Cats, Zombies, String Theory, Really!

Cats, Zombies, String Theory, Really!

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Hello, valued reader and (presumed) cat lover. What follows is a prediction of events to come courtesy of Mewthuselah: Elder of Cats, She of Endless Shedding, and Prophetic Dreamer.

Translating this so it may be enjoyed by bipeds has been a daunting task.  In fact, the last attempt at a cat chronicle was made by an infinite number of monkeys on an infinite number of computers.  Sadly, that bold effort came to naught as an infinite number of cats traipsed onto the infinite number of keyboards, and after elegantly sprawling, gave a look that said: Let the adulation commence! 

I have come to believe the only reason I was able to complete this work is that I was a cat myself in a former life.

Seriously.

I like to take frequent naps.  I have an insatiable curiosity.  And quite often, I feel an irresistible urge to poop in a just-cleaned-a-moment-ago loo.

Unfortunately, I type like I still have paws.  So please excuse the odd spelling error, should you find one.  And the grammar. But cats do love batting around dangling participles, so no apologies there.

I hope you enjoy the feline world contained within as much as I did writing it.

Meow.

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ch1

Amidst a spray of just shattered glass, flew Mauzer the Great, acutely aware that his impressive status in the feline world did not include even a single regaling of his ability to fly - likely because cats, great or not, tend to plummet instead.

Still, should he survive, he was determined to add yet another descriptor to his already burgeoning official epithet:  Mauzer the Great, Sleekiest of Slinkers, Nonplussible Napper, Mews of the Ages, Sultan of Slobberknockers, Kitty of Witty, and Cat o' Nine Tales.

Maybe Fur Fly Flow? It sounded just edgy enough to appeal to the younger crowd without alienating his older base of supporters.

He'd need to mull it over - one did not simply add to an epithet all willy nilly- it was serious business. 

One thing cats did excel at was landing on their feet.  Tumbling downward, he wriggled to right himself, then found to his dismay, he’d been successful much too soon.  He twisted round again; this was a far greater feat of agility than he’d ever attempted before; the recently broken window was nine floors up.  Nine.

The number conjured up another thought as the concrete sidewalk loomed ever closer.  How many lives did he have left?  Not sure, he held out both paws to count, but before he could begin...

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"Did you see, did you see," Box barked as he stared downward from the broken window, down into the gloom of the cold early morn, down to his foe’s unseen but certain demise.  Somehow, the mastiff-cross managed to sound simultaneously elated and enraged. 

Woof, Moaw answered.

Box didn’t understand his companion’s reply- Moaw’s barkish was mangled and heavily accented.  He glared at the smaller animal whose breed was at the far end of what he considered canine. A Chinese crested: a strange combination of hairless mottled white and gray skin, along with tangled fur strands around his ears and legs. 

I saw, Moaw repeated, this time in furnacular. He joined the larger dog after picking his way through the glass shards with some delicacy.

Doubting the answer, Box pressed on, I saw the look in his eyes as he fell, the fear and shock of having failed.  Now he’s dead.  So much for Mauzer the Great.

I stand corrected, Moaw yapped in a mocking tone. I didn’t see that.

Despite what he’d witnessed only moments ago, the near blinding flash of light, the buildup of pressure in the room, so intense that the walls themselves seemed to flex outward, the sudden explosion of energy... he couldn’t help but bare his teeth at the smaller animal’s lack of respect.

A low sound rose from Moaw, not quite a growl, but more staccato, and with that a subtle shift in the air, full of power, lightning about to strike.  The fur rose on Box’s neck and he had to bite back a yelp.

I know only what Wepwawet reveals to me from his abysmal prison, Moaw stated.  Great cats do not die so easily, and this one, he peered downward in a vain attempt to pierce the hazy distance, thought only of himself.  The whole way down.  He turned and looked up at the mastiff.  Believe me.  I know their kind very well.

Box anxiously shuffled his forepaws.  Moaw had been touched, no doubt, like in times ancient when the animal gods walked among their creations.  Moaw was proof such a time was approaching again, just as prophesied.

Scenting the air, Box decided it was true; death was on the wind, but not feline.  Their quarry had escaped.

***

The great thing about a nap is not the nap itself, which is, dare one say, quite remarkable on its own, but the all too short moments before, spent luxuriating on a fresh pile of laundry, or a visitor’s jacket (ideally black), preferably in a bit of sun, purring, while awaiting to surrender one’s consciousness to the dream world; that is the blessing of Bastet the Glorious.

There, one may see fields and fields of field mice, and... not much else, but it’s still a pretty good place as there is nary a canine in sight-

A growl cut Scrape’s inner dialogue short, and he raised his head from where he lay- across the back of the sofa beneath the picture window.  In shade.  He shivered. The sun had fled behind a cloud.  How rude.

Another growl made an ear twitch, and, with some reluctance, he got up to investigate.  Down to the sofa seat, then down to the carpet he leapt, or rather, half leapt, half fell.

After the debacle, Scrape paused to see if anyone had witnessed the faux pas, then shook himself out.  Why Bastet, the creator of all catkind, had bestowed upon him such short legs, he’d never know.

Munchkin.  That was his breed.  The word held no meaning to Scrape, but he liked to think it meant Low Slung Warrior, Bolder than the Boldest, Stouter than the Stoutest, Defender of All, Even Those That Insisted They Didn’t Need It, For They Needed It The Most.

But alas, only the great cats had epithets, and he was not one of those.  Actually, there were hardly any great cats left.  He knew of only one...

More noise, from the kitchen.  Scrape knew the sound too well- food cans clattering, though this time, it seemed too noisy.  Frantic.

Scrape peeked into the kitchen where his house human stood stiffly before the cupboards, their doors all askew and contents littering the counter and floor.

Reg.  That was his name.  A good provider, if somewhat stinky, as humans were wont to be.  A female would visit Reg from time to time and try to pick Scrape up; that he didn’t like, but her coat made for a lovely sit. Reg had many faults, as humans do, but he was calm and passive, unlike some house humans he’d heard about.

The man’s current state however, was unusual, to say the least.

Meow? Scrape ventured.

Reg spun and glared at the small cat, one corner of his mouth trembling while it oozed a trickle of white foam.

Scrape flinched, then froze, wide eyed.  He’d never seen Reg act so... feral.  He had a sweaty sheen over his face and neck, and on an arm, a spider web of angry purple veins with a bite mark at its center.

Reg lunged, arms outstretched, his fingers curled into claws, each nail lined with a crust of dried and blackened blood.

A desperate game of cat and mouse ensued with Scrape uncomfortably assuming the role of the latter, darting under, behind, or inside a refuge, and Reg staggering after, upsetting the rest of the house in the pursuit.

Before long, Scrape found himself in the living room, under the sofa on which Reg had spent many an hour staring at the flickering noise box across from it.

Arms flailing, Reg knocked over the television as he passed, sending it face down to the floor with a crash. 

Scrape could only watch, paralyzed with terror, as his human’s feet approached, the sofa cushions sent flying, and then the sound of ripping fabric as Reg tore his way through the rest.  Sharp claws snagged Scrape’s tail, making him utter a pitiful yowl.  He spun round, only to see Awnode – his alley cat friend.

Come with me if you want to live, Awnode said.

At the last instant, with Reg snarling at them through the exposed sofa framework, the pair darted along the wall, down the hall and around the corner to the front door.  A second later, they were through the cat-flap.

The door trembled with an impact from inside, then an arm shot out the flap, groping blindly in wide arcs.

The cats skittered back to safety.

Then Scrape sneezed.  There was a heavy haze of smoke in the air, along with sirens and shouting in the distance.  What’s going on? he asked.

Not sure, Awnode said after grooming himself briefly. He answered with one leg still stuck straight up.  But your human is not the only one afflicted.  Some of the other cats I’ve run into on the way here are going to see her majesty.  I was thinking we should too, if just out of curiosity.  I’ve never seen her.

Scrape hadn’t either, and for good reason.  One did not just drop in on royalty - the sole remaining great cat alive - it would be most improper.  Still, like his friend, he found his curiosity piqued.

And a little curiosity never killed anybody.

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Life is never hurried in the feline world, lest there exists an immediate threat, or offered meal.

The pair zigzagged across streets and yards, dodging the odd speeding vehicle, or group of crazed shambling humans.  They stopped alongside a mostly brick fence that had thick clusters of overgrown grass and weeds at its base, and an overhanging oak not even half a dash away.

Not to rest, mind, but because Awnode spotted a large beetle scuttling across a bare patch of dirt.  The two cats took turns pouncing, but every time a trapping paw was raised, the beetle would trundle forward yet again.

Boring, Scrape meowed as he stepped away.  How the insect could continue unperturbed under such conditions was surprising.  And annoying.  Even more so was how Awnode didn’t seem to care that the insect didn’t care. Scrape’s tail twitched as he fumed about it.  Then, quite suddenly, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Ow, Awnode complained as he was bowled over by his smaller companion.  They struggled for a moment, paws and claws flashing with mock strikes.  What was that for?

Sneak attack! Scrape yowled.  You didn’t have a chance.  Easy prey.

Did too, Awnode began to rebut, but his comeback was rudely interrupted.

Look at me, came a shrill squeak as a diminutive furry mass trailing a string like tail plummeted down and landed between them in a heap.  Once the rodent recovered, he did a quick self inspection and upon finding no serious injury, he finished, I’m flying.  Was, that is.  He glanced from one cat to the other, searching for approval.

Like his friend, Scrape had leapt straight up into the air, and the pair of cats fell back into a laying position, and did what any cat would do in such a situation-act nonchalant. 

Lucky Awnode and I agreed to take a break just then, Scrape said, or you might have gone right into one of our maws.  He licked a paw to punctuate the fact, then after glancing into the tree, he added, By the way, I don’t believe that’s flying - it’s called falling."

Oh, I flew, Skitch insisted through his twitching rodent whiskers.  Then, changing subjects in the