could I get?” Steven reached down and ran his hand down Jonathan’s back which Jonathan endured before setting off to stretch his legs after a day cooped up in the car.

The house was old. The bare wooden floors were rough under his paws and the wallpaper was pealing at the edges. But Jonathan was never overly concerned about his homes appearance. What had his fur raising was the smell. The house like the town stank of blood and death. 

I have just strayed across this charming story of Cecil, the snobby (and very handsome) cat. 

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/family/pets/9093167/Pet-tales-Cecil-tuxedo-cat.html 

I’ve banged on about how happy Mrs Hermit and I are in our new home; I may also have mentioned that our autistic son seems to like it too. But there is a fourth member of our family, one I haven’t mentioned before.

This is for the cat-lovers among you. Come out of the woodwork: I know you’re there.


I didn’t take much notice the first time I saw her. There wasn’t much to see: just a little ball of black fur, curled up asleep in the furthest and darkest corner of the sleeping hutch. We took no more than a brief glance before moving on to the next cage.

We’d waited a while after our last cat developed a tumour on her hind leg and had to be put down, but now we thought the time was right to get another. No-one we knew had any kittens; and, rather then swell the coffers of the local pet shop, we decided to do the decent thing and give a home to a cat from Battersea. Our first choice, a handsome tabby – I’ve always liked tabbies: it’s the natural colouring, after all – had, we were told, ‘difficulties,’ and might be a bit of a handful for us. ‘What about this one?’ the girl said, opening the cage occupied by the sleeping furry ball.

Awake, she proved to be a pretty little cat. Amidst that thick midnight fur, the blackest I’d ever seen on a cat, a pair of green eyes regarded us solemnly. They don’t tell you more than they have to about the backgrounds of their animals at Battersea, but we did learn that, although one of the youngest cats there at eleven months, she’d already had a litter of kittens. It sounded to me like she could do with a caring home.

There was more trauma in store for Polly, as we christened her, not being too impressed with the temporary name she’d acquired at Battersea: first the spaying (the Battersea Home always neuters its animals) and then the ride in a cat basket, probably still smelling of our previous cat, to yet another strange place. I could hardly blame her for spending her first week or two with us as a little black shadow, mostly lurking in dark corners and under the furniture.

As she slowly settled down she proved to be a gentle soul. She’s only ever been known to bite or scratch once, and that was under extreme provocation: the refitting, the first day we had her, of the paper cone thing they’d put around her neck to prevent her biting out the stitches from the spaying operation. She became quite affectionate, but only on her own terms. She didn’t like sitting on laps or being picked up and cuddled, but she did seem to enjoy being gently stroked, and she’d head-butt and rub herself against your legs – especially at feeding time, when she elevated the well-known feline trick of getting under your feet into an art-form.

The only thing was that, although Battersea had her listed as an outdoor cat requiring a garden, she never went out much, and then only for brief periods. I don’t suppose there was much out there to appeal to her: a tiny over-grown garden and a constant background of traffic noise and exhaust fumes. Although used to her new home and our company, she was a timid, stay-at-home cat. 

Less than a year later came the big upheaval of our move to Wales. Although we bought a much bigger cat carrier especially for the two hundred mile journey, it can hardly have been much fun for her. And then we thought it best to shut her in the spare bedroom while the doors were open for the removal men to come and go, having heard tales of cats running off after house moves, never to be seen again. When we finally let her out, she emerged slowly and tentatively to prowl around this strange new place, sniffing suspiciously at the packing cases and piled-up furniture.

After giving her a couple of days to get used to her new home we let her out into the garden. It was like watching a pupa emerging from a chrysalis: she made a slow circuit of the whole garden, investigating and scenting everything as she went, foot by foot, utterly absorbed. It must have taken her at least ten minutes, and you could almost see her spirit spreading its wings as she went.

Her confidence grew rapidly after that, from prowling the garden to stalking along the top of the fence like a tightrope walker, to going over the fence and exploring the open spaces beyond. Nowadays she spends hours outside every day, sometimes not even letting the Welsh drizzle put her off; and, watching her alert and alive demeanour, you can’t help but know this is a much healthier and happier lifestyle for a cat. I'll swear she's even grown a bit bigger.

Our daughter, no mean cat-lover herself, came to visit us recently. Watching Polly stalking about the garden, she said: ‘You know, I’ve never seen such a change in a cat.’

 

Damn and Blast it.
but looked again and it's not my story, phew!


On Universal is a film called RING OF DECEIT.  That's the title of my book I'm working on.

the write up on sky is

An art expert examines an antique ring belonging to a museum patron, but begins to suspect a connection to a murder.

My story is about a ring, museum, murder......

I'm going to watch the film to make sure it's completely nothing like mine.

so far it's american and modern.  That's a good start.  mine is set in 1952 btween scotland and Wales.

Mmmm!!!!

We lost our lovely cat Chloe a couple of months ago and there is a hole in our lives that we dare not try to fill yet. It wouldn’t be fair and anyway, we can’t. More time has to pass. But in the meantime, it seems there’s Buster. Buster is perhaps as unattractive as Chloe was gorgeous. His ears have suffered from a number of losing fights; I don’t think he’s got any moves at all. He’s also a very timid cat and, let’s not beat about the bush here, he’s fat.

Buster has had his share of bad luck and some. He originally belonged to a pair of miserable old gits on the corner who didn’t much like him. They subsequently got a dog, who hated him and his life became something of a torment. Then the MOG’s announced they were off to Portugal to live and that they were taking the dog. But Buster was being dumped on the RSPCA. This was about four years ago. Other neighbours (D&D) weren’t having any and declared he was living with them. Which was fine. Eventually D&D and their boys discovered that they like cats and also acquired a couple of kittens last year. They aren’t squeezing Buster out at all, but honestly, he’s a fat wheezy old bloke and these two young pretty super fit creatures? It’s gotta be hard to take, like innit?

So anyway, I’m over committed with work and don’t know what’s happening in the house at all, until I got back early the other day. And who is sitting in my living room (LIVING ROOM), tucking into a few snacks. Well obviously it’s Buster. He’s sort of snaffling up Chloe’s bits and pieces that we can’t bring ourselves to throw away, so I suppose he’s doing us a service. And as I said, he’s fat.

MrsP says she always sends him home when D or D or the boys get back. Which between herself and Jenny they managed to do eventually. But he clearly doesn’t want to go. It’s the extra food, of course. Have I mentioned that he’s fat. But I don’t mind, for now.

Well, EzBird and I are alone again. Our gorgeous two interlopers – both home and heart – have been reunited with their true parents. I can’t believe it has taken six months to sort out but finally the lovely lady from Cats Friends (there was a genuine “Monty Python” moment – Life of Brian – when I mistakenly associated her with The Cats Protection League... splitters!) scanned the little ones and found their chips.

 

Good luck to Puss-Puss and Mittens (AKA George – which I doubt he is really called because he really didn’t seem to like it – and Bobbi, which –with heavy heart – I have to say got her trotting excitedly up the path) as they return to their original owners and a new house where they won’t be bullied by a neighbour’s cat into running away.

 

I’m crap at pome’s but I just get this irrational urge to blub one out when I’m sad. So, sorry for this but...

 

The good news is,

It must be said,

That my two cats

Are not dead

 

The sad news is,

It must be said,

That my two strays,

Are home in bed

 

The good news is,

The owners said,

That their two cats,

Were not dead

 

The bad news is,

The owners said,

It’s goodbye time,

And tears be shed

 

The good news is,

I barely said,

At least they’re loved,

And well fed

 

The bad news is,

I think I’ve said,

Is were alone,

Again. Instead.

 

:o(

 

Ez

It’s been a while now. Long enough, probably. I didn’t think I could write about it at the time, but I’d like to try now.


One evening about six months ago, Tigger didn’t eat his tea. Unusual, for a cat that likes his food, but it happened sometimes. We weren’t even sure if he’d come in; we didn’t see him around, but then he often found new places to sleep. We just lifted his dish after his brother finished his meal or Tigger’s wouldn’t have lasted too long.


A few hours later, he emerged from behind the sofa – not a place he would normally choose. He came out an lay down on the carpet, this time where we could see him.

‘Hi, Tigger. Where’ve you been?’ I glanced over at him. ‘Don’t you want some tea?’

Tigger lay on the carpet.

I looked at his tail that wasn’t curled around him as it usually would have been. I got up and hunkered down to stroke his head.

He lay there. On the carpet.

I gently moved his tail. The inside of his whole rear end was exposed, raw and bloody. The tail was attached by a small piece of skin and fur. Horrified, Anita and I carefully wrapped Tigger in a towel and phoned the emergency vet.

We would never know for sure whether a fox, or more probably a neighbour’s dog, had savaged him and swung him violently by his tail, or whether there was another explanation; there were no other marks on him, but the vet soon established that the damage was too sever to be mended. She had given him a morphine shot to ensure he wasn’t in pain. I think, though, the poor animal had dragged himself home from wherever it had happened and collapsed behind the sofa to recover and by the time he managed to come out to let us know, the worst of the pain must have dulled down.

He lay, un-protesting on the table as Anita and I stoked him and discussed his life expectancy with the vet. She left us alone with him for a few minutes to say goodbye. He looked at us with his usual  trust and fondness in his liquid green eyes as we stroked his tortoiseshell fur. He appeared perfectly normal. From the front. But nothing at the back could ever work again. We stroked him. I don’t remember what we said, but he seemed content.

The Vet returned when we were ready. It would be a much larger injection of morphine. An overdose. Quick – about three seconds. Anita stood back. I continued to stroke Tigger’s head and face. He gazed at me. My eyes smiled back at him.

The needle slid in.

I stoked him. He gazed at me. I continued to gazed at him.  And then…  it wasn’t him. Not anymore.

Nothing was different. He was still beautiful, warm, soft. His eyes hadn’t moved. But Tigger wasn’t there.

After a little while the liquid green became cloudy, and later still the body started to stiffen, but at that critical three-second moment something quite imperceptible to the physical senses happened. Life was extinguished – indiscernibly, and yet with an unmistakable certainty. Gone.

‘Goodbye, Tigger. It was good knowing you.’

There are some amongst this learned fraternity that, having been around for aeons, are aware of my personal distress and mental anguish this time last year when I lost my beloved son Charlie (a large, loving, dribbling, purring, ginger cat.) I was distraught and, to be honest, I am sure I have not been the same since.

For the last four months, EzBird and I have been tentative hosts to two of the most gorgeous creatures on this planet. Uninvited, we have been blessed with the increasingly regular and increasingly longer visits of two (as yet unnamed) cats.

The first, one dark winter night, was a frightful sight. Investigating curious noises from the shed roof (hidden from the house behind pine trees) I was confronted with nothing but two bright, round, green eyes. No cat. Just eyes. Alice in Wonderland style (eyes not grin, granted) but even so. I was spooked and no mistake. And that was the last of that, I thought.

A month later, at work, I received a text from EzBird. "Am in lounge. Have visitor. Is gorgeous. Been here half an hour so far."

 "Ah yes. The pure black cat with the gorgeous green eyes." I replied.

"No..." she texts "I would say she's only just still a kitten. Tabby. And unbelievably cute."

"Eh?" Was my unresponsive text.

So. Here we are. Charlie's photo looks down upon our lounge from the mantlepiece and we are twelve months gone. Not one neighbour, across the road, across the alleyway behind, down the road, up the road knows of, has lost or knows who has lost two cats. One so black I have yet to be able to get a decent photo of him and one so soft and cute we have pre-emptively named her Mitts. (Short for mitten.) She obviously does not respond to the name but hell, I'm nothing if I'm not pig-headed. Puss-Puss (the black cat) also is an ignorant git, although we are considering he thinks his name is (shake of box of cat biscuits) although to be fair, so does Mitts...

Currently, and this is why the delay for the update (I guess it's like announcing a pregnancy too soon) the local vets have had no response to our enquiries and descriptive poster (like I said, we can't photo Puss-Puss without it being nothing more than a cat-shaped absence of colour or texture. Curious...)

They are beautiful and I fully believe ephemeral; no-one could lose these two cats and do nothing about it. No one. I revel in this time, in every precious moment.

Charlie has sent these two cat-gods to look after us, to cheer us up and it is working.

Pictures will follow. I promise.

Ez

Oh... forgot the point of this blog; I'm back. Be warned. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

:o)

"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.

On the mat, sits the cat, flat.
I ask myself why’s that?  Why on the mat?
Because I'm not reading the newspaper.
Yet.

The hoover stiffens her fur.
So she sulks.  Only when I agree to defer
Does she condescend to descend the cobwebs and
Purr.

The cat lays in the in-tray
So the in-tray can’t move to the out-tray.
When I give up, she finds a softer place to
Stay.

The cat strolls on the keyboard -
Losing a spreadsheet I cannot afford.
To save it I must stop and let myself be
Pawed.

Out in the garden - what for?
I cave in as soon as I reach the shed door.
Leaves are to pounce on, holes are to pooh in, no
More.

Don’t dare to cook, her look beguiles -
Tripping me up with her feminine wiles
She looks quite gorgeous as she sits pretty and
Smiles.

I turn on the TV and sit.
The cat curls up quickly to snooze on my lap.
Pinned to the chair, the viewing is dire but the cat
Likes that.