The Tale of Kitten Brendan

by Marsali Taylor

It was his mother I heard of first. ‘There’s a little cat visiting me that looks like a relative of your Miss Matty,’ my friend Izzy said, and messaged me a photo. She was right; the scruffy tortoiseshell skulking on her path had Miss Matty’s face and long, mottled fur, although not the white ruff and paws and general air of being queen of all she surveyed. Given that Miss M’s grand-daughter had gone to Walls, it was likely that this was the next generation. She was visibly pregnant.

‘I’d be interested in a pair of kittens,’ I said rashly, before checking with Philip whether he’d be interested too. Turned out he had grave forebodings, and we had a long discussion on what our big cats would say to an interloper when they all got on so well together, and whether aforesaid potential kitten would be litter-tray literate, given that their grandmother became a byre cat because she refused to use one. I agreed reluctantly that it was a bad idea, and I stuck to that through Izzy’s other visiting girl having three kittens in her airing cupboard.

joyed a good chase round the house, which a kitten could join, and Miss Matty could teach him ball skills and curtain climbing.

Then Izzy phoned one evening. She’d managed to trap the mother and have her spayed, and had now caught the kitten, who was living in a cage in her kitchen. ‘He’s such an affectionate wee boy, but my ginger Freddy hates him, so he has to stay in the cage, and I’m off south for a week.’

I tried the photo on Philip: a wide-eyed kitten with paws he’d grow into and a strong look of his great-great-grandfather, our beautiful Petrov, who was killed on the road. He wasn’t Petrov’s lovely ash-grey, but he was prettily striped, with pale fluffy lugs. ‘We could try him,’ I coaxed. ‘Probation for a fortnight, and see how they all get on. Izzy has another possible home if our lot are just too mean to him. We could go and meet him, at least.’

Of course, we brought him home with us that evening. He had to stay in the cage overnight, and he was still nervous – he’d been feral until a week ago – but he let himself be picked up and purred at being stroked.

I wasn’t totally convinced though. I thought a lively kitten would do us all good. Magnus, our substantial stripey boy, might enjoy a young apprentice to stalk round the garden with, especially if aforesaid apprentice did the actual work of chasing off strange cats while Magnus sat imposingly on the peat stack. Our girls, Miss Matty and her daughter, Génie, both en-

The big cats were wary, but not actively hostile. It was still summer, which they all spend mostly outside anyway, so they came in for their breakfast while he was eating his, then headed out again, giving the living room a wide berth. There was only one odd reaction. Our older cats aren’t great hunters, but the occasional bird or mouse is not unknown, so when I got up to the toilet in Kitten Brendan’s first night, I was sorry but not surprised to see a corpse on the floor. Skylark, I noted, as I put it in the bin. Philip found a second one and a live bird when he went to make the tea, and I found a fourth, dead, when I opened the front door. None of them had been played with (normally you can’t quite tell what species it was without looking closer than you want to), so they weren’t, as Philip suggested, taking out their wrath at the arrival of a kitten on the local wildlife. Either they were contributing to his upkeep or making it clear that we didn’t need a young male cat to stock up the household larder.

Male he most definitely was. I remembered that walk very well; he swaggered across the room in just the way Kitten Petrov had done, like a teenage motor-biker in too-tight jeans, and wolfed his food in just the same way. Those of you who have multiple cats know how the pecking order goes: like lions, the oldest male is nominally in charge, although the oldest female actually does the work. As an unsorted male, Kitten Brendan assumed he was headed for top cat.

On his third day I had the oddest moment of telepathy. I’d sat down on the couch and he’d come to sit on my knee, looking up at me. As I was stroking him, suddenly I felt him remembering that someone used to wash his face and ears, and he’d curled up against her, and it was warm and safe, and how lost and frightened he’d been in that week since. He was only a little kitten, after all. I gave the inside of his ears a rub with my thumb, and he relaxed completely as if he knew that he was safe again, and purred like a kettle about to boil, then fell fast asleep.

After that I was adopted as mum, and his confidence soared. When we came down in the morning he came bouncing out from inside Philip’s piano; he explored the conservatory and made his way upstairs, and, since it was summer, he went outside and met the big cats. I hesitated over letting him out. If he’d had a normal kitten upbringing, of course, I wouldn’t have dreamed of letting an eleven-week-old baby into the wild world. However, as a feral kitten he had skills I thought he should keep, and so, one sunny morning I propped the door open and let him venture into the front hall. By now the big cats had got used to him. Kitten, ate from their bowls (everyone was on kitten food), used their litter tray in preference to his own, small, bouncy, mostly harmless. Miss Matty and Génie had gone out into the garden, and Magnus was on the doorstep, considering the day. Kitten Brendan went cautiously up to him, sniffed whiskers and dodged past, then sat on the lower step in exactly the same pose.

‘Me and Magnus,’ I could just hear him saying.

‘We’re on watch. You girls don’t need to worry. Me and Magnus have it all under control.’ When Magnus strolled off into the bushes,

Brendan charged excitedly after him. There was a bit of a scuffle, and a squeak, which had Miss Matty going to look. It had sounded more like Magnus, but surely he wasn’t scared of a kitten a quarter of his size. I called, and Brendan came back and played on the doorstep for a bit, then came in when I did.

Things seemed to be going well. He was a really sociable little fellow, keeping us company wherever we went. Once he’d mastered paw control, he dribbled balls round the house, and lost them under furniture. He learned his name, and that he could sit on my lap or shoulder during meals, but the first nose or paw on the table had him back on the floor. When we left the door propped open, he made forays outside, but returned when I called him. He even played around my feet while I practiced the flute, which was more enthusiasm than any of the others had shown. The only place he didn’t go, to my surprise, was into my writing room, where Magnus slept in the airing cupboard; maybe he was respecting the Ruling Male’s domain.

As for the big cats, well, they started coming back into the house, pausing to watch him as they went from hall to conservatory. Génie seemed the least worried, sniffing his whiskers as he passed; except that when I was lying down one day, with her on my chest, Kitten Brendan jumped up on the bed too, and tried to ingratiate himself. He really did try; he lay on his back, exposing his round spotty tummy, and wriggled up to her, purring his loudest. I willed her to give his imploring wee face a lick, but when he tried to pat her with one paw, she gave him a hiss and bop on the nose instead. If she’d wanted to adopt a child in middle age, I felt her thinking, she and Miss Matty would have organized it themselves. It was unfair of me to dump one on them and expect them to mother it.

All the same, my hopes kept rising. When he came up while Miss Matty was communing with her mistress, he kept a respectful distance down the bed, and she made it quite clear that she didn’t see a kitten anywhere, and went to sleep. In which case, he obviously reasoned (he was the sort of kitten who’d have got a posthumous VC in the war), he could sneak up to under my chin. He might have got away with it if he hadn’t tried to walk over her.

Kitten / cat relations went downhill after that. I think he decided then that he liked us, he liked the house, he loved the garden, with all those exciting bushes to chase into, and he wanted to keep them. The other cats had to go; and he started with Miss Matty, either because she was the smallest or because he’d sussed her out as the real Top Cat.

I tried to think it was admiration at first. When she jumped up onto the windowsill, he followed. When she curled up on the couch, he curled up on the floor below, ready to follow her when she woke again. Philip, being male himself, found it more sinister, and when I stood one evening and watched Kitten Brendan chase first Miss Matty and then Génie from their own front door into the bushes, I had to agree. Even Magnus had taken to walking around him. He was cruisin’ for a bruisin’, but if it came to a fight, I wasn’t sure Miss Matty would win. He was nearly as big as she was, and the rate he was growing, even if she sorted him out now, it wouldn’t be long before he got his revenge. Alternatively, she might run and leap over the wall, and he’d follow her onto the road. I thought of our Petrov and couldn’t bear another road casualty.

With a heavy heart I picked the cutest photo of him and made a notice for the shop: Wanted, only-cat home for lovely peerie ketling. I explained that he was house-trained, very affectionate, but already bullying our big cats. The first folk to see the notice took it down again, and came round to get him: just the home I’d have wanted, down by the marina, with an older stay-mostly home couple. The wife even played the flute.

It took a full week and a half before the other cats were back to normal. Magnus finally emerged from the airing cupboard and took over the conservatory chaise longue once more. Miss Matty returned to my desk to supervise my writing. Génie at last came to demand her Dreamies at 20.30 prompt. ‘No more kittens,’ I promised them.

All the same, his new house is only diagonally across the football pitch, and we do have the most interesting garden in the village, from a cat point of view. A man needs to patrol his extended territory.

I suspect Cat Brendan will be back

Marsali Taylor grew up in Edinburgh, and studied English at Dundee University before teacher training college. She moved to the Shetland Isles for her first teaching post, and loved it so much that she’s stayed there ever since. She’s now the author of ten Shetland-set detective stories starring liveaboard sleuth Cass Lynch and her partner DI Gavin Macrae. She’s also published a history of women’s fight for the vote and articles for a local magazine Shetland Life. She has a monthly column in Practical Boat Owner. Apart from writing, she spends her summer messing around on the water in her 8m yacht Karima S, and her winters involved in the village pantomime

Indian Summer

by Chantal Bellehumeur

I intended on going to the store

But my plans changed as I walked out the door. Fallen autumn leaves crunched under my feet Yet the sun provided summer-like heat.

I changed my plan and headed to the park There I heard the dog chasing a squirrel bark. The bushy-tailed scavenger climbed a tree And from a safe distance it stared at me.

I lied down on the damp leaf covered ground Closed my eyes, did not move, or make a sound. As I napped dead leaves fell on my body And I heard the squirrel come closer to me.

The squirrel's squeaky sound got my attention It drew me to look in its direction. The animal cutely hid a peanut Tapping the ground for a better result.

I laughed when I saw it carefully choose A leaf to hide his spot, as it would move. All the leaves in the park danced in the wind The fall breeze warmer then I'd imagined.

I knew this lovely weather wouldn't last Expecting to groan soon at the forecast. With the winter season fast approaching It would get cold outside and start snowing.

The squirrel and I both enjoyed the last days Of Indian summer with its hot sun rays. I didn't see her again until spring When I went outside to sit on a swing.

Perhaps it was a different little squirrel But it came to see me and did a twirl. It seemed really excited and happy Maybe for the same plain reason as me.

Having been cooped up to avoid the cold Being outside in the sun was like gold But the squirrel didn't care about the heat There was someone she wanted me to meet.

A cute baby squirrel came down from a tree And rapidly made its way towards me I was afraid it would climb my bare leg But it just stopped in front of me to beg.

I didn't know how long I could endure Looking at this adorable creature Without picking it up to pet its coat And felt tricked into giving it my oats.

It ran away as soon as it was fed His image remaining inside my head. When an Indian summer comes again I'll smile thinking about my little friend.

Chantal Bellehumeur is a Canadian author born in 1981. She has 18 published books of various genres as well as numerous short stories, memoirs, poems and articles featured in compilation books, eMagazines, plus a local newspaper.