I wanted to say goodbye to my brother, my only family now, but I was whisked into a luxurious carrier with pink fluff. A lot of fuss was going on. People saying,‘Oh, you are a lucky kitten,’ and shuffling about with papers while I sat in there, lonely, and wanting my mother. I even wanted Harriet. We had spent a couple of nights cuddled up to the big dog who seemed to love us. She was warm and peaceful, her heartbeat so steady and slow. She’d even let us play with her silky ears and the tip of her tail. It helped me to make a decision: I wanted a dog in my life. A dog was a solid reliable friend.
Gretel was OK, but I was uneasy. Had I made the right decision? And I definitely didn’t want to be called FUZZBALL.
Gretel’s bungalow was fine. Warm and sweet-smelling, with soft carpets, a furlined cat bed with a roof, and a puss-flap leading to a sunny patio and a square of lawn. I should have been happy there, but I wasn’t. It was lonely, even though Gretel made a fuss of me. She wanted me to be good.
I wasn’t good. I was a BAD CAT.
My dad, Solomon, was the most saintly cat, and I wished he were there to teach me the mysteries and illogical rules about living with humans.
The first issue was the litter tray. I knew how to use it, but I didn’t think it right to use it a second time. It was more creative to find some paper and make my own. I shredded a copy of the Damart catalogue before Gretel had read it, and she went ballistic.
‘You wretched cat. Look at this STINKING mess. You’re a bad girl. BAD GIRL,’ and she grabbed my scruff like Jessica would have done and shook me. I was hurt and puzzled. It had been fun shredding the paper and making myself a luxurious heap behind the sofa and, when I’d used it, I’d carefully raked it up and covered it over. Problem solved.
I quickly became a compulsive paper shredder as I grew bigger. My new claws had to be kept sharp and it was a good workout. Gretel used to go out and shut the kitchen door so I couldn’t go out through the puss-flap, and she’d always left a magazine somewhere, by her bed or on a chair.
Next, I discovered the postman. I learned what time he came and recognised his footsteps. Or I’d sit in the window, watching him pushing his trolley down the street, getting more and more excited as he approached. Once he was on the path, I shot into the hall and waited, tingling, by the front door. There were always catalogues in plastic that landed with a slap, but if they were heavy I ignored them. What I liked were the paper letters, especially the brown ones, which made a succulent tearing noise. In one part of my mind, I was being a lion ripping skin from its prey, and in another way, I was being creative and pragmatic while Gretel was out.
One morning, she came in the back door with her shopping bags and I ran to meet her like a cat should. She sat down and took me onto her lap, and I learned how to give her healing. She had pain in her joints; they used to glow in her aura like hotspots. I draped myself over her knees or up on her shoulder and practised the art of purring, which I had brought with me from the spirit world. It was a vibration that generated streams of minute stars that only I could see. But Gretel felt it. I knew she did.
‘Oh, you are a darling cat. You’re so good for me,’ she said as we relaxed together. But as soon as she got up and went into the hall, it all changed.
‘You BAD CAT,’ she shouted when she saw the heaps of shredded paper I was so proud of. ‘My LETTERS! You’ve ruined them.’
She seized me in angry hands and held me up so that my face was close to hers, and hissed at me like a mother cat.‘WHAT am I going to DO with you, Fuzzball, eh?’
I hated being treated like that. I flattened my ears and lashed my tail. After all that healing, Gretel was abusing me! I kicked out with my back legs, and my claws were out. They caught in her clothes and scratched her neck.
‘You little demon,’ she snarled and dropped me. I mean – dropped me, not put me down nicely. Unprepared, I twisted and landed awkwardly. Stunned, I crouched there, looking up at her, hoping she’d apologise, pick me up and make peace with me. Instead, she clapped her hands right in my ear and I ran away, through the puss-flap and into the garden. It was lovely sunshine, but I sat in the dark underneath the decking and licked myself miserably. I was trembling inside with a mixture of fear and anger. What had I done? How could Gretel change so quickly from sweetness to rage?
I’d never felt so alone. I wanted my parents and my brothers to guide and comfort me. I wanted a dog like Harriet. I wanted a nice name, a beautiful romantic name suitable for a silver and white tabby who had come here to heal. My life wasn’t working out the way I’d planned.
Then I remembered my angel. It was a long time since I’d talked to her, and I’d never really learned how to see her on this planet. Where was she?