Le Chat Noir ( A Cat Story)

Le Chat Noir - A Cautionary Tale

It was sometime late October, when my embattled, beleaguered wife, Jane
finally left me. I came home perhaps a couple of days after the last
fearful argument and the debauch that followed. Next to the unruffled
bed, lay crumpled sheets of A4 paper emblazoned with the bitter
watermarks of spilt tears. The letter explained it all. My persistent
selfishness, constant boozing, womanising and arrogance were all
listed. My wrongs, misdemeanours, my faults illustrated by the shaky
sentences of a lover spurned. Episodes recounted that had left unhealed
scars, un-tendered and raw by my lack of concern for her emotional
needs. Over time a bitter fallout had accumulated in our partnership
like toxins, their fruit of poison spores now ready to burst from the
diseased corpse of our desolated intimacy.

It was, the simple neglect of her needs and erosion of consideration
that I'd shown after the first year of our marriage, that was the root
cause. It was like I was infected with a retrovirus that had disabled
the immune system of commitment, of care, of love for my part of the
marriage, as time went on.

I reflected with perfunctory sorrow; my infidelities, my drinking and
mindless disregard for her feelings had been terrible - I'd put the
poor girl through psychological torture. In our frequent arguments I'd
always gone for the weakest spot, finding where it really hurt her most
and then amplifying the pain with my callous, calculated remarks.
Deliberately incisively wounding her, diminishing her faltering sense
of worth.

"Evil bastard", I thought of myself. Worse, I couldn't really
understand why I'd behaved such a cruel way, aside from being possessed
with a perversity of spirit.

Jane, bless her had just been unfortunate to have entered into my world
of egocentric excesses I told myself. The mood swings and tempers, the
rants and resentments that exerted themselves on the fabric our daily
lives. In consideration though, she was to blame as well, after all I
didn't ask her to fall in love with me, did I. It was her folly, her
fault that she had believed in such ridiculous notions like 'true
love,' in faithfulness and responsibility - I'd tried to tell her
painful realities in vain. The poor girl depended on me; with blind
naivet? she hoped, so foolishly that things would improve. But no, I
was right yet again -justified, our parting no more than a fitting
conclusion to my premise.

"You not only destroyed what we had - but destroyed me," she had
written. Remorse and regret momentarily coursed through me. As I poured
myself a scotch, a tear welled in my left eye and dribbled pathetically
down my cheek.

So it's over I resolved. Too bad, but things had gone on 'too bad' for
'too long'. My sadness soon displaced by a perverse glee in my
solitude. More time alone to indulge in my own abandon, a wicked voice
from within in me revelled in my newfound status as a single man. I was
soon to find comfort with a King Edward and a bottle of single malt.
Now satisfied, I could indulge myself once again with impunity without
her nagging tongue, forever scolding. Alone, alone and free - I
satisfyingly reassured myself.

Alone I was not to be for long though. Drifting off into soporific
slumber in my armchair, Sinatra lulling me from the CD player, I was
awoken by I terrific crash from the bedroom. Alerted I ran in to see
the dressing table mirror smashed and side window gaping open. Amongst
the glass and broken pottery from the table - two fiercely luminous
green eyes stared out from the back of the dresser. My senses spun as I
was assaulted by the screech of feline salutation -"Miaooooowwwwwwww."
I felt giddy, my heart missing a beat as I was seized by the dread of
surprise - my mind unfurling trying to make rational of the
irrational.

It was on this fateful afternoon that the exclusively black cat named -
'Puddy' as a ridiculous nametag betrayed, made its entrance into my
life. Cuddly moniker aside the beast had an almost ethereal presence.
With its fierce emerald eyes resonating eerie intensity and black
outline of exquisite proportions, it was certainly otherworldly. It is
said that the ancient Egyptians ascribed to the cat a god like status
and 'Puddy' with his sleek graces and his regal manifestation was the
living illustration that this was not misplaced.

Following the revelation of its entrance, the cat lunged towards me and
I picked it up and placed it upon my lap. Perhaps it had simply wanted
a friend. Now that Jane had gone it would be company for me. As I
stroked it, I calmed down and 'Puddy' began to purr. After preening and
cleaning itself with its bright pink sandpaper textured tongue it
acquiesced into slumber. Whilst it slept, I finished off the bottle of
single malt, perplexed by the arrival of this uninvited guest.

'Puddy' was soon to make itself at home in my apartment. It found a
linen basket in which to curl and sleep in and soon began clawing and
gnawing away at various items of designer furniture to my annoyance.
However, it soon settled down though and after a few days I found
myself feeling some fondness for the creature. A week or so passed and
after the chaos of the break up with Jane I decided to get back to
work
I had a lot of assignments to complete and work for various magazines
in the offing. The last year of my doomed marriage had been spent
drowning in a sea of alcohol and I had to get back on track now the
primary excuse for my excesses had departed. I began banging out words
on my word processor and researching topics for my work, but my
concentration it seemed was not what it used to be. Whether it was
writers block I could not say but 'Puddy' didn't help matters at all -
leaping and lurching upon me at almost every inopportune occasion and
frustrating my creative efforts. One occasion whilst drunk, I found
myself almost striking the creature with the back of my hand. This
situation couldn't go on. I had begun to tire of its persistent
attentions and was concerned that I might harm the poor beast. Consumed
with guilt as I had always considered myself an animal lover I made
enquiries in the local neighbourhood on whether anybody had lost a
feline of Puddy's description.
BLACK CAT FOUND LAST WEEK TUESDAY - TIMID &; GOOD NATURED - but
exceptionally difficult to catch. ANSWERS TO THE NAME OF 'PUDDY'. - I
completed the Lost Pets form in Starling News.
Alas! These were met with no response and my uninvited houseguest
began to leave its mark more and more on my humble abode - becoming a
fixture. As the weeks passed, much to my relief things settled down. My
concentration improved and 'Puddy' became less and less of an
annoyance. I found my life becoming more ordered in contrast to the
last few years of chaos that had categorised the end my unfortunate
relationship with Jane.

Puddy filled the void that Jane had left more than amply. Happy times
were here again! Weekly shops to Tesco's were laboured with the
mandatory trips of the Pet &; Household isles. My bags brimming with
Kat-A-Chunk, Puss-E-Glut - for shiny eye and tail, Binki -Po litter for
Puddy's toiletry requirements and other such products aimed for the
likes of my new four-legged friend filled my trolley.

Time passed on and I noticed that I felt more confident and relaxed
than I had for many years. Free from the constraints of marriage, of
convention and for the most responsibility (with the exception of
ensuring that Puddy was fed) I ruminated that a renaissance of the
reckless hedonism that had characterised my early twenties was about to
dawn. Victoria Haines, the stunningly attractive editor of a magazine I
frequently contributed to, invited me out lunch at 'Coaster's' a trendy
fashionable restaurant in the West end and this I hoped was to be
followed by a mandatory night of clubbing and recreational drugs
binging.
I wore my most fitting number by Paul Smith and took especial care in
grooming myself for our planned night of debauchery. As I proudly
admired myself in front of the bathroom mirror, 'Puddy' slinked past
me.
"Well, then Puddy - who's the sleekest cat in the house tonight!" I
uttered to my childish amusement. I was feeling good and as Victoria
was renowned predatory female, I hoped that if our relationship
blossomed it would further my career. She possessed all the contacts
and networking skills that an aspiring writer like myself could wish
for. Selfish as always, I knew what I wanted and how to get it this
time - and the night was surely set for success.

We arrived at Coasters just after eight; fine wines were supped with
finesse and a host of culinary delicacies were feasted on.
I glanced over the joint, it was full of pretentious arty types who
minced, pranced and posed around the bar with the arrogance of
satisfied greed. Definitely my type of place! After the meal, I
politely picked up the tab and ushered the lovely Victoria into a taxi,
destination my flat with immoral intent. I smiled to her as we veered
away from the concrete confluences of the city and onto suburbia,
recollecting with glee how I had cunningly procured some cocaine from
the doorman at the restaurant, to see us into oblivious night.

We arrived back at my place in good spirits. Victoria was having a
great time and was keen to get started on the coke - a great night of
revelry was soon to begin! Success once more had come easily for me! I
reflected with assurance, I was astounded by my luck, good fortune and
the power of my not so insignificant charms.
It was when we entered the kitchen that I realised something was wrong.
Was it my temporary derangement of the senses - what was that terrible
overpowering smell? I glanced over at Victoria and clocked her grimace;
it was evident that the smell was only too real and not some nasal
hallucination. Victoria sat down on a chair - I tried to stop her as I
realised with rising trepidation what had occurred. She had just seated
herself on an impracticable large spooled pile of cat turd. Puddy it
seems in my absence had decided to defecate and urinate all over the
apartment. My guest soon realising her faux pas, foolishly wiped her
slacks - the shit smearing all over them. A ball of vomit projected
from her mouth. So shocked she could barely speak. Revulsion, disgust
and disbelief simultaneously wrecked through her body. I tried to
apologise in vain, "I'm tt-terribly.." but I couldn't manage to get the
words out of my mouth in time - what could I have said? Within moments
she had fled and left me alone with the stinky, sticky dilemma.
Dejected and thoroughly pissed off - I decided to accost the beast, but
alas Puddy had opted for a night on the tiles. I searched high and low
but to no avail. Seeking solace I decided to take comfort with help of
my Columbian nose powder. Damn, where was it? In the earlier confusion
I must have dropped it. I then saw the folded paper wrap on the floor.
Relief! - I picked it up only to be hit by the pungent pissy smell of
cat urine. The cocaine now transformed into the foul yellow paste of
cat-piss hydrochloride. I'd only dropped the wrap into one of Puddy's
sticky pools!
Next morning calm and sober. I put it down to experience; I suppose
Puddy wuddy had been ill, perhaps. I frantically tried to phone
Victoria to apologise, but my messages were left unanswered. Two days
later a large envelope arrived containing the latest submissions I'd
made to Victoria.
I tentatively read the enclosed letter -

"Dear Bill - Thank you, for your recent submission. However we regret
to inform you that we feel that we are not a suitable publisher for
you.
We will not consider any further work from yourself and suggest you
find another outlet that is more compatible with your style,
Yours
Victoria Hancock
Editor"

Pissed off - I was crazed. All because of that dratted cat! This was a
terrible blow to my confidence, but hey - I was a fighter, I would use
all my other contacts and get ship shape again. This was just
trivial!

I worked with a fury all that week, on projects as diverse as
restaurant reviews, several book criticisms intended for the Times
Educational Supplement and a polemical essay for a quasi-Marxist youth
magazine. Puddy with some astuteness had sensed my wrath and
disappeared for a few days, only returning when my mood had stabilised.
I even began to regret my resentment of the beast. After all it hadn't
been deliberate on the part of the poor pussy wussykins had it? - It
couldn't possibly have been? It was just one of those unfortunate
incidents that can occur. Well why, why, wuddy about it, Puddy?

I toiled and toiled on my work but to no avail. Only the occasional
rejection slip or a sorry, no thanks letter from the editors. I began
scouring other publishers and writing columns for the more obscure of
magazines. Nothing - then it came.
I excitedly tore at the envelope, eagerly scanned the letter of
acceptance and then&;#8230;I almost choked as I
remembered&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;

In a fit of desperation and with the intent of satire I'd submitted a
short story to "Paw &; Claw magazine" - of 1,400 words - the subject
matter an amusing tale about a cat. Along with the letter, which
delightedly told me that my article would be published in next month's
edition was a copy of my work, which had been horrifically edited -
badly enough to make me look like an illiterate imbecile! Enclosed was
a cheque for a miserly Five pounds forty-three pence with a certificate
announcing proudly that I was the 'Cat-Story' runner-up! Runner up
indeed! This was an insult and disgrace against my established
credentials as a writer. It was a nightmare - a bloody nightmare! The
cretins should have realised the implicit irony within the piece.

A week passed and I thanked my stars when I received another royalty
cheque from a piece I'd commissioned years before, landed on the mat. I
stocked up a horde of groceries, alcohol and recreational drugs - not
forgetting a plenitude of Mackerel, Sardines and other fishy products
for Puddy to brunch, snack or gorge himself on when he desired. Happy
times were here again!

Ah! It has just been a slip I told myself. Soon everything will be
fine, the World is once again is my oyster - I reassured myself. It was
with some concern, I noted that such trite phrases and clich?d
statements were beginning to infiltrate my writing and pattern of
thought and speech. Was I slowly going mad? The unwitting host of some
parasitic brain infection spread from cat to man? Or was it just the
backlash of my consciousness, still reeling from the terrible suffering
I'd made Jane endure. It didn't take me long though to dismiss these
thoughts, paranoia or coincidence and get back on with life as
before.

To supplement my income at this time I was forced to go back to regular
employment and I began teaching IT skills at a local college, along
with lessons in elementary numeracy and literacy. It was at the college
that I met Sue.
Sue was a nice, pleasant girl who worked in the library as an
administration assistant. She was also studying for an MA in Politics
(like my estranged wife had before her) and so intellectually she
fitted the bill not to mention we shared similar taste in music. I
wooed her and coaxed for several weeks until I asked her to accompany
me to a gig at Scott's jazz bar in town.
Once again full of confidence and pleased with how the evening was
beginning to transpire. I invited her back to mine.

We got in a settled down to a video and some Chinese I had ordered from
the takeaway with a couple of bottles of Pinot Noire. Sue was relaxed
and I entertained with my witty little anecdotes and tales of my
adventures during my wild student years. Charlie Parker's saxophone
whistled with his bird-like phrases from the stereo, setting the mood
for my seduction - what could go wrong!

Sue asked if she could make use of the bathroom for a few moments -
"Certainly," I directed her, "no problem." I waited with anticipation
for her return. Seconds later I jumped up - startled, confused by the
most ear piercing shrill.
I rushed in their and to my horror found that Puddy, had leapt out from
a hiding place the airing cupboard and was smothering the poor Sue,
subjecting her to unwelcome catty caresses. This you'd agree was bad
enough in itself, but Sue unfortunately experienced chronic and violent
allergic reactions to cats. Her nose had begun to almost run away with
itself, her eyes streaming and face swelling like a Puffa-fish. She had
begun to hyperventilate and had assumed a worrying shade of blue. Her
deterioration was so swift, so dramatic - I had to resort to calling an
ambulance and for her to rush her to hospital where she was injected
with a combination of high-powered tranquillizers and anti-allergy
drugs.

Back from the hospital I found myself deeply disturbed. My thoughts and
perceptions took me into the precipice of violent rage and desperation.
That cat, it had been nothing but trouble! Again another night, another
opportunity ruined by the accursed beast. Murderous designs gripped me.
I vowed to be rid of Puddy once and for all. I searched high and low,
in every cupboard, in every crevice and crack, in every hiding place,
lacing its food with sedatives and its water with bleach. In
preparation I cut a length of cheese-wire to garrotte the beast - but
no, oh no, it seemed Puddy with a supernatural intuition and had
escaped yet again. Next morning I calmed down and repented - relieved
by rest and rational once again I decided that killing the cat was not
the best course of action, after all. The events had been coincidental
hadn't they? I was not without some fondness for the creature even. Now
more placated I determined that the best recourse was to treat the
animal kindly. A suitable alternative home would be arranged. Perhaps
me, and pussycats weren't meant to be.

I advertised locally for a suitable home and waited. During the next
week I took a trip to the local library. Strangely I found myself
thumbing through several books on the subject of cat psychology. I
mused over them with some amusement. Later whilst sitting back at home
trying to complete another article my feelings seemed to disintegrate
into the realm of the irrational. The chain of events since the
break-up with Jane and subsequent decline in my fortunes began to
dominate my thoughts. A web of edgy paranoia took hold - was my life
was veering out of control? Words and disturbing pictures from the cat
psychology books flashed before me uninvited. Perhaps it was not my
four-legged friend with the abnormal psychology but myself.
That night I dreamt, dreamt of arid desert lands. I was chasing
something but I can't remember what. I awoke startled, I glanced at the
clock, and then - I heard the noise. I almost ran onto the balcony.
There - there stood Puddy, blood dripping from its fangs and in its
mouth the crumpled body of what once was a bird - perhaps a Dove. I ran
back inside and vomited in the waste paper bin. I was feeling very,
very ill.

I had been working on a novel, or 'THE NOVEL'. It had been my
lifetime's work and I had almost completed it - at least in the first
draft. To say I was pleased with it would have been an understatement.
Now it was nearly finished and ready for editing and submission to a
suitable outlet. Several publishing houses had already expressed great
interest in it at the preliminary stages of the first few chapters and
general synopsis. However during my marriage to Jane I had been
involved in other less personal projects in order to achieve a basic
income from my writing. I always had harboured resentments against her
for thwarting my progress with the book, but in reality she was more of
an encouragement than hindrance if the truth were told.

With most of the outlets for my piecework and commissions almost
completely dried up, it was time a vowed to return to 'The Novel' and
get those creative juices flowing so freely once again. Summer came,
with my work at the college finished I had no choice but to sign on
with the Jobseekers for my miserly allowance. This was beneath me I
felt somewhat, but times were hard and a book was there to be written!
This was an opportunity not to be scoffed at; once again my confidence
picked up from ebb and carried me forwards once again. Puddy was
spending more and more time away, these days. The beast was quieted by
my resumption of the work ethic and the most ample and delicious meals
of Puss-E-Glut he was now accustomed to. I still kept on advertising in
the local paper, in hope that someone could take the creature off my
hands.

With a fervour and passion I set to work on the book with earnest. Page
after page was produced, with such quality, such precision and care - I
was back, this time and no one could stop me, I told myself with
assurance.
A sharp rap on my door one morning broke my stream mid-sentence.
Greeting me at the door were the wizened features of a certain Miss
Wilde - infamous in the town for her eccentric excesses. She had called
upon me with reference to my feline dilemma. I let her in and she
explained herself, telling me she had more than room for Puddy at home
with her in her cattery with another more than twenty-five of the
beasts!
Most excellent news! I immediately packed up the tins of food, the
festering litter tray and cat-toys and drove to the destination, with
Puddy meowing and screeching with fervent disapproval from the back of
the vehicle.
A fortnight passed, my apartment seemed somewhat empty at first without
my feline guest. Relief was the main emotion that I felt though; my
brief relationship with Puddy had almost been as traumatic as with
Jane, I laughed to myself pouring myself a whiskey.
Indeed, I thought to myself, much like a cat I was a totally selfish
creature. I needed my independence and now I finally could enjoy it.
'I'd be like the cat that got the cream', a voice from within me
echoed, imparting another clich?.

The 'Novel' was coming along well and I was delighted to receive a
letter from a major American publishing house asking me to send in the
full manuscript as soon as possible. This was amazing; at last my
life's work would soon be complete, fame, fortune and international
success around the corner!
This I resolved needed celebration! I phoned up a few friends and a
drug dealer or two, commencing on the biggest bender I'd enjoyed for
some years. I roamed from bar to club, from party to whorehouse in an
orgy of hedonistic excess.
It must have been a week later or so when I staggered back home. When I
came round face down on the kitchen floor, I noticed that a few things
in the flat looked out of place. I made myself a black coffee and
surveyed the place. Sitting down I decided to switch on my laptop and
peruse the latest draft. I switched on - there was a hiss, a bang and a
flash and then a blue spark exploded from within the machine. I reached
down to switch off the power with haste, but surrounding the plug was a
sticky foul stinking yellow mush that had begun eating its way into the
plastic. I smelt on my hands the unmistakable reek of cat sick - I was
puzzled, dismayed, confused - how could this be? As I tried to analyse
the situation, in from the balcony window leapt 'Puddy.' My tormentor
had returned! The beast was back!
The laptop alas was done for and as I was disorganised as ever, I
hadn't backed up the files. I did have a copy of my work in manuscript
form lying around and so all was not lost, but the work of retyping the
whole document back onto computer was one I certainly not going to
relish.

This time I felt an uncontrollable rage and struck the beast with my
hand, with Puddy then retreating to some dark corner to escape my
wrath. How on earth had it come back? Why? - I didn't understand. I
reviewed the connections and events, which now haunted me. Was my mind
just addled from last weeks drink and drugs binge, or was some
altogether more sinister truth revealing itself to me. As more and more
I contemplated and reflected, growing increments of revulsion and
horror attacked me from within. My fragmented mind went on replay - the
incidents with Victoria and Sue - the demise of my writing ability and
withering of my career - whatever next? This feline had been an omen of
misfortune. Constant tragedy had befallen me since Jane had left me -
was it possible it had all been linked to the black felonious creature
that had invaded my home. The nonsensical now seemed to be making
perfect sense. Was I crazed by delusion, or now in the grip of a
psychotic episode? Was this delirium or paranoia? Could it be that the
creature that cursed me was a form of divine retribution as penance for
my sins?

I made my plans for the final show down. With alacrity I filed through
the cupboards for what I would need. This time, yes this time I would
rid myself of this affliction - forever. Cruel and sinister schemes
filled my mind - would I dispose of the felon by ceremonial hanging
with a silk noose, or simply hack out those luminous eyes with a blunt
instrument? NO! There was to be none of this, an evil man I might have
been but it would be as humane as possible, I prepared a hypodermic
full of morphine -enough to kill. If this failed and the beast was to
somehow come round it wouldn't have a chance, as I'd bag its body up
for the municipal incinerator.

I prepared the implements I required and waited. At last I heard the
patter of soft pawsteps coming from a nearby room.
"Puddy, Puddy, where are you&;#8230;..there's a good Puddy
wuddykins&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;.Puddy!"
I searched the apartment, then hearing a noise from the bedroom I made
by way over. The room was darkened, only a couple of candles flickering
in their holders adding gothic ambience - most fitting for a murder
scene, I surveyed with satisfaction. Ah-ha, I spied my tormentor. Puddy
was under the table in the corner of the room, I stooped down towards
it, the syringe in hand ready to deal its judgement.
"Come, on Puddy," I reached to the back of the furnishing and grabbed a
tuft of black fur. I sensed it tense and with a solitary 'miaow' it
acknowledged my presence, for the last time. I pulled its collar nearer
to me, my right hand bearing down fast now with the fatal injection at
the ready.
I felt the beast squirm, as my grip grew tighter. I eased down on the
dropper after finding an injection spot and
released&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;.
Something was wrong, I heard a screech and felt frantic claws
scratching but it was too late, much too late - I felt the rusty taste
of the drug hitting the back of my throat. I'd missed the beast and
somehow jabbed the works into my wrist. I staggered back, knocking over
the tables, the ornaments and candles, before being enveloped by
blackness.

It was many months before I recovered. My pride and whole life had
seemed to ebb away since my flat had burnt down. I could no longer
write and all my work had been destroyed in the fire. I was a useless
husk of an excuse for a man, no home, no job, no life. I went back to
stay at my mothers for a while, weak and apathetic I just wanted to
die, but I was too much of a coward. I took some satisfaction from the
fact though that Puddy had perished in the fire. But sometimes at
night, the beast hunted and haunted me in dreams. Would no corner of my
mind ever be free?

Its funny though how time does heal perhaps. After a few months Jane,
bless her started visiting again. Her love for me had been deep and
although she was foolish in seeing me again, we began to get closer and
closer over the weeks. My mother was elderly and increasingly infirm
and so Jane agreed that I could stay with her for a while. We packed my
few belongings and off we drove to her house in the country.
"There's been a few changes to my life, Barry," she told me, "you'll
have to meet some of my new friends."
That sounded OK, I thought that I could stomach that no problem.
Together again, perhaps I'd learned my lesson now and we could work
things out. She'd be in control this time; I'd have to play by her
rules. If I so much cracked a can of cider or glanced at another woman
I'd be out on the street. Mind you no other woman would ever look at me
now, so I was safe on that ground! I suppose this was all I could
expect. In fact, I was grateful.

As she pulled up the drive, Jane winked at me knowingly. "Oh! By the
way, I'll have to introduce you to our new member of the
household&;#8230;" As the vehicle slid to a halt, I glanced up
towards the house. I looked, and then looked again - something was
terribly, terribly wrong. It couldn't possibly be true! Concealed
behind the curtain, I could see two unmistakeably luminous green eyes
glimmering towards me from the bedroom window. I tried to mouth a
scream, a shout - but rising spew was blocking my air passage.
As the blood sapped from my face, Jane unfastened her seat belt and
remarked with a calculated calmness, "I do, do hope you like Cats?
Sweetie!"

Steve Thomas
St Anns, Nottingham. May 2002