A Happy Birthday... For Whom?

by "Brains and Spirit"

Part 1. Mr. Holmes and the Back Rub

"Education never ends," as the putative master of my household is wont to say. This has proved a useful dictum with which I am fundamentally in agreement For instance, I recently made the novel discovery that human beings could purr. This had certainly been outside my previous realm of experience. Oh, a thousand pardons, for those who have not yet made my acquaintance, permit me to introduce myself. I am Marmalade--gentleman cat and Head Feline in Residence at the Holmes-Russell, establishment of Sussex, England. I also serve as Chief Domestic Manager, with the able assistance of Mrs. Martha Hudson.

I made this remarkable discovery in the course of performing my duties in the week between Boxing Day and Miss Russell's birthday. Our household was pleasantly full, with Miss Russell home from Oxford, and Dr. Watson spending the week with us. (Kindly do not enquire about the puppy. For the moment, I prefer to say nothing of the dog.). I usually make the rounds of the cottage each night in order to assure myself that all is in order for the following day. On this particular evening, I inspected the sitting room, the suite of rooms occupied by my assistant, and the guest room, where slept the good Dr. Watson. After a brief tour of the kitchen, where I refreshed myself with a light snack, I ascended the stairs. Upstairs, much to my surprise, enticing tendrils of warmth curled out from around the half open door of the main bedroom. A certain flickering glow within indicated that the usually cold fireplace was in use. The rest of the room seemed faintly illuminated by the bedside lamps and I heard the clink of a glass and a faint murmur of voices.

I decided to take advantage of the open door and investigate the cause of these phenomena. I slipped into the room unseen and found a comfortable observation post in a fine tweed jacket, smelling faintly of tobacco, which had been discarded on a chair. As I had expected, Mr. Holmes and Miss Russell, the master and mistress of the household, occupied the bedroom. However, "occupied" does not do justice to the picture that met my incredulous feline eyes.

Mr. Holmes, en deshabille, with only a towel around his waist to maintain the proprieties, was seated at his ease on the bed. Several pillows propped up his back, and his long legs were stretched out toward the fire. He was sipping appreciatively from a snifter of brandy and looking equally appreciatively at Miss Russell, who was seated at his side. My Miss Russell was indeed a lovely sight, clad in a light peignoir with her hair loosely bound at the nape of her neck. (Now I should not wish to scandalise any of my valued correspondents. May I assure the reader that Mr. Holmes and Miss Russell are in fact husband and wife, despite the discrepancy in nomenclature. They are therefore entitled to retire to their bedchamber in any state of dress they please. More attention to the sensibilities of the cat would not, however, be misplaced. But I digress.)

In any case, further observation revealed that Miss Russell was rubbing her hands together. I initially did not understand the significance of this gesture, until I realised that she was using them to warm some kind of light, spicy-scented balm.

Mr. Holmes put down his brandy, held out his hand to Miss Russell, and smiled. "Watson always did say that massage would improve my rheumatism, Russ," he said.

"I expect he is right," rejoined Miss Russell. "But surely you could obtain the same results at the Turkish Baths?"

"To a point, yes. I have no objection to having my back pummeled, but as to the rest of me, no. That I allow to only you." (Now I must say that I am in complete agreement with Mr. Holmes on this point. Miss Russell's touch is deft and sure, with just the right blend of gentleness and strength. For my part, she is the only member of the household permitted to rub my tummy. Which she perfectly well could have been doing instead of paying all this attention to Mr. Holmes.)

"Well then," said Miss Russell, "give me your hand."

He did so, along with That Look. That Look is difficult to describe, but unmistakable once seen. It appears to involve a certain softening of the features, a quirk of the mouth, and a curious intentness about the eyes. I am usually on the alert for it, as it tends to be the harbinger of an upcoming private interlude for Mr. Holmes and Miss Russell. Since these interludes entail considerable inconvenience to me, I prefer to be forewarned. As she took up his hand, he sighed and closed his eyes.

She began to apply the balm with light circling motions. "Aaah," said Mr. Holmes, as her hands traveled up his arm, first circling and stroking, then kneading the muscles lightly with her fingers. When she reached his shoulders he laid his head back on the pillows, his face relaxed into what I can only describe as dreamy bliss.

Miss Russell, noticing this, allowed herself a small smile, and spent some considerable time kneading and rubbing his shoulders. Then she worked her way down to his other hand. When she had finished, instead of noticing me, she lightly kissed the fingers. Then she laid a gentle hand on his head. "Turn over and lie down," she said softly. And, having readjusted the towel, she commenced working on his back.

This appeared to meet with Mr. Holmes' approval. "Ah, yes, just there," he said. "Now a little lower and to the left, if you please... MMMMM." And if that wasn't a purr, from Mr. Holmes of all people, I shall forgo catnip and cream for a week.

"You missed your calling, Russell," he drawled into the pillow where he rested his head and his now folded arms. "Should you ever decide to abandon the pseudodiscipline of Theology, you could make your fortune in the Turkish Baths. Earls and Kings would beg for your services."

Miss Russell chuckled, as her hands continued their rhythmic movements. "Well, I should hate to disappoint them, Holmes, but I am an exclusive masseuse, with a very select and limited clientele of one. Though Marmalade and I do wonder if you will leave us a tip."

"Is that damned cat in here?" (Ahem.)

"Yes he is, in fact. At the moment he is decorating your new Harris tweeds with orange hairs while he supervises me."

"Good God. I shall move him when I can summon the will to get up. Next week sometime."

Miss Russell did not answer, but continued her loving ministrations, punctuated by occasional sighs and what I firmly maintain were purrs from her subject. (A bit of this time and energy could have been much better employed in petting the cat, in my opinion. Call it massage if you must, but as a connoisseur of such things I recognise petting when I see it. And in my considered opinion, Mr. Holmes was receiving far more than his share.)

When she reached his feet, a vaguely inquiring murmur came from the general direction of the pillows.

"It's all, right, Holmes. I've only just learnt how to do this. You will be amazed at the difference it makes in the way you feel."

"My dear Russell, I am quite literally putty in your hands. I was merely enquiring if when you'd finished you would..." he paused almost shyly, clearly reluctant to ask.

Miss Russell smiled again and finished his sentence. "Finish your back? But of course." She was as good as her word. Finally, when the contented man before her seemed in danger of deliquescing into the comforter, she ceased.

Mr. Holmes turned his head, with some effort, and gazed at her. "Thank you, dear Russell," he said "That was... exquisite. No bone of mine should have the audacity to so much as twinge, now."

Miss Russell rose and wiped her hands on the washstand towel. Then she looked down at her husband and enquired, "Shall I do your neck?"

Mr. Holmes raised his head from his folded arms and gave Miss Russell That Look again. "By all means," he said. "But if you recall, I rather prefer you to do so from a different angle..."

"I think we could arrange something of the kind," smiled Miss Russell, returning That Look with interest. "But first I shall arrange for the departure of our chaperone."

And she removed me forthwith from the comfortable nest I had made in Mr. Holmes' jacket and deposited me firmly outside the door. Exiled to the sitting room once again.

Part 2. A Gift for Miss Russell

Once downstairs, I settled myself in my basket chair and prepared to devote my feline intellect to the problem presented by the unequal distribution of Miss Russell's attention. Mr. Holmes may labor under the misconception that HE is the only individual in the household with a turn for observation and deduction. Not so, although our methods differ. For example, Mr. Holmes prefers to smoke his pipe while contemplating a difficult problem. I find that washing my paws serves the same purpose. Then there is the added bonus that clean fur serves to maintain my attractive appearance. Tobacco ash, though I regret to say so, does little to improve one's beauty.

So I groomed and pondered. Some causal factor must account for the disproportionality in affection shown to Mr. Holmes and myself. What could it be? Obviously, personal attractiveness counts for little with Miss Russell, since I am far handsomer than Mr. Holmes, yet receive less attention. She appears to prize intellectual abilities, with which I grant Mr. Holmes is blessed, but cats have the advantage in this respect as well. Possibly our admitted difficulty in communicating with human beings prevents Miss Russell from realising this. But I had confidence in my abilities. Perhaps the available data could be arranged to suggest a solution?

The known facts were these:

1. Miss Russell rubs Mr. Holmes' back and allows him to play with her hair.
2. This is far more attention than I receive, though I am equally, if not more, deserving.
3. Miss Russell, as the sole proprietress of the hair, and a woman with a truly feline streak of independence, has exclusive decision-making power over said activities.

Provisional Conclusion: If Mr. Holmes receives these privileges, he must do something that induces her to grant them. If I am not similarly favored, it must be because I am not, at present, doing whatever it is that he does.

Ah, but that led straight to the problem of what could Mr. Holmes possibly be doing that could please Miss Russell better than my efforts? It certainly wasn't obvious. Mr. Holmes is frequently absent, while I faithfully manage the household on a daily basis. Mr. Holmes befouls the atmosphere with vile smelling chemical experiments, while I improve our home by keeping vermin at bay. Mr. Holmes is often irritable; I, on the other hand, am gracious and forbearing, even when most sorely tried. Furthermore, I am an affectionate soul, happy to curl up in her lap and purr while she reads. No... that couldn't be it, as I have sometimes observed Mr. Holmes to hold Miss Russell on his lap and have just learnt that he purrs...

And then I had it. I had allowed myself to be misled by the time delay involved. Mr. Holmes often presents Miss Russell with small gifts as a token of his esteem. Then they exchange That Look. Sometime after That Look appears, usually upon retiring, Mr. Holmes commences playing with Miss Russell's hair, and I am evicted from the bedroom.

I don't understand how I could have overlooked this with the Christmas holiday just passed and the anniversary of Miss Russell's natal day fast approaching. Clearly if I wished to share in the privileges Mr. Holmes so unfairly monopolises, I must present Miss Russell with gifts, as he does. But what gift would be worthy of Miss Russell? I thought to myself. She deserves much better than the books, hair ornaments and writing instruments that I have observed her other admirers to bestow upon her.

Now Miss Russell had some highly desirable feline traits. Surely she could not fail to appreciate evidence of my prowess in maintaining the household. I have, of course, diligently eliminated any and all rats from the outbuildings. However, our home is isolated, and the Downs offer many possibilities. Birds were out of season, but perhaps a fine freshly killed mouse, trophy and gift in one, would melt Miss Russell's heart. Or better yet--perhaps I could capture a mouse for Miss Russell to play with herself! Surely this would be a peerless birthday offering. I resolved to start searching the outbuildings for promising leads the next morning.

Miss Russell's birthday was distinguished by quiet festivity. She had spent the previous day in Town with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson but she declared that she would rather eat one of Mrs. Hudson's dinners that the finest offerings from some place called Simpson's. My assistant glowed with quiet pride at these words and I must say we outdid ourselves in the preparation of Miss Russell's birthday meal. Oh, the plump roasted capon and the succulent Potatoes Anna! The snowy white rolls and freshly churned butter! The hothouse strawberries ordered from London! And the piece de resistance; a spectacular lemon cake, covered with something called "rolled fondant" which caused my assistant some consternation before it was fitted over the cake layers to her satisfaction. Every item, of course, was prepared under my careful supervision and control. My assistant agreed that we had outdone ourselves, and left me in charge of the kitchen while she, at Miss Russell's request, joined in the meal.

When the party adjourned to the sitting room, I slipped out to the terrace and began stalking the mouse nest I had found in a crack in the wall. My vigilance was rewarded with a fine full grown rodent. It was a bit plump as well, I perhaps from forays into Mrs. Hudson's root cellar. I made a mental note to redouble my surveillance in future. However, for the present, this mouse served my purposes admirably. Out of consideration for Miss Russell's amateur status, I played with my catch to tire it, thus ensuring that she would be able to trap it with ease after I presented it to her. When I judged the moment had come, I picked the mouse up and in my mouth and reentered the cottage.

Alas, instead of adding my offering to the general gift giving, I found my assistant and Dr. Watson having a final cup of tea before the sitting room fire. Mr. Holmes and Miss Russell had clearly retired for the night. This was not unexpected, as Mr. Holmes had been rather free with That Look all evening. However, fortune favored me and I found their door still ajar.

I sauntered into the bedroom with my prize and laid it proudly at the feet of my beloved Miss Russell. Surely, surely after she had been given such proof of my affection, I would be given the same attentions that Mr. Holmes enjoys. Yes, and Mr. Holmes could just wait, for once, while I received the delighted and grateful tummy rub that my efforts deserved. Unfortunately, matters did not proceed according to plan. The mouse was not actually dead, just immobilised from fright and shock. When I released it, it took off running and headed straight for Miss Russell's hair. Instead of pouncing, Miss Russell gathered up her hair and gave vent to what I must characterise as a shocking series of extremely unladylike colloquialisms. Mr. Holmes thereupon collapsed into gales of laughter.

Miss Russell, beating at the bedclothes with the flat of her hand, turned indignantly to the author of this merriment and said "You might be a little help, Holmes, if you have sufficiently recovered yourself."

Mr. Holmes wiped his streaming eyes and responded. "Why Russell, how positively ungracious of you. Here you were presented with a handsome gift and all you can do is curse and smack the comforter. You did not even thank the poor chap, who obviously went to a great deal of effort on your behalf. For shame!"

My sentiments exactly. Unfortunately he started laughing again at this point. "The expression on your face, Russell..."

Very well, Holmes," continued Miss Russell severely, "if you wish to spend the night with vermin crawling up your pyjama legs or nibbling on your toes I can't stop you. But I for one do not want a mouse making its nest in my hair while I sleep. So unless we find it I will be spending the night elsewhere. And since Uncle John is in the guest room and the sofa affords little privacy..." her voice trailed off meaningfully.

This dire threat appeared to sober Mr. Holmes, who armed himself with the glass from the bedside water carafe and began to quarter the floor in hopes of trapping the mouse. Mr. Holmes, I must admit, is a gifted amateur of many things. However, mouse-catching is one matter best left to professionals.

Since Miss Russell had stopped hitting the bed, the mouse abandoned the temporary shelter of the dust ruffle and scuttled for the open door. I was instantly in hot pursuit. Mr. Holmes, no doubt hoping to study my technique, followed me down the stairs into the sitting room. I cornered my prize by the fireplace and dispatched it with my usual consummate skill.

Miss Russell's exasperated voice followed us down the stairs. "And Holmes, for God's sake put the damned cat out." Out? OUT? ME? She surely couldn't mean... she did mean.

A pair of slippered feet paused beside me and an iron hand seized me -ME- by the scruff of the neck. "Can't fault your taste, old man," said Mr. Holmes, "but you must allow that I did see her first." I ignored his attempts to scratch under my chin in favor of discerning what he was about to do with me. Mr. Holmes passed through the sitting room to the kitchen, opened the door and unceremoniously chucked ME, the Chief Domestic Manager, out into the cold Sussex night. "Good hunting" he called after me.

'Good hunting,' indeed! A fine state of affairs for the household of a champion of the law, this was. I composed myself by smoothing my disordered fur in the lee of the doorframe. Then, deciding to make the best of things, I set off to patrol the perimeter of the cottage. Sometime later I arrived at the bedroom window of my assistant, Mrs. Hudson. Since Mrs. Hudson sleeps on the first floor at the opposite end of the house from Mr. Holmes and Miss Russell, I was able to leap onto her windowsill and expound on the utter injustice of my situation without fear of interruption.

Alas, my assistant is a heavy sleeper, and no casement opened to invite me into the welcoming warmth of the cottage. I accordingly resumed my patrol, and bethought me that the mouse nest might yield a bit of sport and a light refreshment to help pass the time until I was let in tomorrow morning. I slipped down the terrace and settled myself near a hole in the flagstone wall, from whence trickled a promising aroma.

Too late, I smelt the acrid musk and realised I was not the only hunter on the prowl that night. I accord no canid more respect than it is due, but this fox must have either been very bold or very hungry to come so close to the house. He likely had been foiled in his attempts to raid the neighbouring hen houses and had no doubt concluded that a well-nourished orange tabby cat would make a satisfactory substitute for a plump fowl. I arched my back and spat at him. GRAOWAOWAE!! Then I ran. The fox was between the copper beech and me, so I leapt onto the oilcloth-enshrouded table and thence to the wall, thinking to double back and streak up the tree. But the fox was wild, hungry, and desperate, and he was too fast for me. He sprang onto my back as I reached the wall and we fell, rolling about the terrace snarling and spitting as his teeth sought purchase in my neck and belly and I fought to break free.

A window rattled open somewhere above me, and a sleepy male voice gave ample proof of just where Miss Russell had learnt those ungenteel expletives. Then Mr. Holmes called "It's a fox, Russ, and it's got hold of the cat. I'll go for the shotgun, you throw something at them to make it let go."

A flowerpot from the windowsill, aimed with deadly accuracy, shattered by our heads. The fox jerked up, and his teeth left my flank. Suddenly there was a deafening roar and I glanced upward to see Mr. Holmes, dressing gown thrown over his shoulders, silhouetted against the open kitchen door. He had a shotgun in his hands. He fired again, and the fox scrambled away.

"Ah! Winged him!" said Mr. Holmes with satisfaction. "He won't get far, poor devil, we should find him in the morning." I personally found this concern for my late adversary a bit misplaced. Then I heard a faint crunch of footsteps on the frosty ground and Mr. Holmes knelt down by my side.

"Poor old Marmalade," he said kindly. "Defending the castle against all comers, eh?"

"Aren't we supposed to have a dog that does that?" added Miss Russell over his shoulder.

Mr. Holmes made no reply but divested himself of his dressing gown and wrapped me up in its folds. Then he carried me into the kitchen and laid me on the table. My assistant, in nightdress, cap, and dressing gown, rushed to my side.

"Ah the poor little puss," she exclaimed woefully. "A fox, was it? What's to do, Mr. Holmes?"

"He's in a bad way," said Mr. Holmes, peeling back a corner of bloody cloth. "Russell, best go knock up Watson, if the shot hasn't wakened him already. I used to do a spot of animal doctoring when I was a lad in Yorkshire, but I doubt that what I remember will be sufficient in the present case. And, Russ, there's chloroform in the safe..."

I struggled feebly at this. Wasn't chloroform used to... If I were inconvenient would they...? Was THIS to be my reward for faithful service, to be discarded like a broken cup because it was too much trouble to mend me? Would I ever sit in my basket chair or drink another saucer of cream again? Far better to leave and lick my wounds in relative peace while I waited for the inevitable.

Mr. Holmes picked me up and held me firmly. "Now then, my lad" he said. "We'll have you fixed all right and tight in no time, and you'll be back to catching mice and bedeviling Mrs. Hudson before we know it..."

Miss Russell returned and handed Mr. Holmes some cotton wadding that gave off a curious sweetish odour. Dr. Watson's face swam into view and I heard him say, "Well, Mary, he's not my usual run of patients but I'll do what I can." Then Mr. Holmes held the wadding to my face and I knew no more.

When I awoke I found myself in a thickly padded basket by the fire in the living room. Some of my handsome coat had been shaved and there was a line of black stitches over my leg and flank. They itched abominably. I was sore in every limb and the light streaming in through the window hurt my eyes. I ventured a meow, in puzzlement and general protest of the situation, and found Mr. Holmes, shaved and dressed for the day, bending over me to scratch my ear.

"I say, Mrs. Hudson," he called toward the kitchen, "it appears your patient is back with us."

My assistant bustled out, carrying a bowl of broth. I found, much to my annoyance, that I could neither stand up to drink it nor manage to lap it lying down. Mr. Holmes solved this problem handily by importing a large dropper from the laboratory and using it to trickle the reviving fluid into my mouth.

"I do hope you washed that before using it to feed him", said Miss Russell when she came upon the scene. "You've quite the bedside manner, Holmes." She gave him That Look again, and her voice softened. "As I should well recall."

Mr. Holmes snorted.

Since then I have been convalescing nicely. The various members of the household take it in turns to hold me on their laps when they are engaged in sedentary pursuits. Mrs. Hudson is knitting a fine wool jumper, and it has been my pleasure to improve it with a garnish of orange cat hairs. I have also shared my basket chair with Mr. Holmes for several leisurely interludes while he read or smoked by the fireside.

Mr. Holmes even purveyed me with a measure of cream, well laced with brandy, when my discomfort made it difficult for me to sleep and my plaints disturbed him at his writing. He did, however, indicate to me that Miss Russell need not be advised of this course of action. He may rely upon my discretion. After all, it is only proper for the masculine contingent in the cottage to form an alliance.

And Miss Russell, oh my Miss Russell, washed her hair last night. She came into the sitting room to dry it by the fire. And when she leaned over to pet me, I was kindly permitted to bat at it. Life is good indeed in Sussex.