Alex Howard - Library Cat

But sometimes, Library Cat would hear the local cats discuss ownership in their electrically synthed voices and suddenly feel uneasy and out of place. It was not his territory after all. The scents were all different, none of them his. Was that why it could feel so lovely and magical? And did the Humans feel the same way? Or did they only feel the sudden estrangement of the whining cats… the unmistakable feeling that they don’t belong?

Back inside the chaplaincy, Library Cat and Biblio Chat sat down to dinner. Suddenly Puddle Cat came to mind, and Library Cat felt particularly proud that he had gone several hours today without thinking of her, and that he’d eschewed the lovey-dovey mood he’d wallowed in up at the Towsery earlier, having read the inspired, Human-penned ‘Cat sat on the mat’ poem. It made him think again of the student Humans.

I wonder if cats and Humans could ever communicate with each other? he thought. He put the thought to Biblio Chat, who merely looked indifferent. He cast his mind back to the male Human at the foyer who believed that he was trying to talk in ‘cat’ but was in fact just making purring meowing sounds. It suddenly occurred to him. Maybe the Humans think we cannot speak, whereas in fact we can, but just choose not to?

Biblio Chat looked up from his food, momentarily interested. He had once written to Library Cat:

For eons the Humans have thought we cannot talk. But they have also killed us believing us to be in cahoots with the devil during The Black Death, whereas the whole time we were feasting upon the very rodents that spread it. They have thought us lucky, then unlucky; eternally wise and couch-dwelling fools; hailed as gods in ancient Egypt and robbed of all dignity in the internet memes of the twenty-first century. Does it really surprise you to discover they think we cannot speak just because we chose not to in front of them? Us thinking cats have our own way of speaking, and its language glistens more than the sunniest sea they have ever beheld, and is just as rich and deep. We know the secrets of Babylon; the truths of the Orient, and all the beauties and ills of every continent on Earth. We are God in Paradise Lost – understated and calm. Us thinking cats, we live for knowledge; it is its own end. The Humans, however, smother it beneath their personal desires for fame, money, sex and war. They covet knowledge like gold bullion putting a price on it at universities or shaming it to make killing machines. They are like the Devil in Paradise Lost – ever-moving, clanging and loud.

And yet they insist we are the arrogant ones!

Biblio Chat’s words hit Library Cat’s tender mood hard. He knew these things, of course, but that didn’t stave off his sudden worry for the safety of Humans and especially student-kind. His cousin continued…

But to answer your query, dear cousin: the Humans think we remain silent because we are mute. In fact, we remain silent because we are taciturn. Their philosopher Derrida explains this perfectly clearly – they need to pay more attention.

Library Cat bit his cat biscuit fiercely, his haunches high and his front legs lowered to his food bowl. He thought back to the girl on the phone, and the words she used when she spoke. He thought about other conversations he’d overheard, about the Humans’ desires for each other, as well as things they craved and lamented regularly that they didn’t have. Biblio Chat was right. It seemed that the Humans were forever comparing themselves to each other, or looking at points in the future or the past, or attempting acquisition of something, and feeling that their “present moment” fell short. It was true; knowledge did seem to be subjugated beneath the Humans’ sleepless quest for personal gain.

He wandered away from his food bowl and over to his bed. The radiator behind it was warm, and before settling, he kneaded the sheepskin blanket into just the right shape. As the clock upstairs in the chaplaincy began striking midnight, everything became silent. All but Biblio Chat’s soft purr filled the air as he remained up, sniffing the pages of several books, and rolling his head in catnip.

Then, just as Library Cat was dozing off to sleep, it hit him. Contentment! That’s what the Humans all *really* crave. That’s what us cats have and they don’t! It’s not wealth, fortune, sex and fame that they need, just contentment. And the tragedy is not that they cannot achieve it but rather they don’t know that it is contentment that they are craving. They always assume it’s something else… another thing that needs to be achieved, or bought, or done… yet they’ve lost sight of the end goal. They make happiness an invisible mouse and then spend their entire life chasing it. But they just want contentment. There is no mouse to chase .

Library Cat’s head became heavy. It was all too much thinking for one day. He rested his head down on his sheepskin, and started counting sheep. One, and indeed, Two; and, indeed, Three, and… And then the rest was sleep, and the deep silk of lovely dreams.

Recommended Reading

More Fool Me by Stephen Fry.

Food consumed

Piece of ham sandwich.

Mood

Slightly concerned. Exhausted.

Discovery about Humans

They have forgotten what it is they’re running after.

Library Cat rose, after a long paw-twitching sleep. He stood on his hind legs upon the windowsill of his bedroom to survey the weather outside. Autumn was turning to winter and things seemed sharp. Instead of autumnal oranges and browns, the square was slowly becoming blanched of its colour. All seemed frigid and still. Without further ado, Library Cat headed out through his cat flap and trotted up the stone steps of the chaplaincy into the square, tiny little clouds once again gusting out of his mouth in the cold. It felt nice to leave Biblio Chat behind snoozing on the couch, and Library Cat’s free, empty mind lifted up into the still air in a kind of relief. No more thinking. Not for today. Today was for a walk and exploring. The mousing season was nearly over, and Library Cat knew there’d be precious few remaining opportunities for a hunt. He sniffed the cold iron of the square’s gates and glanced momentarily over to his right and to the yellow warmth of the library.

Winter is better lived in; but summer is better dreamed of , he mused suddenly, squeezing between the bars of the gate and into the peaceful greenery.

He hadn’t walked any further than a couple of steps, and his mind hadn’t done much more than congratulate itself for coming up with the insightful winter/summer maxim, than his paw knocked against something hard. He glanced down. Beneath his legs was a long stick, with what appeared to be a red mouse on the end of it. He assumed it was a mouse, since it was mouse-sized and had a long thin tail projecting from its rear. He craned his neck down to sniff it. It smelt spicy and fierce.

That is not a mouse! he thought, his heart pounding as he galloping a few paces back, the peppery odour still clinging to his nostrils. It smelt a bit like catnip and fire mixed together. Tentatively he edged forward and re-examined the stick that seemed to impale the fiery-smelling mouse. He licked the end and gagged slightly. It was coloured red with yellow stripes. Nearby there was a soggy poster; it had the same red and yellow stripes plastered on it, top to bottom, and in the middle was large ballooning writing: