Library Cat Page 5

  “Reading and sauntering and lounging and dosing, which I call thinking, is my supreme Happiness”, Biblio Chat had often postulated, though Library Cat secretly knew that this was a quote of Hume himself, and thus made his cousin a sleekit, devious plagiarist.

  But there was one matter that was to forever divide the cousins above all others, no matter how many small periods of détente might thaw their tail-widening hostility towards each other when discussing philosophy and literature, and that was food. Mousing with Biblio Chat was an excruciatingly laborious affair. If there was one thing Library Cat couldn’t abide it was Biblio Chat’s indulgent talk about the experiential qualities of eating and hunting: mouse tones, mouse textures, mouse succulence… mouse tenderness, maturité, acidité, slainité and, most loathed of all, Le Crunch Facteur. You and your Crunch Factor, thought Library Cat. Just EAT the damn mouse!

  And then the garlic. Garlic got everywhere when Biblio Chat came to stay. If the rejection of dry food wasn’t bad enough, Library Cat had to endure the despicable smell of garlic that could never be completely expunged and seemed to cling to books and bedding as if they’d been touched by the rank hand of some dark, culinary overlord.

  Biblio Chat arrived, with a purr, by his cousin’s side.

  “Meow,” said Library Cat, looking in the other direction.

  “Miaou,” replied Biblio Chat in his own tongue (Library Cat struggled with French).

  “Mééiouow”, responded Library Cat, attempting his best French accent in the hope of transcending the language barrier.

  “Miaou?”, replied Biblio Chat, unheedingly.

  Library Cat’s anger heightened, his tail thickening. Damn him, he could at least try to speak English!

  “Miaou”, replied Library Cat in faux courtesy.

  “Miaou! Miaou!” replied Biblio Chat excitedly (clearly Library Cat must’ve pronounced it right).

  And with that, the pair turned and headed towards the library.

  It was a quiet morning, around 9 am. Only the most devoted student Humans were at work, touching their matriculation cards on the electronic gates which slid open, and then slid closed leaving a gap, as per usual, that was the perfect width for cat decapitation. The pair carefully slipped under the gates and slinked across the foyer towards the secret entrance to the Towsery. Thinking cats have to exercise extreme caution at the best of times when entering a Towsery – stealth, surreptitiousness and diversion are key assets governing a swift and uneventful entry. Aware of this, Library Cat swiftly started mewing and looking cute. As if from thin air, a gaggle of Humans arrived and began lavishing him with strokes, kisses, tickles and titbits until the library foyer was utterly abandoned, save for one corner where Humans amassed thickly like a swarm of seagulls around a pilchard carcass on a beach. Meanwhile, Biblio Chat slipped into the Towsery unnoticed. Moments later, Library Cat rose and walked off to the exit prompting the gaggle of Humans to disperse, only to double back into the Towsery himself when no one was watching.

  The Towsery was beautiful that morning. A musty warm glow shone down the corridor to greet the cats as they limboed under the dusty joists and do-si-doed around the missing floorboards. Cobwebs criss-crossed their path, and as they entered, a warm orange fire greeted them from the hearth in the corner. The high windows parcelled up pieces of grey sky, blurred out by streaks of light rain which coursed down them, making the room seem all the more cosy. Several cats were among the books, or were at play with ribbon bookmarks or paper. A couple more were sleeping by the fire. One or two eyed the newcomer wearily, but Biblio Chat paid them little heed and set about looking for his book.

  As the day wore on, the cats wove themselves deeper into the thick silk of knowledge. A pleasant calm fell across Library Cat. He gazed at his cousin between doses, pawing through the papers. He’s true to himself, he thought. He might be annoying but he’s 100 per cent honest to himself. What is the role of a thinking cat on this earth if not to wallow in knowledge?

  Suddenly Library Cat felt inspired. He wanted to write, he wanted to explore, and above all he wanted to create. A buzzy feeling shimmered down his entire body. He should write a poem! Something with which to woo Puddle Cat if he was ever to see her again: a note he could write and leave nearby her. The Towsery contained many stacks of books by many thinking animals, though the cat and Human books were most prolific among them. Library Cat began nosing the shelves, his whiskers brushing softly against ancient spines that glimmered in the light of the fire. It wasn’t long before a book caught his attention: The GSCE Guide to Creative Writing: Volume 1.

  Seems perfectly serviceable, he thought, raising his paw and pushing the book-lozenge out of the stack, sending it clattering like a Jenga block in a plume of dust the other side. Trotting round he began reading it between sporadic bouts of furious paw licking and daydreaming. It was not very inspiring, and Library Cat began to feel his mood ebb away into an odd mind-turning lassitude.

  The problem was not so much with Library Cat, however, but with poetry itself. You see, despite having come across many poems in his life, Library Cat remained indifferent towards pretty much all of them. The idyllic scenes of Wordsworth stirred him not. The thunderous lines of Milton’s Paradise Lost barely quivered a whisker… Even Shakespeare’s sonnets scarcely managed to muster forth a purr from the depths of his ennui-encircled heart.

  I just wish I could do it, he thought wearily. A moment later, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of some scrawled writing in the margin of the book. The hand was definitely that of a Human, the letters being untidy and seemingly etched into the paper with the belligerence of an inattentive schoolboy. Library Cat’s breath stopped as he read the lines again, and again and again. So beautiful were their image upon the mind’s eye that Library Cat began purring involuntarily almost as soon as he read them. There was no denying it, Library Cat was stirred. The line read as follows:

  The cat sat on the mat.

  Such fantastic words! Such genius in their careful choice of imagery, meter and rhyme! Poetry had never before moved Library Cat so much. Compared to these lines, Wordsworth seemed to whither into a heap of dull, inconsequent near-nonsense – the sort of stuff that might be used to represent poetry at its most boring. He looked around the Towsery. In the corner, by the fire, was indeed a small mat, and with that Library Cat headed over to the mat and rested his furry posterior upon it. Cat – and the mat on which the cat sat – were one; united in a single, emblazoned vision of art. He felt his hostility towards his cousin ebbing away, and replacing it was the timeless joy of art… of reading… of poetry. He was one cat, on one mat. One action… one Muse. Before the moment went, he quickly penned his poem to Puddle Cat, rolled it into a ball, and stuffed it between the thick, gnarled wooden joists of the Towsery.

  Recommended Reading

  Poetry for Dummies by John Timpane.

  Food consumed

  Catnip / spider.

  Mood

  Euphoric, creative.

  Discovery about Humans

  They can be at their most creative when procrastinating.

  …in which our hero ponders language

  and fears for Humans

  Night had fallen as the two cats nosed their way surreptitiously out of the Towsery and down the long web of narrow, hidden corridors to the library foyer. They were hungry, having only consumed the odd insect all afternoon, and their lust for snoozing and reading had worn thin, as hunger started to replace it, irritating their tummies and diverting their imaginations. Library Cat craved the saltiness of dried food, while Biblio Chat stated his intention for bird, perhaps pigeon – at any rate something un peu plus délicate than rodent.

  As they nosed their way into the centre of the foyer, however, a sight of horror met their eyes. Students were everywhere in a blur with motion. Some were dropping big fat highlighter pens and papers which fanned out into great carpets of white on the floor; others were dodging each other to get to large grey machines whic
h whirred and spat out yet more papers. The sheer sight of the motion made Library Cat feel queasy. Indeed, everyone was so preoccupied about the business of submitting essays that they hardly noticed Library Cat and Biblio Cat, weaving their double helix among various ankles and shoes, in their irrevocable progression towards the exit. As the cats neared the front door, Library Cat’s curiosity got the better of him and he paused to eavesdrop on a telephone conversation.

  “Yah, I’m screwed… I’m, like, so screwed. I’m really, really screwed. I was out until, like, four, and then, like, I forgot I had this second deadline for this other essay and, like, now I’ve got the deadline in, like, TEN minutes. Now I just need to quickly print it. But if I miss the deadline, like,

  I’m going to be, like, so screwed for this course that

  I mightaswelljustlike, drop out of uni.”

  Library Cat was appalled, on many levels, but most markedly at the student’s unrefined rhetoric. He was so appalled in fact that he had to organise his responses to the overheard conversation into the following list:

  Use repetition and intensifiers sparingly. It would have been sufficient to have just said “I’m screwed” rather than “I’m so screwed”, and then, “I’m really, really screwed”.

  Drop some of that ham sandwich you’re eating, it looks tasty.

  Calm down, you’ll give yourself an embolism.

  Address your preoccupation with the word “like”.

  Avoid histrionics. You will be calmer yourself, and seem more sincere, if you avoid pointless, indulgent affirmations of impending failure. It is unlikely a late essay will mean expulsion from university.

  Tie your shoelaces, they are making me want to pounce.

  Respect time. Avoid recruiting time simply to ameliorate the terms of your story. Less is more, in this respect.

  Stop standing by the door, you’re letting the cold into the library.

  Avoid split infinitives: it’s ‘to print quickly’ not ‘to quickly print’.

  Before Library Cat could think any more there was a tap on the back by another student, this time a man, with a friendly face. Behind him, the door swung shut, and the door in front, where the girl had been standing, swung shut as well. All at once one of Library Cat’s greatest fears had befallen him: entrapment. With the doors immediately ahead and behind closed, he was trapped in a kind of liminal foyer space that served no purpose. And to make matters worse, now this male student was attempting to initiate conversation with him, except he was going about it in a deeply strange manner. Instead of addressing him as a brainless animal in the condescending manner that most Humans do, this student was instead attempting to “talk” in a series of meows and mews and purrs as if this might somehow dissolve the communicative barrier that has endured between cat and Human since the time of the Egyptians, and suddenly prompt Library Cat into a great mellifluous outpouring of reassurance and wisdom that would appease the Human’s guilt at having started her essay so late in the day.

  “Caticus Domesticus! You don’t have to worry about the atomic properties of caesium and all-nighters do you? Lucky wee b*****d. Here, puss, puss, puss, puss! Look at me! Puss, puss, puss. Meow, meeeeow, meeeeeow. Hey UP HERE. Puss, puss, puss, puss, puss...”

  Oh jog on, thought Library Cat, seizing the opportunity offered by a Human walking through the main door to make a dash for the square.

  Outside, the bitter evening hit Library Cat like a train. An iciness encircled his whiskers making them ridged like little frosted twigs. He scanned the square for Biblio Chat. It wasn’t long before he spied his cousin. A little way off, between the black railings, Biblio Chat was enveloped in a cloud of blue-grey features as a scuffle between him and a pigeon ground ever closer to a conclusion. Presently, much to Library Cat’s surprise, the pigeon wriggled free, running a feathery zigzag along the grass, until finally lumbering up into the air like a perilously overweight cargo aircraft. Library Cat sniggered inwardly as he watched the very tip of his cousin’s tail switch with annoyance. He walked over…

  “Meow?”

  “Miaou,” replied Biblio Chat despondently.

  Library Cat’s heart softened. He was at once sadistically pleased that his cousin had been outsmarted by a bird, while at the same time sympathetic towards his frustration and defeat. He’d been there after all. All cats had been there. He nuzzled his cousin’s coat in an act of kinship. As the two cats walked silently back across the square, both hungry and with the cold cobbles nipping the undersides of their paws, Library Cat thought back to the students and wondered if they ever found time to relax. He had heard it said that students do nothing but relax, but then again, the sight he had just seen thoroughly disproved such an assertion. Is it that they don’t pace themselves? Or oscillate wildly from one extreme to the other? Do they go back to their flats and breathe clear air, free from the demons of anxiety, loneliness and despair that so often unsheathe their invisible daggers in the hideous echoes of silence? Are their homes warm? Are they greeted by nice flatmates? Or are they met with a blaze of ice, slamming doors and passive-aggressiveness? A closed-room culture of segregated fridge compartments and alienation?

  A sudden sadness hit Library Cat. He had a horrible feeling that the Humans had forgotten how to live. He had been to the neighbouring Edinburgh districts of Marchmont and Sciennes on adventures sometimes. They had seemed, superficially at least, quite wonderful. He’d gazed up at ambient rooms where posters of Le Chat Noir hung beneath fairy cake ceiling cornices and thought these student Humans are doing it right. He’d walked along the moss-linted pavement and watched cars quaintly lumber over the street humps, their wheels on the cobbles sounding like waves washing up the seashore. The tenements at night faced each other serenely, some bandaged in scaffolding, others adorned with moulded cornucopia that illuminated ethereally in the moonlight. Everything was tinged with a lovely flavour; it was the flavour of elsewhere.

  But sometimes, Library Cat would hear the local cats discuss ownership in their electrically synthed voices and suddenly feel uneasy and out of place. It was not his territory after all. The scents were all different, none of them his. Was that why it could feel so lovely and magical? And did the Humans feel the same way? Or did they only feel the sudden estrangement of the whining cats… the unmistakable feeling that they don’t belong?

  Back inside the chaplaincy, Library Cat and Biblio Chat sat down to dinner. Suddenly Puddle Cat came to mind, and Library Cat felt particularly proud that he had gone several hours today without thinking of her, and that he’d eschewed the lovey-dovey mood he’d wallowed in up at the Towsery earlier, having read the inspired, Human-penned ‘Cat sat on the mat’ poem. It made him think again of the student Humans.

  I wonder if cats and Humans could ever communicate with each other? he thought. He put the thought to Biblio Chat, who merely looked indifferent. He cast his mind back to the male Human at the foyer who believed that he was trying to talk in ‘cat’ but was in fact just making purring meowing sounds. It suddenly occurred to him. Maybe the Humans think we cannot speak, whereas in fact we can, but just choose not to?

  Biblio Chat looked up from his food, momentarily interested. He had once written to Library Cat:

  For eons the Humans have thought we cannot talk. But they have also killed us believing us to be in cahoots with the devil during The Black Death, whereas the whole time we were feasting upon the very rodents that spread it. They have thought us lucky, then unlucky; eternally wise and couch-dwelling fools; hailed as gods in ancient Egypt and robbed of all dignity in the internet memes of the twenty-first century. Does it really surprise you to discover they think we cannot speak just because we chose not to in front of them? Us thinking cats have our own way of speaking, and its language glistens more than the sunniest sea they have ever beheld, and is just as rich and deep. We know the secrets of Babylon; the truths of the Orient, and all the beauties and ills of every continent on Earth. We are God in Paradise Lost – understated and calm. Us think
ing cats, we live for knowledge; it is its own end. The Humans, however, smother it beneath their personal desires for fame, money, sex and war. They covet knowledge like gold bullion putting a price on it at universities or shaming it to make killing machines. They are like the Devil in Paradise Lost – ever-moving, clanging and loud.

  And yet they insist we are the arrogant ones!

  Biblio Chat’s words hit Library Cat’s tender mood hard. He knew these things, of course, but that didn’t stave off his sudden worry for the safety of Humans and especially student-kind. His cousin continued…

  But to answer your query, dear cousin: the Humans think we remain silent because we are mute. In fact, we remain silent because we are taciturn. Their philosopher Derrida explains this perfectly clearly – they need to pay more attention.

  Library Cat bit his cat biscuit fiercely, his haunches high and his front legs lowered to his food bowl. He thought back to the girl on the phone, and the words she used when she spoke. He thought about other conversations he’d overheard, about the Humans’ desires for each other, as well as things they craved and lamented regularly that they didn’t have. Biblio Chat was right. It seemed that the Humans were forever comparing themselves to each other, or looking at points in the future or the past, or attempting acquisition of something, and feeling that their “present moment” fell short. It was true; knowledge did seem to be subjugated beneath the Humans’ sleepless quest for personal gain.

  He wandered away from his food bowl and over to his bed. The radiator behind it was warm, and before settling, he kneaded the sheepskin blanket into just the right shape. As the clock upstairs in the chaplaincy began striking midnight, everything became silent. All but Biblio Chat’s soft purr filled the air as he remained up, sniffing the pages of several books, and rolling his head in catnip.