Conversation with a Cat

Flash fiction

One morning Jasper Pendragon was accosted by his black cat Henry, who complained of a crick in the neck. The cause of the crick, Henry maintained, was that he was constantly having to look up at his lofty owner.

‘For goodness’ sake, Jasper,’ Henry moaned, ‘can’t you come down to my level once in a while? I’m sick of craning my neck up at you, you two-legged freak!’

‘What do you suggest?’ Jasper asked, looking down from the great height of six foot one. He was surprised that he was having a conversation with his cat. However, it was a wordless and mystical interaction, carried out telepathically. ‘I always knew that cats were cool,’ Jasper thought. ‘But this is extraordinary. Beyond cool!’

Henry had put up with his owner’s ignorance of cat psychology for three years and he had decided it was time to tell Jaspar a thing or two about how to treat cats. He said, or rather intuited, ‘Sit on the floor or better still lie down.’

Jasper lay down on the living room floor, with his head resting on a cushion he took from the sofa. Henry sprang onto his chest and assumed the sphinx position. His green eyes bored into Jasper’s. ‘Good,’ Henry purred. ‘We should do this more often. Now, stroke me!’

Jasper did as he was commanded.

‘Behind my ears, you know I like that.’ Presently, Henry nodded off and Jasper was stranded on the floor for the next half an hour.

Later, as Jasper was making himself some lunch (spaghetti alla carbonara), Henry wandered into the kitchen and had a look at his food bowl. It was empty. He looked up expectantly at Jasper but he was ignored. How vexing, thought Henry. He was a lithe and athletic three-year-old and to get Jasper’s attention he leapt up on the counter and then up onto the top of the fridge. From there, he proceeded to a high shelf situated just below the ceiling. The shelf contained kitchen items that Jasper rarely used: some antique serving dishes with a hideous flower design, bequeathed to him by his late grandmother, and a few empty and dusty glass containers that his mother had used to preserve pears and other fruit.

Henry made his way, sure-footed and tail-high, passed the gauntlet of crockery and jars, and parked himself in a corner near a ventilator shaft, completely out of Jasper’s reach.

‘Get down from there, you idiot, before you break something!’ Jasper shouted, windmilling his arms.

Henry looked down at him with a disdainful expression. His velvet voice appeared in Jasper’s head: ‘I am a cat,’ he began. ‘I have more poise and balance than a ballerina. Don’t get your nickers in a twist, I shan’t be breaking any of your ghastly crockery. Besides, this is another thing you fail to understand about us felines.’

‘And what’s that?’ Jasper asked, draining the al dente spaghetti into a colander, while eyeing Henry with a modicum of irritation.

Before answering, Henry shot out a hind leg like a rifle and gave it a good licking. ‘Cats find comfort and solace in high places,’ he said at last. ‘It gives us a sense of security; we can see what’s going on. You know how I love to climb the pine tree in the garden.’

‘I see. And how long do you plan on staying up there?’

‘Let’s see. Perhaps, I’ll come down when you fill my bowl. Or perhaps I won’t.’

‘How contrary of you!’

‘Well, I am a cat.’

Jaspar slopped some cat food into Henry’s white bowl decorated with a fish skeleton, and the sleek black cat descended at a leisurely pace, stopping to examine the contents of a small wooden crate on top of the fridge, which, boringly, contained nothing but onions and some mangy bits of garlic. He was taking his time. After all, he wasn’t an idiotic dog to rush at his bowl with unseemly haste and gobble all the food in three second’s flat. I am a cat and observe all the niceties of feline decorum, said Henry to himself. However, I might be sick on the rug. Fur balls are the cross we cats have to bear.

He ate some of the food in his bowl: rabbit, not his favourite but it would do. And then: Oh hell, here comes Jaspar. He’s going to pick me up. What a nuisance!

Sure enough, Jaspar hoisted Henry into his arms and began babbling childish nonsense. ‘Did puss-ums enjoy his yum-yums?’

The numskull didn’t understand that Henry was, like all his kind, fiercely independent, and only welcomed petting (and ludicrous baby-talk) when he was good and ready for it. Now was not the time, and to make a point, Henry vomited copiously down Jaspar’s neck.