Manderlay's Meow

Manderlay, the ginger tom, soars past his common beginnings to become the masterly beast his ancestors would be proud of. This is his tale.

Am I appreciated? I had a scurrilous start in life, being rudely deposited in a suburban pet shop at barely six weeks, mother’s milk clinging to my chin.

The bristle-faced clod at the cash register priced me at ten dollars. Disbelief! I mean, I am a ginger tom of the finest English breeding. Mother informed me that father belonged to a butler. On Chatsworth Street. No doubt he was a superb mouser. Had I been adopted into a country estate, I would have reigned over my own barn.

Despite my present position, I refrained from panic. I had to make my escape with the greatest speed, so I built up my résumé of pleading looks --- innocent or rakish, whatever got me sold.

I was no pussy, but I deplored the sawdust floor we were imprisoned on. Sharing a bowl with my siblings allowed no proper order of rank, and that shop fellow expected me to play with shredded newspaper!

Fortune was with me. I had been cloistered for only a few days when my future servants walked dreamily into the store desiring a pair of darlings --- ginger and black males. Well of course they adored me.  Chalk-blue eyes, creamy red fur… really a strawberry blonde. Black brother was not so handsome. He was the big boy of the litter, though he remained my submissive. It seemed obvious that I was the only one of the group to represent our distinguished lineage.

He and I were clasped; held in the air; talked to; paid for and receipted. We gave our siblings a ponderous farewell, hoping they would prosper likewise. Our winsome sister mewed thinly, fearing to leave the security of the litter tray. Dots of absorbent clay powdered her feverish nose. Too delicate for street life, she must acquire a trusting owner. We swallowed hard with grief. Would she end up smooching in the alleys?

Not a moment did we have to consider before they deposited us into a grocery box. Lemon detergent scented our tomb. Sorcery sneezed and shuddered. My ears flicked as I heard the lid being mightily taped to ensure our bondage. A strained yank had us strapped onto a car seat. Our heads lurched forward and we two innocents were chauffeured home.

My brother’s old-gold eyes glimmered as unblinking torches while I savaged the cardboard that bound us. When they released us onto the lounge room carpet, I was gagging on sticky tape. Exploding with ecstasy, we leapt onto our hind legs, twisting with feline joy. Our servants were amused. Bizarre flashes clicked in our faces while we wobbled, tingled with stimulation. Another box sat nearby.

A rather short service had us named. I am Manderlay; my brother was bestowed with the mystical word Sorcery. We were satisfied, but wished to pry into that other box. Surely, there was no competition? Open it now!

As the mistress sliced wickedly along the flaps, a silver quail zoomed out to the ceiling where it promptly cracked its delirious neck. I sniggered to Sorcery who was bewildered.

Did my servants have a penchant for creatures? Oh dear me. Was the backyard going to be crowded? I hoped to secure my domain, and instructed Sorcery in the “all for one” theory of survival. Right now, we must demand meat and milk.

Mistress did not permit animals inside the house, so after the loving, she, the wench, bolted us in a bleak garage. We were apportioned kitty milk in a jokey, cartoon-painted bowl. Groggy, we clutched onto each other and bravely saw out the night, scared of what backyard terrors awaited us.

I woke up stiff and spitting, trying to unzip my eyes. Sorcery’s flaccid tongue fell out of his mouth like an old shoe sole and I wailed, thinking he had died of nervous shock. He parachuted upwards. His fur was so electrified it fluffed out. I stared. The underlayer of his coat had faint tabby prints. Why, he’s not totally black. Not an ebony prince, but fake! I admired myself even more for being a true marmalade.

There was no zoo after all… merely a couple of quails that trailed each other in a metal cage. Master had made a quaint, though comfortable home for them, adding perches and plastic bells. How pitiful! He had no sense of natural design. We allowed our servants their little moments of happiness, including their parody of vegetable farming. We laid on our backs, massaged by the sun’s fingers, our eyeballs rattling with laughter, as they became “at one” with nature.

We had a juicy life, regaling ourselves in the wilds of our territory. I learned to carry my tail like a ship’s mast, and whenever Sorcery and I partook of a meal, I made certain to press my paw on his forehead indicating my right to dine first.

Summer evenings spoiled us. Fun, fighting, and pranks trained us in masculine victory. Oh, how I wanted to portray the most excellent cat. A creature my adored ancestors would toast… worthy of an oil canvas.

Master and Mistress often lazed on the cool concrete of the front verandah, spilling tea and asking us unintelligent questions.

“Are you a good, good boy then?”

How ridiculous. What should a cat say to that?

Sorcery looked for pockets and sleeves to hide in. Me, I ran up and down their backs clawing all the way. They would shriek. I would feign apologies. They would stroke my fur backwards. I would repeat the vengeance.

We prized our menu. They were insistent on providing butcher-fresh meat and market fish for us, condemning those who opened tins. Mistress would sometimes indulge us with chicken carcass, and during our first winter, she fed us stockpot soup. We strutted around in pet paradise.

...even as a kitten I was a lion.

On the fruit-tree side of the yard dwelt a tense, scrawny woman who deplored cats, but slavered over an obese dachshund. She made fists at us over the pickets and reported to our servants when I snagged a bird. Really! It requires some talent and flexibility to grip a bird in flight. I would skate over the pickets, showing my needle teeth to the gums, indicating that I might fly into her face at any minute. Sometimes she belted me with her feather duster. Of course that was my delight.

The local parrots would seat themselves on the fence and clothesline, spying kinkily on my bird-mauling stunts, applauding the fact that they were absent from the feast. For an encore, I would swipe goldfish from the rock pond. Sorcery remained a coward to my implausible acts, shivering under the house in a zombie trance. Mistress often had to tempt him out with sardines.

I dared the magpies, who noted my maturing countenance. I shall never test a crow again though. One rambunctious beast, the size of a hen, faced me for a debate. He won the stare-out. I pretended to lose interest and sprang for my safety bush. One should always have a safety bush.

Sorcery was never able to hack such excitement. I suspected a dash of Siamese in his light body and chiseled ears. When we were two years old, and I ruled the backyard, he absconded after a nervous collapse. My oracle had been correct. He didn’t have the dignity to endure. Now, I am unchallenged. My reputation is sealed.

Resolved to acquire more feral tastes, I trotted off for two days. Boldly I tell you that I returned whipped and lanky from my conquests, and won’t mention a few trifling dishonours.

I watch the moon alone, and hunt as a king of the darkness. My magnificence is seen in the windows as I streak past. It’s a pleasant time. Nevertheless, I had urges to explore and assert myself, so this morning, when mistress refused me a second bowl of cream; I chose to spite her by removing my presence. I blew with the wind past the letterbox and speared deep into the wilds where only true cats may imprint their spirit. I may never come back. And if so, then they can remember me by my last photo… me amongst the brazen foxgloves.

© Esmerelda Jones... Author of Vintage & Victorian Fiction

Title: Sadie Marmalade
Artist: Will Rafuse
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