By My Paws and Whiskers

Contributed by Marmalade, with assistance of The River City Kid, and with thanks, praise and a respectful bow-stretch to Diane Duane

A common misconception amongst humans is that all cats are the same. Although they may look quite different, they are thought of as furred, four-footed units of the same feline whole.

Nothing could be further from the truth. I will allow, however, that, although humans do not think it is so, all dogs are the same. A dog is a pack animal. A dog seeks anonymity in a crowd of its peers. A cat is always unique, and prefers its solitude and privacy. A dog has a master, whereas cats have staff.

Consistently underestimated, frequently ignored and, if you ask me, chronically underfed, cats have laboured for centuries to keep their human companions civilized. It is often a thankless task. Now and then we are recognised for our contributions and our worth is acknowledged, even if misplaced. For instance, cats have been thought of as witches' "familiars" for centuries. What, you may ask, is a familiar? I answer: there is no such thing. Cats eschew undue familiarity. Misguided humans thought that the cat, quiet and inscrutable, assisted the human witch in his or her magical endeavours. I ask you, why would one become involved in such nonsensical carryings-on? We would do no such thing; I, personally, believe that cats got their arcane reputation because we possess certain qualities and capabilities that may be thought of as magical.

Cats, of course, have senses above and beyond anything found in any other species. Furthermore, our senses are not limited to the human five: we have eight known senses and many more that are perceived but not quantified. We communicate amongst ourselves without audible sound, even at great distances we may join several individuals to amplify the transmission. We move in many dimensions. We see what humans do not. And, over the many millennia of our intelligent existence, we incorporate patience, tolerance, courage, resourcefulness, devotion, ingenuity and humour, qualities sadly lacking in most other species. Then, too, we each have our favourite pursuits and specialities.

I am a writer. I have always been a writer. In other lives before the present nine, I was a writer. I am proud to say that I was one of the illustrious team that codified The Book of Night with Moon, our sacred writings. In addition to writing, I've served as a hunter, a majordomo and a companion to the aged and infirm. My sister Chutney is a physician, has always been a physician (including her many years as chief medical adviser to Pharaoh Ramses II during some terrible political debacles) and will probably continue to be a physician, when she is not singing mezzo-soprano. Such a voice!

You ask what my present occupation is; I'll tell you: for much of the present of my nine lives, I have been Chief Presence of the Holmes household in Sussex. Of course, a Chief Presence has many responsibilities, foremost among them the maintenance of the serenity, dignity and righteous pleasance of a human dwelling. One might ask, "What is there that can be so difficult: a small cottage with a small kitchen garden, no farm animals, some inoffensive beehives, one household servant and one lone human, who is gone much of the time?" I'll tell you: the emotional, intellectual and ineffable climate of the Holmes household is complex, intense and can be rather trying.

It's a great deal of work. To aid me, I enlisted Chutney. Chutney was bereaved of her human, Mrs Endicott, last year, when the good lady Passed at one hundred human years. Before she Passed, she assured Chutney that she would remain in contact from the True World, which is where humans go when they Pass. Mrs Endicott suggested that Chutney come to help me, and I understand that she spoke to Mrs Hudson, Holmes' housekeeper, and arranged everything when she entered her last Trial (which humans call illnesses).

Chutney looks rather like me; our sire was the same Red Rowland who has populated much of the Sussex Downs with colorful offspring. Chutney, however, has darker dark stripes, and her white bib comes to a rather effete point. She has white front paws, which she keeps clean and tidy. But as to overall appearance, Chutney is most exceedingly fat, her tail resembles a raccoon's, and her round eyes are the same apple green as those of our dam, Bess.

One might expect a creature of Chutney's size to preserve a semblance of dignity, but Chutney cares not a fig for dignity. She bounds along, bouncing from chair to sofa to table, like a ponderous balloon, landing with a thud and a grunt, then lumbering along at a great rate of speed in pursuit of a mouse, a bird, an insect, or (as she has a great sense of humour) of myself, preparing to pounce upon me all unawares, receiving a buffet across the head, which she endures with tolerance. "Come, you old stoat Marmalade, it's a glorious day! Come and play!"

"Chutney, you overgrown kit, there's work to be done! Can't you see that Holmes has just returned, exuding cold gray vibrations, most excruciatingly out of sorts?"

"Oh, very well. He's been avoiding mating, for the most ridiculous of reasons. One would think that he had been neutered too late, and become nasty and pettish, like Felix at the Monk's Tun, but humans don't do that. I judge that he needs a good washing. I'll administer it; before he becomes hopelessly matted and surly."

Chutney has ingratiated herself with Holmes to such a degree that she is allowed to give him a wash. Most humans don't understand why cats wash, thinking it's only for cleanliness. Grooming is underrated; although humans preen to some degree, they don't wash as we do. We wash away the sadly colored exudations of uncomfortable emotions, as we wash in comfort, closeness, caring and reassurance.

Chutney bounced up on the laboratory table, where Holmes sat, muttering to himself, puttering with papers and phials. She bumped her broad, turnip-shaped head against Holmes' shoulder, purring loudly. "Hello, Chutney, old girl," Holmes said absently, patting Chutney's back. Whereupon Chutney put one fat paw on Holmes' shoulder, pulling him down, and when Holmes rested his weary head on his arm on the table, Chutney put a paw on Holmes' head, holding him down firmly, and proceeded to thoroughly wash his temples, sideburns and the tops of his ears. Holmes sighed deeply. "I don't know why I allow you to sand-paper me, but it seems appropriate today. At least you are in a good humour."

Chutney bespoke me: "My diagnosis is correct, brother Marm. He is wretched because he has refused to mate, and his beloved is considering a claws-out paw-swat to his cranium when next she sees him. And he knows it."

"Your healing is always appropriate, sister. Perhaps you can wash some sense into his head."

Chutney put her fat paws one behind the other on the edge of the table so that her stout self was in between Holmes and his papers, gave one last lick to the man's eyebrow, and began to purr loudly. Holmes looked up at my corpulent sister and sighed. "You've gotten fearsomely fat, me gel," he said, scratching under Chutney's chin. "But thanks for the wash. Damned if I don't feel easier somehow, I supposed I needed it."

"The man recognizes the value of a wash," Chutney bespoke smugly. With that, she bumped her forehead into Holmes', eliciting a chuckle, jumped down with a thud and a grunt, toddled over to the braided rug in front of the fireplace and plopped down on her back, his paws in the air, head upside down. She only does it to amuse.

Holmes regarded the striped fur puddle on his rug. He reached for his pipe, and began the ritual of stuffing it with dried leaves and then setting the leaves on fire. He calls it "smoking," and it seems to calm him as if it were dried catnip. Although, I must tell you, catnip occasionally causes the frenzies rather than calm.

"Chutney, if I could I would be a cat tonight," Holmes announced. "I would stalk along the tops of hedgerows, climb roofs and hunt birds and voles, and when I heard the siren song of that - that

"Go on," Chutney prompted, butting her head into Holmes' ankles. "You'd --"

Holmes said, through clenched teeth, "I'd seize her, bite her neck and do what toms are supposed to do - and - she'd probably claw my eyes out."

"And," Chutney finished. "By my paws and whiskers, Great Dam Above, how shall I begin to instruct this overgrown, aged kit in the way of toms and queens?"

A clattering downstairs in the kitchen announced Mrs Hudson's beginning of the preparation of dinner. Straightaway, I went to her, announced my presence with a decorous "Mrow!" and wove in and out of her ankles, finally composing myself under the stove so that I could supervise the cuisine without tripping her up.

"Well, Marmalade, what have you been doing today? Have you seen Miss Mary?" the good woman asked me as she lit the oven fire.

"Naow," I replied. I arranged myself into a compact loaf, which always amused Mrs Hudson: "Look at that silly Marmalade; he looks like a meat-loaf with a head!" It is one of the ironies of life that although cats understand humans' speech, they cannot understand ours, no matter how we try. But they can understand our demeanour if they know us well.

"Look at you, Marm, with such a smile to your face!" Mrs Hudson remarked. I turned up the corners of my mouth a bit more and put my whiskers forward, and then I blinked slowly and deliberately.

"A cat kiss, upon my word!" Mrs Hudson remarked, bending down and blinking back at me. "Good fellow," she stated, and set down a divided dish filled with delicious pieces of fish and some green peas, which I will partake of occasionally, but they are a great favourite of Chutney's.

My sister, whose hearing is as sharp as her nose, trotted into the kitchen, her great belly swinging. "Dinnertime," she remarked, and plunged her head into her side of the dish, purring and chomping loudly. Mrs Hudson bustled back and forth as she prepared the dishes for the humans' dinner.

"Mistress Chutney, if I rang a dinner-bell, you could not have come in more quickly!" Mrs Hudson set down a dish of clean water. "Miss Mary has been tramping about on the Downs all day, I'd wager, and will be coming in freezing cold and grumpy. Dinner will be ready in half an hour; I don't suppose you two furry folk could warm her a bit?"

I hopped up on the window-sill, and, sure enough, Miss Mary was making her way along the path from the Downs. Her head was down, her hands were thrust into her pockets, and she had an extraordinary expression on her face. I have learnt to read the expressions of humans. The last I saw such a phiz it was on Mistress Ermengarde, the vicar's skinny white queen, who was monumentally out of sorts because she was in season and her favorite, Bundle Tom, was laid up at the vet's with a broken leg.

Chutney, licking the last crumbs of dinner from her whiskers, bespoke me: "She's in season, you know, and as irritable as Ermengarde. I would expect her to climb up on the fence and howl madly under Holmes' window in the hopes that he would stop ignoring her and Get On With It."

"I will try to communicate with her, but I don't think it will help much," I replied. I went over to the kitchen door and told Mrs Hudson to please open it for me, which she did. I trotted out along the path and intercepted Miss Mary, sitting down directly in front of her and wrapping my tail around my feet. I looked up at her, blinked my eyes, and stated, "Yeow! Rrow!"

To my surprise, Miss Mary, who always greets Chutney and me with decorum and restraint, bent down, scooped me up in her arms, plopped down on the garden ledge and buried her face in my fur. I could feel her shaking. "Oh, Marmalade," she whispered, "I wish I were a cat. I would sit under Holmes' window and yowl until the Moon covered her ears. I would bow-stretch with my rump seductively in the air, wave my tail, and screech until he came down and put me out of my misery."

I sat upright on her lap and gave her hand The Tooth, the marking with the side of the mouth containing special glands that we cat guardians give those we love. "If I could have one wish from the Mother of All," I told her, "it would be that for one night, you and Holmes would be cats, free to play and romp in the tall green grass, mate ecstatically under the moon, wrestle and fight and then curl up together in all innocence and sincerity and devotion. It seems a more logical way than all this posturing and prancing and denying Nature."

Miss Mary took my head in her hands. For a moment, her tilted blue eyes looked very feline, and her mouth quirked up in a smile not unlike my own. She brought her nose very close to mine, and said, "Mrow. If only I could be a cat, for just one night..."

Next life, Mary dear. If the Mother of All wills it, next life.