Christmas at the Cat Cafe

‘A what?’ Margery said, her brow furrowing. She plucked her glasses from the cord around her neck and pushed them onto her nose. ‘Ooh, very fancy,’ she remarked, and I felt my fur begin to bristle as she studied the screen. She handed the phone back to Debbie with pursed lips. ‘But those fancy-looking cats are terribly fussy,’ she added gravely.

‘Well, you might be right, Margery. We’ll have to wait and see.’ Debbie chuckled, dropping the phone back into her bag. My purr resumed even more loudly than before, and I burrowed my face into the folds of Margery’s skirt.

The comforting ambience of Margery’s room stayed with me for the entire journey home, right up to the point where Debbie pushed open the café door and carried me inside. I was greeted by what, at first, appeared to be the usual Sunday afternoon scene: Maisie was scratching vigorously at the trunk of the cat tree, and I was aware of Abby and Bella racing up the wooden walkway that zigzagged up the wall by the door. As Debbie lowered the carrier to the floor, I saw Jasper washing on one of the armchairs in front of the stove, while Eddie chased a catnip mouse across the flagstones. My eyes followed him as he scampered towards the window, deftly batting the stuffed mouse back and forth between his front paws.

Only when Eddie reached the skirting board did I notice Ming watching him, motionless and sphinx-like, from the windowsill above. From my cushion. Eddie crouched victoriously over the mouse, and I saw him glance up at Ming. The look he gave her was one he had given me on many occasions. It was a look that said, Want to play? Ming stared back at him, her head tilted, her blue gaze curious.

I was seized by a sudden feeling of panic that, locked inside my carrier, I seemed to be invisible to all the other cats in the room. The warm feeling of well-being that I had carried since seeing Margery was giving way to an ice-cold rage. I had been gone for just a morning, and already Ming had taken my place, both literally and figuratively, while all I could do was watch from behind the bars of my carrier. And the worst of it was that neither Jasper nor any of the kittens appeared to think anything was wrong.

10

‘Because it’s my cushion, that’s why.’

Jasper had followed me out onto the doorstep and was looking at me with a mixture of bafflement and concern. ‘But, you weren’t here. How was Ming supposed to know the cushion’s yours?’

My tail thrashed angrily by my feet; my initial shocked dismay had been replaced by unadulterated fury, and Jasper’s attempts to reason with me were making things worse. ‘You could have told her!’ I hissed, turning to face him, my eyes narrowed. ‘But then I suppose you were all too busy playing happy families to think about me.’

I turned away to look down the parade, feeling my eyes prickle and my heart thump. I was cross not only with Jasper, but also with the kittens, for not telling Ming that the window cushion belonged to me; they should have known I would not take kindly to such an invasion of my personal territory. But it wasn’t just the fact that she had been on my cushion that had upset me. It was something intangible that I had sensed as I observed them from the carrier: an atmosphere of relaxed familiarity, which had seemed to pervade the whole room and suggested, to me, that the kittens and Jasper felt quite comfortable in Ming’s presence, and she in theirs.

Jasper sat beside me, looking contrite, but I was not in a forgiving mood.

‘Oh, never mind,’ I muttered, pushing past him and back through the cat flap. With as much dignity as I could muster, and keeping my eyes fixed on the flagstones in front of me, I strode through the café and upstairs to the flat.

I awoke on Monday morning to a queasy feeling of dread. I had spent the night at the end of Debbie’s bed, flitting between feelings of self-pity at the unfairness of having to share my home with a rival feline, and rage at everybody else’s apparent inability to recognize my distress. In a few hours’ time Debbie would open the café and I would have to bear witness to Ming’s moment of glory, as she was unveiled to the public. Of course I could avoid the café altogether and spend the day outdoors but, after the previous day’s trauma, I worried that to absent myself completely might have even worse consequences. Not only was there a high likelihood that Ming would lay claim to the window cushion again, but people might assume she had taken my place as the café’s figurehead. So, after eating a breakfast for which I had very little appetite, I crept downstairs.

Ming was on her platform, surveying the room regally while Debbie prepared to open the café.

‘We’ll need to keep a close eye on Ming today,’ Debbie told Linda, emptying a bag of coins into the till drawer. ‘I don’t know how she’ll react to the customers.’