Felidae on the Road - Special U.S. Edition (15 page)

'Well, just off the cuff ...'

'It's because we'd tear him to pieces if he touched a hair of our heads. We are the Wild Ones, the only true lords of the forest. We dance to its song when the wind whistles over the tree-tops, we honour the sloughing of its skin when season succeeds season, we preserve and care for it by hunting and thus keeping its surplus population down. We are its eldest children and most faithful guardians, we're so closely merged with its being that we've even taken on its colour. No one in these parts would dare to harm us. If he did, the spirit of the forest would rise against him, along with all the spirits of my tribe.'

'Scroungers like me are a bit slow on the uptake, you know, but even at the risk of seeming more stupid than you and the rest of the Forest Police will allow, I have to ask you one more simple question. If you're so invincible and so fearless, then why don't you dispose of the Black Knight and put an end to the farmyard murders?'

'First, because we feel anything but sympathy for the victims. They're a lazy lot, and they suck up to human beings. They'd rather crawl to the destroyers of our hunting grounds than make an honourable living by hunting for themselves. Of course they do catch the occasional mouse and fool the stupid farmer into believing his investment in milk and scraps is paying off. But actually, out here in the country the stupid rodents will walk straight into your mouth regardless unless you happen to be in an airtight zinc coffin. I'm sure you'd get on splendidly with those layabouts. You could hold story-telling competitions, for instance, about the way-out "sweet" little attitudes you adopt to persuade your owners to throw you their half-eaten delicacies.'

'So what about the second reason? I mean, I really am gradually gathering some vague notion of the meaning of dignity, you know.'

'The second reason why we can't bring ourselves to send the Black Knight packing is directly connected with the first. After all, the Knight and his servant the dog have chosen to live wild and free, utterly despising the crumbs man would throw them in return for acting all cuddly. In that they resemble us.'

'But they're crazy. They're killers!'

'Aren't we all? What do you think your tinned food is made of, my dear Francis? Waste paper? Believe you me, lover boy, the treasured titbits you eat once breathed air, felt the warm sun on their coats and enjoyed life too. The strong eat the weak. Ever heard of that principle before?'

'By that reasoning we ought to worship human beings as gods. They aren't just strong, they're all-powerful.'

'You and your like already do worship them! But the fact is, mankind has a choice, unlike us. And speaking of choice, I obviously made quite the wrong one when I picked you. All this talking has put me right off sex. You strike me as a proper windbag.'

Windbag, wilting Willie, scrounger - and when our liaison began I was her little prince. I was coming to understand how ardent love can turn to the vicious sparring of divorce. That's something which can take humans years, but my kind can do it in a few minutes. As if her strings were being pulled by invisible fingers, Alcina suddenly leaped to her feet and shook herself vigorously. Her passionate rolling had left little clods of dry mud in her fur, and they shot off in all directions as if there'd been an explosion. Once this thorough cosmetic operation was complete she stood before me again in all her radiant beauty, and I was very sorry that I hadn't kept my mouth shut after our tender passage and started right in where we left off. As she attentively licked her delicate parts clean, I was overcome by deep melancholy. I knew she would continue on her lustful way for several days, until her passion ebbed like a swing running down and finally came to a halt. And on that way she would encounter many willing victims, like me, who were more than happy to give the swing another push. I'd wasted the chance of a honeymoon lasting several days and nights, and all because of my inveterate curiosity. I almost wished that hunter would come back and give me the
coup de gr
â
ce
. It would just serve me right for my hopeless stupidity.

'Francis, don't mind too much if your loyal subject must go in search of a new prince now,' she said softly, turning away and walking off, her rump swaying gracefully, into a rampant colony of mushrooms. It was like the final chord of a gripping opera in which the entrancing prima donna is swallowed up by theatrical clouds, to become a transfigured tabby cloud dissolving into the firmament herself.

'It may console you to know that our meeting has not been in vain. You've made me think. Perhaps we ought not to take the Black Knight's butchery so lightly after all. I'll discuss it with our leader, my beloved and highly respected mother Aurelia. When she's made her considered judgement, you may put your views to the members of our tribe, and then we'll all decide what to do about it.'

'But how will I find you and your tribe?'

'Never mind that. If you stay around in this forest we'll find you, my little prince!' she said, disappearing among the gigantic fungi. Although I was still struggling to overcome the pain of farewell, part of my reasoning power was occupied with her sudden change of mind. Had a mere mental nudge really been enough to influence her sense of justice? Or were her last words to be taken as nothing but a conciliatory, noncommittal goodbye? No, I couldn't believe that, not of a member of so proud a race, a race which set such store by keeping its word. In the end I had to content myself, feebly enough, with surmising that I'd been really convincing without actually meaning to. This had been an unusual meeting in many ways - and a failure in many ways too.

Five minutes had passed before I began trying to think of a way out of this tricky situation. I'd simply been sitting in the ray of sunlight which pierced the leafy canopy, staring as if entranced at the fungal sea into which she had plunged. I felt as if I could still sniff her lustful scent in the air, see her fluffed-up coat, the colour of smoke, hear her deep voice, like the echo of prophecies from some sibylline goddess. Oh, shit and bloody hell, why did a poor old mental acrobat like me always have to fall for this sort of female? Why couldn't I fancy a fluffy Persian for once, just for a change, a queen with an IQ so low as to be barely measurable? A female who handled the business of love with all the refinement of battery farming, and apart from that went to her food bowl like an addict to the needle? But no, I had to pursue these standoffish ladies whose attitude was: thanks a lot but I have a good brain of my own! And who gave you the feeling you were indispensable only as long as your snorkel was up and working. Afterwards, you could sink to the bottom of the sea again for all they cared. I didn't even dare think what sort of progeny would be born of such relationships. Very likely future generations would meet only at exclusive pedigree shows and swap genes in vacuum-sealed plastic bags.

Despite my changed circumstances, I felt the old biological demands asserting themselves again and alerting me to an urgent need. I'd satisfied my hunger to some extent down in the sewers, and then, against all expectations, I had also satisfied those appetites which mankind for some inexplicable reason likes to describe as animal, although of all existing species
Homo sapiens
carries on with least restraint in that area. Well, as a wilting Willie of urban origin with ears attuned to the clatter of the tin-opener, I hadn't actually cut too bad a figure so far. All I needed to top off my good luck was some sleep. It was now late in the afternoon, so over fifteen hours had passed since I first set out, and in all that time I'd been wide awake and under great stress. All this would be a strain on humans, but one they could cope with; for someone with finely tuned senses like mine, however, long-term stress can soon induce total breakdown. As we are extremely efficient hunters who usually spend a lot of time lying in ambush, we need three-quarters of the day for sleep, unlike the naked ape. And if we have to go without sleep we're bound to collapse.

The sun would soon be setting, and then this lightly wooded jungle would become eerily hostile territory. Who knew, perhaps Crazy Hugo and his canine aide themselves might do me the favour of removing any lingering doubts I had of their guilt, along with my head? I may be classified as a nocturnal animal, but the idea of sleeping unprotected in the dark undergrowth made me exceedingly uncomfortable.

So I forged ahead. I was looking for either a narrow crack between some rocks or a tree that would be difficult for others to climb: anyway, a refuge which might lack the comforts of the Presidential Suite in the Waldorf Astoria but where I could at least lull myself into a belief that I'd hear any intruder coming a long way off. And my hopes of a suitable place were far exceeded when, after I'd walked a little way, the forest suddenly came to an end, giving me a view of a valley. In the middle of this lush green hollow lay a dilapidated property consisting of a romantically shabby farmhouse, two wooden sheds, and a large farmyard. The stream that had first welcomed me ran past one side of this farmyard, and the forest trees began again beyond it, rising up a steep hill, so the property in the valley was like a little bridleway of civilisation running through the woods. The fields which belonged to the farm obviously lay elsewhere, some way off.

The sight of this oasis made me forget all about trees and cracks between rocks; all I wanted, as if in proof that Alcina's rude remarks were right, was to make myself agreeable to the humans here. Surely they wouldn't chase a handsome fellow like me away. In fact it was more than likely that one or two of my kind were already giving the humans of this farm their company, satisfying mankind's need for something to pet in return for scraps of whatever got slaughtered on the farm. In my mind's eye I already saw myself tucking into a steaming heap of fresh offal, splashing in lakes of milk. Even better, I was enormously cheered by realising I wouldn't have to spend the night out in the forest now; I could be a civilised settler, safe inside the blockade, with a notice on the gate saying No One at Home to deter any ill-intentioned savages. Of course there was a risk of some officious farm dog who considered the lonely farm sacred ground and his bucolic owner the Lord God Almighty trying to chase me off. Or there might be unwelcoming members of my own species who'd turn nasty and fan the flames of territorial dispute. But I felt sure that thanks to certain techniques borrowed from the art of surgery, and which I had mastered as well as the chief surgeon himself, I could deal with any such opposition.

So I ran jubilantly downhill. I was pleased to see ponies grazing peacefully in the meadow. The sun was setting in splendour behind the forest on the other side of the valley, and the whole landscape, sheds in the middle and all, was bathed in a magical glow, as if the rare ore of Contentment was mined here.

When I had almost reached the farmyard but was still some distance away, I saw three of my professional colleagues. One of them, a brown and remarkably sturdy specimen, lay stretched out in the middle of the farmyard, which was semi-circular and paved with cobblestones. He had turned to the setting sun, so I could admire only the visual delights of his colossal rump. Evidently he'd dropped off to sleep in the gentle sunset warmth - either that or he was suffering from a terrible attack of indigestion following a lavish lunch, which suggested that one more mouth to feed made no difference in this spot. The second putative mouser, a tabby, offered a most provocative sight to a person in need like me: he was lying on his back on a huge old barrel right beside the farmhouse door, and he too was turned to the sun. He was obviously quite drunk with sleep, his paws up in the air and bent at an angle, a position our young assume when their owners tickle their tummies. His head was tipped back over the edge of the barrel, so it was hidden from me. I could see nothing of the third member of my species but half of his body, coal black and resting in the sphinx position; his front half was concealed behind the shed on the right. The owners of this place, the ideal setting for an ad trying to sell cigarettes with the tar content of a steam locomotive, were obviously still working in their fields, since apart from a defunct conveyor belt for a potato harvester there wasn't an agricultural implement to be seen in the farmyard. This was a good opportunity to try the hospitality of the rural population, though I might have to thump them a bit by way of persuasion.

As my paws touched the well-swept cobblestones I picked up a penetrating odour. However, I couldn't instantly recognise it, as I usually would have done. The weariness seeping through my nervous system was beginning to blunt the keen apparatus of my senses. Speculating in passing on the source of this unpleasant smell, I approached the big grouchy-looking fellow from behind, having decided to dispense with the submissive etiquette we usually employ in approaching others of our kind. Good heavens, they probably used this one on the other side of the scale for weighing pigs! By now the great orange globe of the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, leaving behind it a breathtaking sky which bathed the idyllic rural scene in theatrical red light. I did think it rather odd that our sleepy friends in the yard hadn't registered my invasion of their territory yet: how did they expect to do their job as rodent terminators with such a useless early warning system? Perhaps there was something in Alcina's dismissive comments on idle layabouts. I was only a metre from the first great lump of lard when the acrid stink increased to the power of ten in intensity. Really, he might at least turn round and fling me an insult or so. And that horrible smell - was it farmyard slurry? Or some kind of chemical for blowing cattle up to twice their proper size? Or ...