Molly And The Cat Cafe

6

As the days turned to weeks, Chas and Dave continued to bait me at every opportunity, and after a while I accepted that their high-pitched yapping was a constant background accompaniment to my life. Rob, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten that I existed. When he remembered he would put a bowl of dry food down for me, and would shout at the dogs if he saw them lunge at me, but other than that he barely interacted with me at all.

It would be an exaggeration to say that I had settled into my new home, but as time went on there was a certain familiarity to the routine of it. I had stopped thinking about Margery so much, and no longer lulled myself to sleep by remembering her lavender scent and imagining the feel of her hand stroking my fur. I tried my hardest to live in the present, and neither to dwell on the past nor worry about the future. I faced each day as its own challenge, and hoped that I would make it to night-time with minimal aggravation from the dogs. Perhaps life would have carried on like that, and I might still be there now, if it hadn’t been for Stan and the dog biscuit.

Stan was as an all-mouth-and-no-trousers kind of dog. He could look terrifying, with his muscles tensed and his wide eyes bulging, but behind his brawny exterior there was very little in the way of brains. Over time, I started to get complacent around him, feeling confident that I could easily outwit him.

One afternoon when I was in the kitchen I heard the front door open – Rob was back from walking the dogs. I jumped onto the kitchen counter in anticipation, knowing from experience that Rob always fed the dogs after their walk. I hoped that, if I sat in the middle of the worktop, Rob would remember to feed me as well.

He poured out the meaty biscuits into three bowls and placed them on the kitchen floor. The kitchen filled with the sounds of snorting and chomping as the dogs devoured their food. As usual, I observed their slovenly manners with an air of disgust. Stan finished first, pushing the bowl across the kitchen floor as he licked every last crumb from the dish. Satisfied that there was nothing left to eat, he sniffed the bowl, then walked across the kitchen to drop himself into his wicker basket. Rob had gone into the front room and I could hear the television blaring. Not for the first time, he had forgotten to put out my food.

Chas and Dave were busy wolfing down their biscuits, so I took the opportunity to jump down to the floor and slip silently past them, to make my way quickly up the hall. The front-room door was closed, but I could hear the din of the television within. I hoped Rob would realize he had forgotten about me, but my scratching and mewing couldn’t be heard over the noise from the TV. My tummy was rumbling, and the injustice of seeing the dogs fill their faces while I was left to starve irritated me. I padded back into the kitchen. Stan was washing his hindquarters in his basket; Chas and Dave were chomping in unison, with their backs to me.

My stomach growled with hunger, so I tiptoed over to Stan’s bowl and cautiously sniffed at it. I could make out the faint trace of a meaty smell of biscuit underneath the bowl. The challenge of how to reach the biscuit absorbed me, and when I realized that I couldn’t get to it by nudging the bowl with my nose, I tried with my paw instead, hoping to catch the rim of the bowl with my claws and lift it off the floor long enough to swipe the biscuit out.

My first couple of attempts were fruitless, the bowl slipping from my claws before I could lift it, so on my third attempt I was more assertive. I felt the rim of the bowl catch on my claws and, with my nose to the floor, slid my other paw under the dish. I could see the biscuit, tantalizingly just out of reach. Extending my claws, I tried desperately to make contact with the biscuit, but just when I thought it was within my grasp, my grip slipped and the bowl crashed down noisily on the kitchen tiles.

An eerie silence filled the kitchen, as the sound of canine chomping came to an abrupt end. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw all three dogs staring at me, their mouths open in disbelief. Stan had been washing his nether-regions in his basket and had stopped mid-lick, hind legs akimbo, his eyes flicking from me to his food bowl and back again. It was as if I could hear his thought processes: That cat has been trying to eat my food. From my bowl. While I am in the room.

Before I had a chance to leap to safety, Stan shot out of his bed and charged at me. Chas and Dave erupted into a barking frenzy, jumping up and down and trembling with excitement.

What happened next felt like a blur. I heard the scrape of claws on tile – whether Stan’s or mine, I’m not sure – and saw Stan’s rage-filled face looming towards me, teeth bared and ready to bite. Dim-witted he may have been, but I was in no doubt that at that moment he intended to rip me limb from limb. I heard Chas and Dave’s hysterical yapping as they egged Stan on, delighted that he was about to deliver some canine justice. That was when something inside me snapped. Without thinking, I turned to face Stan and launched myself, legs outstretched and claws bared, at his glistening nose and slobbery mouth.

I was aware that the room had fallen silent again, as Chas and Dave watched me soar above their heads, a furry, four-legged missile. I landed perfectly on target, my claws making contact with Stan’s muzzle. I felt his flesh – surprisingly soft, given its muscly appearance – yield under my razor-sharp grip. My hind legs swung underneath me as I hung on to Stan’s face with all my might. Meanwhile my ears were pinned back against my head and I hissed and spat with all the ferocity I could muster. All the injustices of the previous few weeks seemed to come to a head in that split-second encounter: my rage at David for taking Margery, and my home, away from me; my anger at Rob for taking me on, when he clearly didn’t care about me at all; and my fury at the dogs for making my life miserable.

After a brief, stunned silence, Chas and Dave redoubled their barking and Stan produced a noise that I have never heard from a dog before or since: a yelp crossed with a shriek, at a pitch far higher than his normal vocal range. As the surge of adrenaline and rage that had got me thus far began to subside, I realized, with not a small sense of panic, that my claws had sunk so far into Stan’s face that I was having difficulty retracting them. The fact that my entire body weight was hanging suspended from my front paws probably didn’t help. I pumped my back feet, trying to make contact with his chest, thinking that if I could just push my body a little higher I would be able to withdraw my claws, but as I kicked out at him, Stan started to walk backwards in an attempt to shield himself from this second onslaught.

After what felt like an eternity, Rob was roused by the commotion and flung the kitchen door open.

‘What the bloody hell is going on in here?’ he shouted at Chas and Dave, before pausing to look, aghast, at Stan and me. We were still locked in our vicious embrace, my back legs frantically kicking, and Stan now shaking his head from side to side in a desperate but futile attempt to dislodge me.

‘What the—?’ Rob muttered in disbelief. Then he let out a roar of laughter, which set Chas and Dave barking again. ‘That cat’s a frickin’ ninja!’ he hooted, pulling his phone out of his pocket and pointing it at us, to film the scene of carnage.

Perhaps it was the humiliation of being laughed at that did it: Stan gave one final, decisive twist of his head, which was powerful enough to shake me free, although not without ripping a strip of flesh from his muzzle. He yelped like a puppy and ran whimpering out of the room, while I sprang up onto the kitchen table and from there leapt to safety on top of the fridge.

Rob put his phone back in his pocket and returned to the front room, chortling to himself. Chas and Dave ran after him, still wired with excitement. My heart was racing, so I started to wash, trying to calm myself down. Part of me felt elated at having triumphed over the dogs so spectacularly. But another part of me felt ashamed at what I had become: a vicious animal, no better than the brute of a dog I had attacked. I tried hard to lick the scent of Stan off my paws. What would Margery have thought, if she had seen me behave in such a way? The Molly she knew would never bare her claws to anyone, let alone pick a fight with a dog like Stan. I had proved a point to the dogs, but at what cost to my dignity?

I closed my eyes and thought about Margery, trying to remember the kind of cat I had been when I lived with her. Pampered – undoubtedly; spoilt – probably; but I had been also been gentle, affectionate and caring. Since I had lost Margery, I seemed to have lost that part of myself as well, and I didn’t like what I was turning into. I cleaned myself thoroughly from nose to tail, trying to wash away the cat that I had become. When I had finished washing I felt calm, and I curled up on the top of the fridge. As my mind began to drift I imagined Margery’s voice saying, ‘It will all be better after a good night’s sleep.’ I started to purr and allowed myself to sink into the silent blackness, knowing that when I woke up I would have a decision to make.

I opened my eyes, feeling instantly alert. The kitchen was silent apart from the ticking of the wall clock and the first notes of the birds’ dawn chorus outside. The room was bathed in grey light, and through the window I could see the first flecks of pink and gold in the sky. I saw the dogs’ food bowls on the floor and winced, as the events of the previous evening flooded back into my mind. I jumped down onto the floor and stretched, noticing the lone dog biscuit that had been the cause of so much drama. In the fracas it had got kicked across the room, landing next to the bin. In the absence of anything else for breakfast, I ate it, resolute that this would be my last meal in Rob’s house.

When I had finished I slipped quietly through the cat flap and stood on the patio, my tail twitching as I considered my options. Although there was very little I would miss about this house, I was not naive – I knew there was no certainty I would find anything better elsewhere. Still, I promised myself that I would not settle for second best. The next place I called home would be somewhere I could be the kind of cat I wanted to be: a cat who would make Margery proud.