Alex Howard - Library Cat

From this comment, Library Cat had gleaned that the Human was trying to tell him it was time for love, and that he should drag himself out On The Prowl. And so he did. He’d eaten well, and licked his coat until it shined. He’d caught the finest rodents, as offerings. They should be so lucky , he’d thought, looking down at the clutch of maimed mice he’d amassed. Then, he’d retched up a fur ball (no cat wants to be gagging on a fur ball when he’s about to seal the deal with a beautiful she-cat), took a brief drink of water, gnawed his collar off and headed out the cat flap at 4 am, ready to join the hoard of other cats mewing their way down the alleys towards night-time pleasures.

But when he arrived at the spot, beneath a flickering sodium streetlight, Library Cat just couldn’t do it. He tried to get involved, but was invariably shunted to the side to watch other cats nuzzle each other’s noses and nip each other’s ears affectionately, which made his tail fat with jealousy. (This was because Library Cat knew all this nuzzling, and coat-preening, and mouse-giving was all a big preamble to… well… you-know-what. And frankly, Library Cat was terrible at you-know-what.) Library Cat had tried to ruin the mood by hissing from his sideline position, but it hadn’t worked. Chemistry is chemistry after all. Eventually he quietly gathered his mice-offerings up by their tails, walked over to another cat’s house and dumped them on his doorstep, before tiptoeing quietly out into the street pondering banal things like, I wonder why “alleys” are called “closes” in Scotland? and What on earth is a “Fire Hydrant”? and Why aren’t they bothered by the threat of stray dogs, and traffic, and catching worms, and lice and, and, and…

No, I’m not going to let that happen again , resolved Library Cat, his ears twitching backwards at the recalled embarrassment of it all, and the added humiliation he’d feel once more if it were to happen again in front of his alley cat cousin and highly seasoned prowler.

He took the postcard in his mouth and sat back down for a little snooze to await Tom’s arrival, but no sooner had he stopped kneading his cushion, pleasantly allowing the image of Puddle Cat to wash over him, than there came through the gap under the window, the unmistakable tuneless screech of alley cat, followed promptly by the cat flap going.

Well, that’ll be him then , thought Library Cat, arching his back with a disgruntled flash in his eyes, and sure enough around the corner swaggered his South London cousin.

Saaf Landan Tom was twenty full pounds of pure, swaggering cockney wide-cat – coarse ginger fur, a few nips bitten out his left ear from various fights he’d endured and a black spot on his tail where a Parcel Force lorry had started its engine while he was gnawing on a kebab skewer beneath its tailgate. And here he was now, on this chilly, yellow Edinburgh autumn morning, marching into Library Cat’s home, givin’ it all that.

“Meow,” said Library Cat frostily.

“Eow!” replied Saaf Landan Tom with cheer.

“Meow,” responded Library Cat, determined not to succumb to his cousin’s sloppy diction.

“EOO!!” replied Saaf Landan Tom, loud and unperturbed.

This was not a good start. The interaction triggered more memories in Library Cat’s mind about his cousin’s dastardly habits.

The first issue – Saaf Landan Tom had fleas. Many fleas. It was a blight he’d picked up from his tendency to rest his furry posterior on any discarded, offensively maroon three-piece suite he could find – a pastime which regularly saw him skulking the perimeters of civil amenity centres as far north as Elephant & Castle. But worse, Saaf Landan Tom sprayed. Everywhere. On Library Cat’s food, his scratch post, his bed, his rug, his secret stash of catnip… Library Cat had even taken to burying his precious Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche in his own litter tray since it might be the only place where Saaf Landan Tom didn’t spray. No avail. Saaf Landan Tom sprayed there too. Saaf Landan Tom had apologised in good nature; claimed it was all down to habit, innit… but then continued anyway.

What tumultuous hells am I to undergo this time? fretted Library Cat, nonchalantly nudging his food bowl in the direction of his cousin in a strained act of generosity while watching on, with straight-backed composure, as his enormous cousin voraciously wolfed down the chunks of food between sonorous, deeply satisfied purrs, only to follow up the meal by lapping from the adjacent water bowl contaminating it with greasy lumps of jellied chicken. As the great cat finally finished, he nudged the bowl in Library Cat’s direction and his cousin took a few delicate nibbles, half in awe and half resentful of the massive virile hulk of ginger tomcat beside him.

As the evening wore on, Library Cat’s anger softened. The two cats had passed a pleasant early evening in the Towsery, and the catnip, milk, mice and literature had flowed pleasingly. Library Cat saw Tom in a different light – a deeply intelligent cat with a visceral, red-blooded exterior, and Library Cat was rather admiring of the urbane way in which his cousin could flit between one character type and the other, and yet never seem disingenuous or fake in doing so. He was truly the best of both worlds: thinker by day, prowler by night.

It was early evening by the time both cats headed out of the Towsery having indulged a broad selection of literary tastes, and set off through the foyer of Edinburgh University’s Main Library, and down the concrete steps to a desolate George Square. Saaf Landan Tom led the way, his great tail towering above his cousin’s nose like a massive ginger toilet brush that had become rather unpleasantly matted.

I’ll go out for half an hour , thought Library Cat, but no more. I have a lot of reading to do tomorrow…

Further and further they walked, down the plumbing of streets, wynds and closes. Library Cat began to feel cold. Evening advanced suddenly, like a pack of black playing cards being dealt across a table. Library Cat could feel the ominousness of night enveloping the very nation, top to bottom, closing in on faraway fields and shores, and now creeping up on them in Edinburgh – on Bristo Place and Candlemaker Row – cloaking up the lights, allowing only the little yellow halos of certain street lamps to burn determinedly through the fog in shimmering rings… they towered above Library Cat like beacons on top of skyscrapers. Colours became ashen. Suddenly, in the corner of his eye, he caught glimpses of cats skulking. They were evidently out On The Prowl too. One could just tell by the way they moved, somehow. Library Cat’s nerves heightened. Things felt crepuscular. Suddenly he found himself thinking of Robert Louis Stevenson and Jekyll and Hyde , and wondered whether cats could have evil counterparts that stalk the night-time streets as well.

I’m going back , he thought. I don’t want this. I want to think about Puddle Cat in my cosy warm room. Tom’s clearly trying to take me properly out On The Prowl. I shall resist.

I am really just not that type of cat.

Discreetly, Library Cat slowed his pace, and was about to turn around and break into a gallop. But no sooner did he falter than his cousin purred and mewed loudly, luring Library Cat on with the false promise of nearby mice. Library Cat knew he was most likely bluffing, but then the possibility of a nearby rodent is a temptation that Catkind finds virtually impossible to ignore. After all, the deliciousness of food trumps the wonder of thought, even for a purebred thinking cat like Library Cat.