Cats in Command and Other Stories Read online

  Yet my physical discomfort troubled me less than the loss of the by-now familiar and comforting presence of Ralph in the next cage. A thought came to me, sharp as a claw. Maybe I owed him an apology.

  The idea (or maybe it was the low-grade kibble) made me want to vomit. I knew I had to get out of here before I lost my mind. I would throw myself at the mercy of the next reasonably attractive cat.

  *

  In the morning the tough tabby came to my cage. She leapt onto the creaky wooden table and looked me in the eyes.

  She purred with satisfaction. "I think you may have learned your lesson. We'll see how well you show today."

  We went back down several hallways until I saw Ralph pacing in his cage. He waited until the matron had left before speaking.

  "I figured out where you were. Awful, right?"

  "I'd rather not talk about the details."

  "I understand. I'll say only that I'm determined to get adopted today."

  I nodded and took a deep breath. I was about to violate every principle I'd ever held dear, and I hardly cared.

  "Me, too. But first, we need to have a discussion."

  *

  We talked for two hours, and it turned out that Ralph had as many regrets as I did. He cried a little; so did I.

  "I wish I could kiss you," he said.

  "Sweet." I glanced down to see a small gray and white kitten studying me, eyes wide.

  "I've been hoping to find a pair," she said. "You are, aren't you?"

  I wished I could see Ralph's face. "Yes," I said hopefully.

  "Absolutely," he said.

  The kitten purred. "My name is Sofia, and you may take me to your home. I'll go make the arrangements."

  *

  We were released. The kitten took over the house and cried whenever we even sounded as if we were about to have a fight. We all got along very well.

  One night I heard a scratching at the door. I'd developed a phobia about opening doors, but I didn't think the Feline Bureau of Investigation could have anything on us now, so I took a chance.

  Lola sat on the doorstep. "I'm here for a follow-up visit."

  She walked through the open door and padded over to the corner where Sofia was curled up on her bed. They spoke in low voices.

  After a few minutes Lola returned to me. "Sofia is quite pleased. It appears that things are going well here. For a young kitten, she has a strong sense of what ownership demands. She says that you continue to have some behavior problems, and she'd appreciate the assistance of a mature cat. I've decided to offer my services."

  "You mean you're coming back?"

  "I consider it my duty. And, of course, it's my house."

  "What happened to your career track?"

  She hissed at me, and I shut up.

  *

  I'm a slow learner, I suppose. Lola had to swat me many times before she was satisfied with my conduct.

  I'm not complaining. I've come to accept my status as a pet. It's not so bad.

  Especially when you consider the alternative.

  Villains Victorious

  Black cursive letters scream, "Villains Unite!" on an orange banner draped over the hall's entranceway. Inside, the newly formed Villains Defense League (VDL) is holding its first convention. Wolves, wicked witches, stepmothers, stepsisters, ogres, dragons, giants, dwarves, and other characters congregate. According to one flyer, they "are rising up after eons of bad press."

  Tables spread around the periphery of the room hold pamphlets such as "Little Red in the 'Hood," "Off the Pigs," and "The Darker Side of Snow White." Piles of black T-shirts read, "Bare Your Fangs," "Wicked and Proud," and "Slither Power."

  The schedule for the day includes morning workshops ("Why Bad is Good," "Breathing Exercises for Blowing the House Down," "The Importance of Dental Checkups for Carnivores") and afternoon speeches. At a workshop entitled "Countering the Lies," one of Cinderella's stepsisters sets the tone.

  "Once Ella Cinders became a princess, she rewrote history. Poor waif, down on her dainty hands and knees, cleaning out fireplaces, wearing cast-off clothes. This rags-to-riches story makes her look like a heroine, and the press ate it up. Because it was true? Hell, no, because it sold papers.

  "I'll tell you the truth; she was a spoiled brat. As far as her father was concerned, she could do no wrong. Frankly, I think there was something unhealthy about that relationship. You want to talk wicked?

  "Cinders married my mother because he thought his precious little girl needed a feminine influence. It never occurred to him that maybe my sister and I could have used a father figure in the house. Our real father got killed in battle, some idea of glory that turned to gore. It wasn't easy scraping along on a widow's pension, but we had the castle, and we were managing.

  "Then along comes Mr. Charming (no relation to the prince she married, although Dr. Freud might have disagreed) and little Ella. At first we thought it would be nice to have a pair of boots by the fire, and we didn't object to having a younger sister.

  "Ella's father never gave us a moment of attention, though. You would have thought we were a pair of andirons-which reminds me to clear up the misconception about the ashes from the fire.

  "We weren't overloaded with servants, and everyone had to do chores around the house and farm. I slopped the hogs every day and weeded the garden. My sister milked the cows and gathered firewood. Ella wouldn't go near the barn or put her fragile little hands around a tool, so the precious princess-to-be had to clean out the fireplace."

  A Beast leans forward. He's covered with shaggy, stiff hair; tusks curve out of his cheeks. His eyes cast a fierce yellow light. "Why do you hate her so much?"

  The other workshop participants bare claws and fangs. "Why?" a witch screeches. "We villains have been persecuted for centuries; that's the whole point of this convention. Are you sure you're in the right place? Did you get lost on your way to the Disney Studios?"

  The Beast shrinks back into his seat, and the wicked stepsister continues.

  "If you think I hate her, you should hear my sister, who's unable to be here because she's being treated for post-villainess stress disorder. From the moment Ella moved into the castle, not a day went by without her telling us how ugly we were. She'd toss back her golden curls and say the only men we'd ever be able to marry would be swineherds who were used to seeing faces like ours. We were supposed to love her?

  "I hope that the journalists present will print that so the world knows what a bitch that precious princess is. Maybe it'll sell a few papers."

  *

  During the lunch break, participants enjoy chocolate effigies of Sleeping Beauty and Rapunzel, marzipan lambs, gingerbread houses, devil's food cake, and apples. When a delegation of carnivores complain to the conference organizers about the absence of live prey, a steering committee member points out the difficulty of cleaning blood stains from the floor.

  Others complain about the Beast, who's been heard saying, "Princesses aren't that bad" and "You have to give Heroes some credit for courage."

  "Do you think he's a spy?" an Imp asks a Dragon.

  The Dragon exhales a small flame. "If so, he's barbecue, but a spy wouldn't be so obvious. He probably needs villain self-esteem counseling. Just to be safe, though, let's tell everyone to keep an eye on him."

  After a series of brief speeches during the afternoon session, a wolf with particularly long fangs steps up to the podium. "Before I introduce our keynote speaker, I'd like to speak briefly about the media stereotypes of my own species. I had firsthand experience of this when I starred in the Little Red Riding Hood story."

  Other wolves applaud, and the speaker smiles modestly. "That dear old grandmother was a notorious madam who operated her bordello in the woods to avoid a police crackdown. Red was a prostitute who sent out millions of spam emails promising bestial action to entice visitors to her triple-X-rated web site. The woodsman who supposedly saved her was a pimp. And myself? An honest citizen from a species known for its
sense of family who was trying to bust Red and Granny."

  "And I suppose you weren't a bit hungry," another wolf calls out from the audience.

  The speaker grins, his canines flashing. "It happens that I'd eaten nothing but squirrels and mice for days, and I always try to maintain a balanced diet. Granny was almost too tough to be worth the effort, but Red was delicious."

  Howls of laughter echo off the walls until the speaker holds up a shaggy paw. "Dear wicked friends, villainous laughter is music to my celebrated ears, but it's time now for our keynote speaker, the ultimate baddie. Welcome the Serpent."

  Deafening applause greets the snake who coils up around the microphone pole and begins to hiss.

  "Fellow villains, I have heard much to move me today, much to make me weep, much to fill me with venomous hatred and the desire to sink my fangs into the nearest Princely or Heroic leg. Many believe my ancestor was history's first villain, and certainly the world continues to hate and fear us."

  His voice lowers. "We are named the devil's sidekick. We are blamed everything that has ever gone wrong in a human's miserable life. Was Eve forced to eat that apple? And has anyone ever proven that the Serpent's intentions were malicious? What a crime, to give someone knowledge, to get them out of their mind-numbing paradise and into the real world"-his tongue flickers-"of flesh and blood."

  Some of the younger Ogres and Goblins lose interest and begin to club and stab each other. In the midst of the rising pandemonium, the Beast shuffles onto the stage. Two burly Giants try to pull him away. When he struggles, his head falls off to reveal that of a maiden with long, wheat-colored hair. She is a Beauty.

  "Spy! Spy!" the crowd calls out. "Yes," she says, surprisingly calm, considering who's surrounding her. "We, too, can be a little wicked."

  She strokes the skin of the snake, who despite the jeers of his comrades, undulates in apparent ecstasy. "Dear wise one, you have stated the case for your kind so well, but we Heroines and our kindred also have a point of view."

  "We don't hate you, beloved wicked creatures. Do you know how boring life would be for all the so-called good characters without you? How would we even know we were good without the contrast of your villainy?

  "And how would you know you were wicked without us? We need each other." The Beauty points to her discarded Beastly head. "In every Beast there is a Beauty, in every Beauty a Beast."

  Her voice, soft as the whisper of wind through leaves, has many in the audience mesmerized. A few goblins begin to weep.

  The Serpent, however, jerks out of his trance. "You are clever, Beauty, and indeed a little wicked. It's too bad you're on the wrong side and in the wrong place."

  He flicks his tongue at Beauty, who begins to shrink away from him. "Fellow villains," he hisses. "Beauty speaks of contrast, and her self-righteous and seductive goodness inspires me to celebrate my wickedness in new and ever more evil ways. It's time to strike back. Why should we always be the ones to get killed in the stories? How about a few dead Heroes, princesses, and fairy godmothers? Let the pages of every story run with their blood instead of ours, and let's begin now!"

  The Snake is nearly drowned out by the chorus of howls, screeches, and squawks from the audience. The Wolf who introduced the Serpent seizes Beauty, sinking his fangs into her throat.

  The carnivores, having been denied their usual ration of fresh meat and blood, swarm onto the stage at once. Soon, nothing remains of the former Beauty but a pile of bones.

  Once the crowd's roars die down, the Serpent speaks. "Well done, Brother Wolf."

  The Wolf wipes his mouth. "To be fair and to give honor to a worthy adversary, I only practiced what the lovely spy preached." He rubs his stomach. "In every Beast a Beauty."

  Laughter erupts in the audience, and chants of "Kill them! Eat them!" fill the hall. Some creatures begin a conga line, shouting "Death! Death!"

  *

  The killing and consumption of Beauty makes the convention an unqualified success. The hunched shoulders of Cinderella's stepsister finally straighten out, and she smiles with visible pride. Vampires and Witches walk with new confidence in their step. Everywhere, villains are developing plans to rewrite literature.

  "A perfect day," the Serpent says to the Wolf as they leave.

  "Nearly perfect," the Wolf replies. "The Beauty episode, splendid as it was for nearly everyone, well . . . ."

  "She was quite the seductress." The Serpent's skin ripples all the way down to the end of his tail.

  "I saw you writhing in submission beneath her hand," the Wolf barks.

  "She had a lovely touch. Given time, she could have won more over to the Heroic view of the world."

  "We can't allow an incident like that next time." The Wolf shudders. "Full body searches and heads twisted to see if they're removable. And perhaps a test of viciousness. Make them kill a baby bunny rabbit or a duckling."

  "That should go a long way towards weeding out the Heroic crowd," the Snake says.

  The Wolf nods, but he's remembering what Beauty said just before he killed her.

  "Any true heroine is willing to die for the sake of the story."

  The words rumble in his stomach like a bad case of indigestion, testifying to the insidious power of Good.

  Gargoyle in Love

  Swifts darted through the pale magenta of a Paris evening, circling chimney pots and occasionally pausing on the roof of Notre Dame. One flew directly in front of Pierre and hovered in front of his face.

  "Stupid little twit," the gargoyle said, "mindlessly flapping your wings without any appreciation that you can. Do you have to flaunt your freedom?"

  "Get off your stone butt and fly, too," the bird squawked.

  "You think I haven't tried? You think I like being stuck in stone?"

  The swift's wings whispered away as the sky darkened. Before long, the moon rose, breathing out a shower of stars, and the lights of the city flickered on in response. It was a gorgeous view if you hadn't seen it every night for five hundred years.

  One by one, gargoyles all around the cathedral called out, "Good night" until it seemed only Pierre was awake. He sighed, resisting the boredom of sleep.

  "I heard you. Are you alive?"

  Pierre looked down from his pedestal to see a small white cat standing below in the courtyard. "I'm alive in a manner of speaking, a manner that is immobilized and bored. Who are you?"

  " Blanche. I've recently come to live with the nuns who tend the grounds here."

  "A nice job; you get to move around."

  "But don't you enjoy your perch? It is said that from the ramparts of Notre Dame, one can see all of Paris. I would love such a view."

  "It's a nice place to visit. When you're stuck here, it loses its charm. And if you'd like the view, just climb up here. I could use the company."

  Blanche flicked her tail. "It's too high. I'd be afraid to fall. I can't fly."

  "Neither can I."

  He heard a human voice calling from the part of the cathedral that was the convent. "Blanche? Dinner time."

  "I have to go now," Blanche said. "Food."

  Pierre remembered food, but his hungers now had to do with loneliness. "Will you come again?"

  "I'll come back tomorrow night." Blanche's voice was soft as the falling shadows.

  *

  The next day, Pierre relieved his boredom with the anxiety of wondering whether the cat would come. From time to time, he heard the faint conversation of other gargoyles and grotesques.

  "Big traffic accident across the river, smoke, fire, sirens."

  "Couple arguing on their way out of the cathedral. She looks as if she's going to hit him with her bag. Ouch, she did."

  "Storm coming. Get ready to spit out water."

  Pierre was grateful for his solitary placement. Other gargoyles had to share their perches with carved doves, humans, and semi-humanoids. Being alone gave him a chance to think. Even if his thoughts didn't make the best company, they beat the jabbering of brainless chu
nks of stone.

  Today he found the jabbering especially irritating. "Oh, for the quiet days of my childhood," he screeched, "when gargoyles only opened their mouths to catch food."

  "Give it a break, would you?" said Lizard, his closest neighbor. "It's been five hundred years since they lured you away from home."

  That remark rubbed at the wound of Pierre's ancient complaint. "Lured us is right, telling us we'd only be exchanging our boring pastoral view for the exciting vistas of a great city. Was I the only one who heard them say we could fly over the rooftops at night as long as we looked decorative and channeled water during the day?

  "We all heard it, and if we hadn't, you've reminded us on a regular basis. We've all tried. Sometimes you have to know when to give up."

  Pierre would never give up. His hope was cold but not yet stone.

  *

  His hopes about Blanche proved justified. She kept her word, returning just after twilight.

  "Tell me what you did today," Pierre said.

  "I rarely leave the grounds," the cat said. "It's terribly noisy out there, too many people and cars and trucks, very dangerous for a small cat. Besides, I'm kept busy chasing mice in the convent and cathedral. That's my job."

  "And do you catch many mice?"

  "Sister Veronique calls me the best mouser the convent ever had. Is it prideful of me to repeat that? The nuns say pride is a sin."

  "I know little of sin and more of mice. I recall them as being quite tasty."

  The small cat tilted her head. "But how would you have caught them? Did they run up to your perch?"

  "I have not always been marooned here."

  Her ears flared. "No? But the nuns say-"

  "What do they know?"

  "They are wise and kind. If you're going to insult them, I won't speak to you again?"

  He panicked. "Blanche, I apologize. It's only that it angers me to hear that humans consider me a mere piece of stone."

  "You are never a mere piece of anything, but if you weren't carved, how did you come into being?"

  The task of explaining it all seemed exhausting. "Tomorrow night I'll tell you."

  It was one way to ensure her return.

  *

  He rehearsed his story all the next day, ignoring the commentary of the other gargoyles. Pierre didn't care if a dog was stealing a loaf of bread or if a demonstration were taking place at Place de la Bastille. He was too busy designing his history so that it would sound tragic without sounding pathetic.