Katzenjammer Eins, Page 3

sleepy autumn afternoon, so loud and close that Megan spilled her coffee. I dashed outside to find Ginger right outside the kitchen door, tearing into James. I aimed a kick at Ginger’s flank which, had it landed, would have put him on the neighbour’s roof. But my shoe caught him only a glancing blow on the shoulder, sending him spinning across the lawn. Then he was up and off, with me in pursuit.

  At the gate I was just in time to see him clear a fence three houses down. I slipped off a shoe and crept down the footpath.

  Through the pickets and the hedge I could make out a patch of red, not two metres away. I took a firm grip of my shoe, jumped up and let fly. The shoe hit him in the back leg, and he tore off into the back of the yard.

  As quickly as a sigh, my anger faded. I was satisfied. I had got the bastard for the first time. I probably hadn’t hurt him much, but I had chased him back to the heart of his territory.

  Or was it? I wondered, as I retrieved my shoe. Maybe these people hated him as much as I did.

  I found James licking himself in the kitchen. Shaken, but unhurt. After a while he left off licking and padded around the kitchen. He found a dry leaf on the floor which he patted, poked, and pushed around before grabbing it in both paws and throwing it over his head behind him.

  But as I watched him, I wondered: was James Gatz really a happy cat? He was sleek and well-fed and cared for, but was that enough? Shouldn’t he have friends of his own? What about a girlfriend?

  The next afternoon I arrived home just as Megan was about to get into her car. Shd stopped when she saw me, and folded her arms. Not a good sign.

  “Is that cat here permanently,” she demanded, “or just visiting?”

  I thought for a second. The question made no sense, James was obviously permanent. But I could see what kind of answer was required.

  “Just visiting,” I replied.

  “I hope so,” she said tartly and got into her car.

  In the kitchen, sitting close to James’ nosh bow, I found a cat. Black, like James, only with two front paws white. I bent down for a closer look. It raised its head and looked at me, then let out a thin, querulous mew. I felt a little knot in my throat: the poor thing was hungry. I took out a tin of Katz Ekstasy and gave him a dollop. He attacked it with vigour.

  Karen walked in and looked on for a while.

  “When that’s finished, “ she said, “he’ll have eaten a whole tinful in ten minutes.”

  :”Oh,” I said. “Poor blighter must have been hungry. How long’s he been here?”

  She looked at me in puzzlement.

  “How long? Didn’t you bring him home last night?”

  “No, I’ve never set eyes on him.”

  “Well,” she said, “then he’s a stray. No wonder he was so hungry.”

  I bent down and scractched his head. He purred like a jack-hammer. I scooped him up turned him over.

  “Hey,” I said to Karen. “This him is a her.”

  She stepped closer.

  “So he is.”

  I lowered the cat in wonderment. It was all a bit spooky. Think of a partner for your cat, and one walks in the next day. Spooky. Hey, what a good name for a cat! James Gatz and Spooky. Maybe not. Daisy it would have to be.

  I looked at her. Winsome and demure. No crazy-eyed look like James. I wondered whether he would approve. I walked out to find him.

  He showed what he thought by doing his black question-mark thing and emitting blood-curdling snarls. Then he moved towards her slowly on stiff legs, travelling sideways. Then he spat like a pistol and whacked her on the nose. It was an impressive display. Since when had he learned to snarl like that, let alone spit like a whipcrack?

  This pantomime continued for some time. She sat in the corner, her legs folded beneath her and her tail curled around. Her cool yellow eyes were fixed on him with a kind of patient resistance, designed to overcome, the sure elastic power of her kind.

  Over the next few days he attacked her repeatedly, forcing her to run from him again and again. Sometime she would fall on her back and fight back, but it was never active fighting, only enough to resist. And at first, she was banished from my room. That was his domain.

  I checked her out after the more vigorous attacks, but could find no damage. And she seemed unfazed.

  But lately all that has changed. They still hare up and down the corridor, of course, and fight from time to time. But now and again, I see her on top. And sometimes it is she who chases him all over the place.

  And right now they’re sitting on my bed, licking each other’s necks. Having to lick your own paw to wash the top of your neck is a tiresome business. Much better to get someone else to do it for you.