We brought our city cat, Henry, with us when we went to spend some time in the countryside. There, in the small English village, lived Henrys brother, Percy. Percy was nicknamed Boggle because of his rather bulging eyesno one messes about with politeness here; they just call things as they see them.
It wasnt a warm welcome for poor Henry. Though not the biggest cat, Percy immediately made it clear he was top dog, or top cathe guarded all the food like a sentry and hissed at Henry something fierce, just like the panellists on those daytime telly debates.
At some point, Percy made the usual mistake of a village tough, thinking he couldnt be touched. He launched himself, teeth and claws, at Henry. Henry, feigning indifference, absentmindedly waved a paw like some lord fanning himself, and quite by accident landed a right hookPercy ended up being pried out of the rubbish bin after that.
So, in his classic awkward fashion, Henry unexpectedly rose to the top of the pecking order.
In the country, cats only get fussed with when theres a use for them. Only the biting cold of English winter saved Henry from being sent to chase field mice. Meals were a haphazard affair out hereno one with a stopwatch or silver tray. Henry struggled to adapt. Back in the city, he ate at regular hours off fine china, with my uncles butler inviting him to supper.
The stress brought his instincts back in no time. More than once, Id stumble into the kitchen at midnight and find Henry face-first in a saucepan atop the Aga. Percy, guarding his post by the stool, would hiss a warning at the slightest sound, giving Henry the signal that trouble was coming. Henry would lazily turn towards me and meow to Percy, as if saying, Dont worry about him, hes one of usyou should see him rummaging in the fridge after midnight.
Eventually, we figured Henry had toughened up. We carried him out to the garden and plopped him down in the snow. When he turned to look at us, his face was covered in white, and his eyes held a sort of tragic regret that called to mind Al Pacinos look in that famous scene from Scarface. We didnt let him out after that.
One evening, Archies mates from the village came over. The lot of us got settled in the snug, and I read them a bit of Dickens. When I reached the part about a wicked stepmother turning into a black cat whose claws clicked along the floor, the door gave out a most appalling creak and in marched Percy, prancing as only he could.
Turned out Henry had taught his brother his signature trickopening just about any door with a swift swipe of the paw.
The snug is tiny, but somehow we all managed to scatter. At one point, we were retrieving one lad from the window latch; only his grans delicious shepherds pies had kept him plump enough not to slip out entirely.
Oh, I suppose nows the moment to addPercy is as black as pitch, gloomier than an empty London tube after midnight.
Funny how the classics rarely have such a profound effect on modern children.
Lesson learned: No matter where you go, adopting a stiff upper lip helps, but sometimes you need to adapt like a country cat if you want to get by in this world.
