The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Sixth Annual Collection

Oh boy, I thought. A chance

to visit England and Oh boy here, out

of nowhere, a voice to describe it. Reader,

I dreamt of coming back to tell you about marching

round the Tower of London, in a beefeater suit,

swishing my axe at Jerry, belting after him

into the Bloody Tower, my back legs

circling like windmills in a gale,

and the ravens flapping around our heads.

You would hear it all: tea with the Queen

at Buckingham Palace and me scattering

the cucumber sandwiches at the sight

of Jerry by the silver salver. I couldn’t wait

for the gorgeous tableau: Queenie with her mouth

in a little shocked screaming shape, her crown

gone crooked as she stood cringing on the throne

with her skirts up round her knees, and Jerry

down there laughing by the footstool.

I would be a concertina zigzag by that time

with a bone china cup stuffed in my face

and a floral teapot shoved on my head so hard

my brains would form a spout and a handle

when it cracked and dropped off.

I can’t get this new voice to explain to you

the ecstasy in the body when you fling

yourself into such mayhem, opening yourself

to any shape at all and able to throw out

stars of pain for everyone to see.

But reader, the visit wasn’t like that.

I ended up in a poem and it made me uneasy.

Cats prefer skulking and sulking

in the dark, we prefer mystery

and slinking. This is even true of me

with my stupid human face opening

into only two or three stupid expressions:

cunning, surprise, and maybe rage.

And I couldn’t find ]erry.

“Where’s the mouse?” I found myself tripping

over commas and colons hard like diamonds, looking

for him. “Where’s the mouse?” I kept asking,

“Where’s the mouse?” I banged full face into a query—

and ended up with my front shaped

like a question mark for hours. That was scary:

I usually pop right back into myself in seconds.

So I hesitated for once before flinging myself

down the bumpy staircase where all the lines ended.

I went on my rear and at the bottom you would have seen me,

end up, bristling with splinters, and nose down

snuffling for any trace of mouse smell.

Reader, it was my first tragic movie:

I couldn’t find the mouse.