Myrrrthin rose to consciousness with the thought that Bast had a rather nasty sense of humor. Wet and cold was not how one expected to arrive in the Lands of the Dead, and yet he was definitely wet and decidedly chilly. And tired beyond telling. Which made the repeated calling of his name several degrees past annoying. He’d earned his After-life, and he bloody well intended to enjoy it.
Again his name was called, and this time he growled. “Go away, you twit, and stop bothering me. Can’t you see I’m dead?”
Laughter was the unexpected reply to his grousing, followed by a voice that sounded familiar. “You are many things, Myrrrthin Starfur,” it said, “but dead is not one of them. No one is!”
Obviously, a witty, biting remark was called for. “Huh?”
“I don’t know how you managed it,” the voice continued, “but you saved the lot of us. A bit of singed fur on a couple of the outermost guards. And one’s got part of his tail missing-he’s already trying to impress the females with his battle scar. A good many cases of the shakes, and every cat indignant about getting wet, but…” the voice-Myrrrthin decided it was the warlord’s-dropped in volume as emotion filled it, “you did it, Old One. All alive and accounted for, thanks to you.” The voice dropped even lower in volume. “This is the second time you’ve saved my life, and both times in a spectacular manner.”
Myrrrthin’s eyes remained closed, but a subtle movement of muscle beneath fur told Ambrose he’d been heard. “Yes,” the younger cat continued, “I do remember your calling the lightning. And for that time, and this one, I’m grateful.”
Myrrrthin decided to cover his own emotion with gruff-ness. “Then go away,” he grumbled, “and let me rest until things cool down enough to see what’s left.”
Ambrose laughed. “Already done, so long have you been lazing. We’ve found plenty of sound, safe places in the building next to this one. A new nursery is already occupied, and I’ve found a niche that you might find acceptable for your own den. Hunting may be a trifle lean for a little while, but we’ll make do. Now open your eyes, and let’s get you up and moving.”
Sighing the sigh of a severely put-upon cat, Myrrrthin cracked one eye open. The other opened also, and he swiveled his head in the direction from where Ambrose’s voice had come.
The Warlord of Lower Greenville looked like a drowned rat. Or rather, a nearly drowned cat. His fur had dried un-groomed, and it stuck out in spikes pointed in all unkempt directions. His whiskers drooped from the weight of ash and soot, and he was covered in black mess from tip of claw to tip of tail, from shoulders to hips.
But what caused Myrrrthin to wonder how he’d been allowed to wake up at all was what was perched, jauntily askew, on Ambrose’s head: a soggy pink lace doily and limp florescent orange and chartreuse paisley party hat.
“Oh,” the old cat whispered, “bugger.”
KITTY AND THE CITY by Paul Genesse
Cassie sat on the dark rooftop, hating to admit that she was one of those cats who always had bad luck in relationships. She thought she had met the perfect tom until he turned his golden eyes away from her and got up to leave. After weeks of dating, she knew their brief romance was over.
Cassie leaned her white face forward. “
Wait.” She vocalized a soft meow for added urgency. Her gray and brown striped ears stood up straight and her sea-green eyes opened wide, giving him an unmistakable sign of her feelings for him.
But he turned away without reacting-cold and distant as usual-and slipped away, padding across the roof. Then he hesitated and faced her, his large body with perfect tuxedo markings almost cloaked in darkness. His white chest, feet, and face glowed faintly in the city’s twinkling lights as he whispered, “I just can’t settle down right now.”
Cassie’s tail sagged. His musky scent faded as if he’d already gone. “Why are you so scared to get close to me?”
“I might be leaving the city. Permanently.”
“You weren’t even going to tell me?” Cassie felt so betrayed. The idea of another failed relationship smacked her in the nose like a slammed door.
He regarded her with a sad expression. “It’s just bad timing, Kitty.”
She figured this would be the last time he called her by her nickname. He probably wanted to be gentle as he broke up with her, but using it was just too cruel.
“I’ll see you around.” He disappeared into the shadows, his overly large paws silently carrying him away into the night.
When he was gone, Cassie sank to the stone and turned her head toward the sparkling lights of the vast metropolis below her.
In a city full of felines, why do I always find toms with commitment issues?
In the end, Mr. Big-Paws had been just like all the rest.
After midnight, when she couldn’t take the cloying smells of flowers and pigeon droppings anymore, she made her way down the central stairs-past the penthouse where Big-Paws lived-to the tenth floor of her swank building. She went out through the hall window and navigated along the ledge to her human’s large balcony. The glass door was open, but she didn’t go in. Cassie lay down, letting the cool breeze blow across her fur. The pain in her heart had become a dull ache, and she hoped she wouldn’t wake up for a very long time.
When the afternoon sun warmed her body, Cassie finally dragged herself off the balcony. She moped around the apartment, trying to cheer herself up with a jaunt into the master bedroom closet. Dozens of designer shoes lined the shelves or lay scattered across the floor. Cassie had been planting compulsions into her human’s mind to buy all the expensive brands for several years now, and the closet was overflowing. A shoe fetish was not uncommon among her kind, and Cassie was a very discerning feline. Her sense of style had helped propel her human’s career as a top writer for a fashion magazine. Cassie prided herself on having impeccable taste and didn’t go for the counterfeit knockoffs. They never smelled right. Her human always got the real thing: Prada, Manolo Blahnik, Fendi. They were all there.
The smell of new Italian leather cheered her up for a moment, especially when she got a whiff of the new calfskin t-strap sandals by Jimmy Choo. Cassie had always thought of them as “Chews.” She had nibbled lightly on a few of them, and only when they were out of season.
She resisted chewing on the new Choos until she remembered how Mr. Big-Paws had dumped her, then she buried her teeth in the succulent leather. Glorious flavor filled her mouth as she thought of her ex-tom. Out of all the cats she had ever dated, he was by far her favorite. Not because of his access to vast wealth, or his calm demeanor that balanced her excitability. He made her feel like a queen when he was around.
Cassie was also sure he would have been the best lover she ever had and would have made a great lifelong companion. They both loved the same things: long naps on silk pillows, Mediterranean catnip, and gourmet food-especially anything with lobster or pheasant livers.
The worst thing was that they had spent weeks dating, and she still hadn’t gotten her itch scratched. If Cassie was ever going to get satisfaction and have kittens, it had to be soon. Her feline clock was ticking. Fast.
Time was getting away from her in more ways than one. She had to meet her friends for lunch, and she was already late. After a quick look in the mirror, Cassie decided that she looked dreadful. Her fur was matted on her haunches, and her face needed a good tongue bath. She had once won top prize at a fashion show featuring American Shorthairs, wearing haute couture of course, but the way she looked now-like a common street cat-would get her immediately thrown into a horrid pen with fifteen other tabbies at the local animal rescue association.