Rupert
The wedding finally faded away like a half-remembered melody, the guests drifted off, and our daughter moved in with her new husband. An odd hush settled on the flat, the sort of silence that hums in your ears and hops darkly from one empty corner to another. After a week of restless pottering in that quietness, my wife and I decided to get a pet. We longed for somethinga suitable stand-in for our daughter, an excuse to keep our parental instincts sharp: feeding, walking, training, clearing up unfortunate little accidents. Secretly, I also wished for a creature that, unlike our daughter, wouldnt talk back, pinch my cigarettes, or rattle about rooting through the fridge at midnight. We hadnt yet decided what sort of animal to get; we thought wed choose on the spot.
Early Sunday, we set out for Petticoat Lane Market, threading our way through stalls brimming with the odd and unlikely. Near the entrance, guinea pigs huddled in a clumsy tumble of fur. I raised my eyebrows at my wife.
Not a chance, she cut in briskly, Ours was strictly a land dweller.
The fish, glass-eyed and silent in their tanks, gave nothing away. Parrots, chattering colourfully like old biddies in a teashop, set off my wifes allergy to feathers. I was drawn to a small monkey whose antics reminded me alarmingly of our daughter during her tempestuous teenage years, but my wife warned shed rather die than share a house with that thing. Given the choice between a monkey Id only just met and a woman Id grown accustomed to, I surrendered without protest.
That left us with dogs and cats. Dogs, of course, require ceaseless strolls, and cats Well, theres a good deal of bother with cats. I simply couldnt see myself flogging kittens outside Charing Cross, so, a cat it was.
We spotted our Cat at once. He lounged in a perspex case, surrounded by wriggly kittens poking their noses into his luxurious belly and kneading him with drowsy, milk-drunk paws. The Cat slept. A handwritten sign proclaimed: Rupert. The vendor related a pitiful tale of feline misfortune: Rupert had grown up with a dog whod nearly done him insoon there was no place for the poor soul in the crowded flat.
Rupert, on inspection, turned out to be a pedigreed Persian, an elegant silver-grey. There were no papersa tragic loss, we were toldso wed have to take it on faith that his squashed nose was pedigree, not a childhood accident. According to the vanished documents, he was officially Sir Bartholomew, but answered amiably enough to Rupert. We bought him for forty pounds and set off home, cat box in tow.
Rupert snuffled softly under the front seat the whole drive. In the stairwell, my wife, knowing my feeling about casual mutilation, asked slyly:
Sure hes not been er snipped?
My pulse quickened. Not out of any personal prejudice, but neutered cats have always troubled me: the wronged dignity, like Quasimodo, cruelly battered by fate. I stretched Rupert out on the landing, performed an awkward, shadowy veterinary inspection. In the gloom, amidst clumps of matted fur, nothings obvious. But I steeled myself, stroked his feline undercarriage. Rupert howled, but as far as I could judge, all the essentials seemed present.
That evening, our daughter dropped round on a fridge raid. Spotting Rupert, she abandoned her attack on what little was left of the battenberg, seized the cat, andwith her motherbundled him into the bath. They lathered him with baby shampoo, bundled him up, and, for reasons unclear, dried him with my towel.
Once dry, my wife began combing out knots and trimming away the worst matts. Rupert objected, yowling in disgust. I took my leave, retreated to the kitchen with a can of ale.
The domestic calm shattered. An anguished screech, a crash, the shatter of glass. I set my drink aside and hurried in. My wife perched on the sofa, hands criss-crossed with bloody scratches, moaning rhythmically. Scissors nearby, tufts of fur everywhere. We gathered around her, concerned.
Whats happened?
She looked up, eyes bleak, and wailed: E-E-E-G-G-S!
Eggs? What eggs?
Theyre o-o-o-off!
Whose?
The c-c-c-c-cats!
I know nothing of medicine, but Im fairly certain cat bits are not so easily removed. Especially not the family jewels.
Between breathless sobs we struggled to piece it together. Privately, I yearned to throttle my belovedout of mercy, you understand, as one might finish off a suffering beast, for her sake and ours.
Eventually, she unclenched her bloodied fists. There, in her shaking palms, lay two fluffy, blood-streaked lumps. On inspection, it transpired: while shed been trimming a stubborn mat between Ruperts legs, the cat had jolted, and the scissors, instead of fur, snipped off, in her view, the crucial anatomical bits.
Weeping and, nose streaming, she described the commotion: Rupert yowled in pain, vanished beneath the sofa, gouging her arms and smashing a vase en route. Frankly, had it been me, I wouldve laid waste to the entire sitting room. I said as much. She sobbed anew.
Armed with a mop, our daughter and I crouched on the floor. Way back, in the dustiest cave of the settee, Ruperts eyes glinted amber. He rumbled ominously. The most artful coaxing, even with sausage, had no effecta man can respect that.
With gentle nudges, our daughter tried levering Rupert towards the edge. I attempted to grab the miserable casualty by whichever limb presented itself. Remarkably canny, Rupert resisted, clawing the mop handle until he finally inched closer, looking nothing short of demented: wild gold eyes, cobwebs on his whiskers, a centurys dust in his plumed taila debonair Persian transformed into a tramp by half an hour with my wife. I felt an odd kinship.
I held the wary creature to my chest, scratching his ears. Gradually, Rupert softened, his paws relaxed, and with a throaty, uncertain purr, he began to rumble! Eyes half-slitted, he purred, hardly the response one would expect from a newly-made eunuch. My wife, on tiptoe, cooed and fussed:
Is he poorly? Is he choking? Im calling a vet!
The cat fixed her with a muddy gaze and fell deathly silent. He truly sounded as if he might breathe his last. I shooed the women out and brought Rupert to the kitchen.
We shared a can of lager, licking our wounds, man to man. I told him of the sorrows of living boxed up with womenfolk; Rupert, in his way, purred understandingly. At last, stretched full length on my lap, he kneaded my stomach with warm paws. A deep trust drew us close, anddiplomaticallyI checked between his legs. Reassurance eluded me: nothing in sight. More ale, more searchingstill nothing. It dawned on me: within my arms lay not a cat, but a rather large, beautiful Persian queen, round of belly. The eggs, far from anatomical tragedy, were merely clumps of bloodied matted fur.
We never hunted down the vendor for trickery. Our shared ordeal forged a bond. And her name is no longer Rupert. Yesterday, Rosie gave birth to four fluffy kittens. The flat isnt quiet anymore; our house is full of children once more.
Kuzy
The Wedding Was Over, the Guests Had Gone Home, and Our Daughter Moved in with Her Husband. The Flat Felt Empty. After a Week of Restless Silence, My Wife and I Decided to Get a Pet—to Fill the Void and Keep Our Parental Instincts Alive with Feeding, Training, Walks, and Cleaning Up After Someone (Hopefully Less Troublesome Than Our Daughter, Who’d Swipe My Cigarettes and Raid the Fridge at Night). We Didn’t Know What We Wanted Yet and Planned to Decide at the Market.
On Sunday, We Set Off to the London Pet Market. Cute Guinea Pigs Caught My Eye by the Entrance, but My Wife Immediately Dismissed Them: “Ours Should Be a Land Animal.” The Fish Were Too Quiet, and Parrots—As Chatty and Bright as Ever—Made My Wife Sneeze. A Small Monkey’s Antics Reminded Me of Our Daughter in Her Teen Years, but My Wife Threatened Drastic Measures If I Insisted, So I Relented. Familiarity Took Precedence Over Novelty.
That Left Dogs and Cats. Dogs Needed Too Much Walking, and I Couldn’t Picture Myself Trying to Offload Kittens at the Tube Station. So, a Cat It Was.
We Saw Our Cat Immediately. He Lay in a Plexiglass Case, Surrounded by Clueless Kittens Snuggling Into His Fluffy Belly. The Cat Slept Beneath a Sign that Read “Kuzy.” The Seller Spun a Moving Tale: Kuzy Had Survived a Dog Nearly Mauling Him and Lost His Place in the Home. He Was a Handsome Grey Persian, Though His Breed Papers Were Missing. Officially Named “Kaiser,” He Happily Responded to “Kuzy,” So We Bought Him.
The Journey Home Was Peaceful—Kuzy Gently Snored Beneath the Car Seat. Near Our Flat, My Wife Asked, Only Half-Teasing, “Are You Sure He’s Not Been Neutered?” I Investigated—Partly Because I Didn’t Fancy Owning a “Quasimodo Cat,” Mutilated Through No Fault of His Own. My Search Didn’t Turn Up Anything Definitive, but Everything Seemed, Well, Present.
That Evening, Our Daughter Stopped By for a Fridge Raid and Spotted Kuzy. She and Her Mum Dunked Him in the Bath, Washed Him with Baby Shampoo, Wrapped Him in My Towel, and Blow-Dried Him. My Wife Combed Out Clumps of Hair, While Kuzy Protested. I Retreated to the Kitchen with a Beer.
Suddenly—A Heart-Wrenching Yowl and a Crash of Glass. My Wife Sat on the Sofa, Swaying and Clutching Bloody, Scratched Arms. Beside Her, Tufts of Fur and Scissors. “What happened?” I asked. She sobbed, “Eggs…” Fresh confusion. “Eggs?” “They’re gone!” “From where?” “From the cat!”
Not a Doctor, but I Hesitated to Believe Such Things Come Off So Easily—Especially for Cats. Eventually, She Opened Her Fists to Reveal Two Bloodied Clumps of Fur. Turns Out, While Snipping Out Mats of Hair Between His Back Legs, Kuzy Twitched, and My Wife Accidentally Clipped What She Thought Were His… well, “bits.” Kuzy Howled, Scratched Her to Ribbons, Smashed a Vase, and Hid Under the Sofa. To Be Honest, In His Place, I’d Have Gone on a Total Rampage.
Daughter and I Armed Ourselves with a Mop, Crawled After the Cat, and—After Much Battle—Coaxed Him Out, Looking Every Bit the Disheveled, Unhappy Castaway.
As Kuzy Slowly Relaxed on My Knee, I Became Curious. A Gentle Check Revealed—No Male Cat Parts. In Fact, Kuzy Wasn’t a “he” at All, but a Rather Sturdy, Pregnant Persian Queen. So What My Wife Had Cut Off Was Matched Fur and a Bit of Scratch-Blood.
We Didn’t Storm Back to Yell at the Seller. After Everything, We’d Bonded with Our Cat—Now Named Kozzy. Yesterday, Kozzy Gave Birth to Four Fluffy Kittens. There Are Children in Our Home Again.
