If anyone needed a warning, a threat or a reason to leave town, Gen. Goosebuttocks was the man for the job. The mere shadow of a prowler at night meant that the prowler in question went without a shadow for the rest of his life. He had an unmatched temper, and a face that matched this. Not for the faint hearted, was the backward kick of the General, once he was done with his business. In short, Gen. Aubergine Goosebuttocks was not a man to be trifled with, predominantly, among other reasons, because he was not a man.
He was a miniature pug with a squiggle for a tail, next to no nostrils and a mild respiratory problem. Of course, none of this stopped him from smoking a pipe and adopting an overall alpha-male-chest-hair attitude towards life. Gen. Goosebuttocks was the tailless wonder who taught other dogs to chase their tails. The sag of his jowl and the bulge of his eyes ensured that his general disapproval of people around him was matched by the expression on his face. The General was very well-read, but not very well-traveled, seeing as he was limited by the shortness of his legs and his inability to get on a train.
Of this sanguine warm afternoon, Gen. Goosebuttocks was stretched out on his belly in the library, reading Voltaire and smoking his pipe. He often “lent” his library to Mab and earlier in the afternoon, he was forced by her to retire to the balcony under strict instructions to bark every now and then. Carrig, of all the dunderheads the General had seen, was not capable of comprehending a talking dog, let alone a Version 6.5 Turbo cat or a Miles Davis loving Indian Elephant. Having performed his duties for over an hour while Mab entertained, the General was now back in his den enjoying the sweet victory of Shisha Premium Tobacco. The birds were chirping in the Miles Davis room, and the General was just considering yawning the Latin alphabet, when he heard it.
Scratch-scratch-scratch from the bowels of the house. Scratch-scratch-scratch moving closer to his ear. Scratch-scratch-scratch and a pregnant pause. Scratch-scratch-scratch and Lady’s blood-curdling scream.
General Aubergine Puppybuttocks yawned and waited.
“Hello, Bub.”
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
Episode 4
Groaning like a storm gathering slowly around an oasis in a jigsaw puzzle, the shards of glass came together, easing their broken sides into each other’s joints. Seven years of bad luck is a blessing, considering what mirrors go through when they break. All that complaining reflects badly on us, really. But then so does broken glass.
Lady sat far enough from the mirror, watching the reconstruction in progress. Only humans worried about bad luck. Silly, considering that the bad luck part lies in the very fact that they showed up as humans this time around, which in turn means they probably broke a mirror in their last life. An endless road of bad luck. It really was like a dressing room with mirrors on both sides, the fat thighs of the schoolgirl bouncing off the mirrors over and over and over again, screaming for her to jump into a big fat bowl of anorexia. At this rate the human race would outlive every other species, unless someone found a way to endanger mirrors.
Anyway, that was not Lady’s problem. She didn’t care much for the future of either mirrors or humans. The only use she had for the former was that they helped her get from one life to the other, and the only use she had for the latter was that they fed her in all nine of her lives. Whichever one she walked into, bam! There was a human setting out food and speaking in an affectionate soprano. If you put up with all the milk, the meat at mealtimes was really the best reason to have so many lives! Of course, if you’re lactose intolerant, you are screwed. Humans come with a mandatory unshakeable belief that cats love milk. Which is bullshit. That’s like saying humans love beer. Some humans go through their entire lives not touching a drop of beer, like Grum the gin-soaked boy in one of Lady’s other lives.
The mirror had all but fixed itself, when Lady heard something that made her blood curdle. Her eyes grew wide, the fur on her back stood at wonderful obtuse angles to each other and she let out a high C that almost shattered the glass again.
Lady sat far enough from the mirror, watching the reconstruction in progress. Only humans worried about bad luck. Silly, considering that the bad luck part lies in the very fact that they showed up as humans this time around, which in turn means they probably broke a mirror in their last life. An endless road of bad luck. It really was like a dressing room with mirrors on both sides, the fat thighs of the schoolgirl bouncing off the mirrors over and over and over again, screaming for her to jump into a big fat bowl of anorexia. At this rate the human race would outlive every other species, unless someone found a way to endanger mirrors.
Anyway, that was not Lady’s problem. She didn’t care much for the future of either mirrors or humans. The only use she had for the former was that they helped her get from one life to the other, and the only use she had for the latter was that they fed her in all nine of her lives. Whichever one she walked into, bam! There was a human setting out food and speaking in an affectionate soprano. If you put up with all the milk, the meat at mealtimes was really the best reason to have so many lives! Of course, if you’re lactose intolerant, you are screwed. Humans come with a mandatory unshakeable belief that cats love milk. Which is bullshit. That’s like saying humans love beer. Some humans go through their entire lives not touching a drop of beer, like Grum the gin-soaked boy in one of Lady’s other lives.
The mirror had all but fixed itself, when Lady heard something that made her blood curdle. Her eyes grew wide, the fur on her back stood at wonderful obtuse angles to each other and she let out a high C that almost shattered the glass again.
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Episode 3
The largest thing that had ever whispered in her ear was a blue whale, but the room was the largest thing Mab had ever seen. It was almost a house inside her house, but when you stood at the door and opened it, you could only see the preview version. You had to walk in and rub the bronze laughing Buddha’s stomach to see the full version of the room. Stuffed to bursting with a collection of the strangest things you’d ever seen, the “room” was as cozy as a small closed-up island of red oxide floor could be–warm in the winter, cool in the summer, dry and with a rainbow during the long monsoon months. But the best thing about the room had to be Miles Davis. Dewey cleared his throat and started playing again. It was important to set the mood. It had to be the 1959 magnum opus. It was great actually. Mab had learnt to ignore the fact that it was indeed just the trumpet playing all the time, with no double bass or piano or percussion. Not even a tuba. But if she listened hard enough–which she didn’t–it did kind of sound like Kind of Blue.
Mab sat in a giant easy chair and sipped Darjeeling Tea, looking at Lady for opinions, advice, bouquets or brickbats. With Lady, one often wished it wasn’t either bouquets or brickbats, because Lady had a strong throwing arm and an endless supply of both. But she just sat there and licked herself, occasionally glancing at Mab as if sizing her up before lifting her off the chair and nailing her to the wall.
“Know what you’re going to say?”
“Not entirely. I was thinking about ‘damned bastard’, though. As an opening, I mean. Take it from there.” Mab winced. “Hail Mary, full of…”
“FULL OF GRAPES!” growled Lady. “YOU LISTEN TO ME. YOU WON'T PUSSFOOT ROUND THIS ONE. STRAP ON A PAIR, BUT GET THE JOB DONE.” She cleared her throat. “Or you want me to gouge his eyes out.”
The trumpeting grew louder, and Mab could almost hear John Coltrane pipe in. Dewey hated raised voices. He briefly came out of his corner, and wandered around the room, swishing his big grey backside at Lady. As if she cared.
“No. I think I can handle this. He’s a nice guy. Just needs to be told what’s what and all that.”
“Shmice. Macavity bastard.” Lady spat out a fur ball. “You’re a wimp. What’re you going to wear anyway.” Lady stuck a leg out in the air and started licking. It was hard to think about clothes in front of a naked grooming cat, but Mab dived into her cup of tea and thought hard.
“I was thinking about the white dress with yellow flowers. It’s his favourite.”
“Wimp. You should probably try to look sexy and severe, as opposed to weak and wimpy and girly. I don’t particularly think he’s going to be intimidated by this Katherine Heigl thing you have going. Got any balls? You might want to take them along. And your best Linda Hamilton.”
“Umm. I don’t know these women you’re talking about…I was just going to go with the flow…see what he has to say.” If Mab had ever had a comfort zone, she was out of it now. She loved Lady, but never knew how to react to her incredible knowledge of popular human culture, across decades.
Dewey stopped playing to clear his throat again. Not the best kind of silence.
“Where’re you going to talk to him anyway. Take him to the attic. It’s scary up there.”
“I was thinking of the garden actually. Some tea and sunshine…” A brickbat whizzed within inches of Mab’s head.
“Garden! Sunshine! What are you on, uppers? Take him to the library. The words of thousands of great men should intimidate him into a moment’s silence at least. Give you an opportunity to try your “damned bastard, hail Mary full of grace” line.
Dewey kicked into the familiar lilt of My Favourite Things. His idea of easing the tension that hung like a heavy cloud over the room.
Lady stopped her grooming and glared at Dewey with her clear green eyes.
“You could even bring him in here you know. If you can ignore the elephant in the room.”
Dewey wished for the millionth time that he still had his tusks.
Mab sat in a giant easy chair and sipped Darjeeling Tea, looking at Lady for opinions, advice, bouquets or brickbats. With Lady, one often wished it wasn’t either bouquets or brickbats, because Lady had a strong throwing arm and an endless supply of both. But she just sat there and licked herself, occasionally glancing at Mab as if sizing her up before lifting her off the chair and nailing her to the wall.
“Know what you’re going to say?”
“Not entirely. I was thinking about ‘damned bastard’, though. As an opening, I mean. Take it from there.” Mab winced. “Hail Mary, full of…”
“FULL OF GRAPES!” growled Lady. “YOU LISTEN TO ME. YOU WON'T PUSSFOOT ROUND THIS ONE. STRAP ON A PAIR, BUT GET THE JOB DONE.” She cleared her throat. “Or you want me to gouge his eyes out.”
The trumpeting grew louder, and Mab could almost hear John Coltrane pipe in. Dewey hated raised voices. He briefly came out of his corner, and wandered around the room, swishing his big grey backside at Lady. As if she cared.
“No. I think I can handle this. He’s a nice guy. Just needs to be told what’s what and all that.”
“Shmice. Macavity bastard.” Lady spat out a fur ball. “You’re a wimp. What’re you going to wear anyway.” Lady stuck a leg out in the air and started licking. It was hard to think about clothes in front of a naked grooming cat, but Mab dived into her cup of tea and thought hard.
“I was thinking about the white dress with yellow flowers. It’s his favourite.”
“Wimp. You should probably try to look sexy and severe, as opposed to weak and wimpy and girly. I don’t particularly think he’s going to be intimidated by this Katherine Heigl thing you have going. Got any balls? You might want to take them along. And your best Linda Hamilton.”
“Umm. I don’t know these women you’re talking about…I was just going to go with the flow…see what he has to say.” If Mab had ever had a comfort zone, she was out of it now. She loved Lady, but never knew how to react to her incredible knowledge of popular human culture, across decades.
Dewey stopped playing to clear his throat again. Not the best kind of silence.
“Where’re you going to talk to him anyway. Take him to the attic. It’s scary up there.”
“I was thinking of the garden actually. Some tea and sunshine…” A brickbat whizzed within inches of Mab’s head.
“Garden! Sunshine! What are you on, uppers? Take him to the library. The words of thousands of great men should intimidate him into a moment’s silence at least. Give you an opportunity to try your “damned bastard, hail Mary full of grace” line.
Dewey kicked into the familiar lilt of My Favourite Things. His idea of easing the tension that hung like a heavy cloud over the room.
Lady stopped her grooming and glared at Dewey with her clear green eyes.
“You could even bring him in here you know. If you can ignore the elephant in the room.”
Dewey wished for the millionth time that he still had his tusks.
Episode 2
Mab sighed.
When she was younger, she’d wondered if certain things happened only to her. It seemed like an incredibly selfish thought. She banished it. Now, when she spoke of her conversations with Lady, the mirrors, the Miles Davis room and the right-side-up bat, people just figured she spoke in metaphors. And when people accused her of committing metaphors, she took offence, because Mab had no idea what a metaphor was. Not that she didn’t understand the vague dictionary meaning- it was right up there with ‘irony’- but she’d never really experienced it. It was like a twelve-year-old singing about love. If you don’t know it, how can you talk about it. (Actually, it was also a little like that annoying hirsute woman talking about irony. SOME THINGS ARE JUST BAD LUCK, ALANIS.)
Mab did have friends of course, even close ones that had been to her home. They saw a girl their age, very much like them, only nicer. She had a regular girl’s room with a poster of Matt Damon and another of the three witches of Macbeth. On the walls were hundreds of books on fat oaken bookshelves and even a ladder leading up to the books closer to the ceiling. She had wrought iron bookends with Simon and Garfunkel lyrics carved into them, which was probably a little unlikely for a girl who otherwise listened to an unnatural amount of vocal jazz, but you get the joke.
One of them–her best friend–was currently sending her text messages helping her practice nasty things to say to the boy who had most recently broken her heart. It was another matter that Mab was never going to take her advice, but Ainé didn’t know that and she was not about to give up. All Ainé knew was that the damned bastard Carrig was visiting Mab in a couple of hours and it was up to her, not Mab, to give Carrig his due. Mab did not even know how to say ‘damned bastard’ without cringing and saying a quick Hail Mary. It was a funny friendship actually, because Ainé didn’t know how to say a Hail Mary without saying a quick ‘damned bastard’. It was fabled that Ainé’s first words were “ass wipe”. It’s possible. Her parents swore like sailors, even while changing her. In any case Mab had two hours before Carrig visited, and really needed all the advice she could get. Maybe if she wished really hard for Lady, she would…
For a small mirror, the crashing sound it made was deafening. The fine sequined inlay work on the mirror formed a meaningless pattern on the floor, in the middle of what looked like a cotton candy explosion. Lady sat in the mess feigning nonchalance.
Anything for Mab.
When she was younger, she’d wondered if certain things happened only to her. It seemed like an incredibly selfish thought. She banished it. Now, when she spoke of her conversations with Lady, the mirrors, the Miles Davis room and the right-side-up bat, people just figured she spoke in metaphors. And when people accused her of committing metaphors, she took offence, because Mab had no idea what a metaphor was. Not that she didn’t understand the vague dictionary meaning- it was right up there with ‘irony’- but she’d never really experienced it. It was like a twelve-year-old singing about love. If you don’t know it, how can you talk about it. (Actually, it was also a little like that annoying hirsute woman talking about irony. SOME THINGS ARE JUST BAD LUCK, ALANIS.)
Mab did have friends of course, even close ones that had been to her home. They saw a girl their age, very much like them, only nicer. She had a regular girl’s room with a poster of Matt Damon and another of the three witches of Macbeth. On the walls were hundreds of books on fat oaken bookshelves and even a ladder leading up to the books closer to the ceiling. She had wrought iron bookends with Simon and Garfunkel lyrics carved into them, which was probably a little unlikely for a girl who otherwise listened to an unnatural amount of vocal jazz, but you get the joke.
One of them–her best friend–was currently sending her text messages helping her practice nasty things to say to the boy who had most recently broken her heart. It was another matter that Mab was never going to take her advice, but Ainé didn’t know that and she was not about to give up. All Ainé knew was that the damned bastard Carrig was visiting Mab in a couple of hours and it was up to her, not Mab, to give Carrig his due. Mab did not even know how to say ‘damned bastard’ without cringing and saying a quick Hail Mary. It was a funny friendship actually, because Ainé didn’t know how to say a Hail Mary without saying a quick ‘damned bastard’. It was fabled that Ainé’s first words were “ass wipe”. It’s possible. Her parents swore like sailors, even while changing her. In any case Mab had two hours before Carrig visited, and really needed all the advice she could get. Maybe if she wished really hard for Lady, she would…
For a small mirror, the crashing sound it made was deafening. The fine sequined inlay work on the mirror formed a meaningless pattern on the floor, in the middle of what looked like a cotton candy explosion. Lady sat in the mess feigning nonchalance.
Anything for Mab.
Episode 1
Mab scanned her text messages till she found something to cling on to. Fish should never be allowed to die of old age. She felt a shiver run lazily up and down her spine and turned to witness the silent glassy approval of Lady.
Lady rarely looked up from grooming herself, but mostly because she didn’t have to. As it turns out cats hone their sixth sense till, somewhere around their fourth or fifth life, they don’t even have to look to know. They feel sights, see sounds, taste thoughts and so on. When the Great Silkworm in the Sky created this, It decided It had outdone Itself this time, called the creation Sense V6.5 Turbo, and took a long nap. Actually, It’s still on that nap, which could account for the way the world is, if you believe in the Great Silkworm at all. (Me? I’m a millipediatrist. We believe there is no Silkworm, Great or otherwise, and if we keep improving our long-distance running, eventually we’ll reach the Beginning of the Earth and get to start over. Ask the cats. They’re all millipediatrists, except they just have to imagine running to the Beginning.)
Anyway. Lady looked up from her grooming because she smelt the fish in the text message. “You love everybody. That’s your pathology. Lick yourself every now and then and get some perspective.” Lady slithered out of the divan, stretched her limbs and walked in through the mirror.
Lady rarely looked up from grooming herself, but mostly because she didn’t have to. As it turns out cats hone their sixth sense till, somewhere around their fourth or fifth life, they don’t even have to look to know. They feel sights, see sounds, taste thoughts and so on. When the Great Silkworm in the Sky created this, It decided It had outdone Itself this time, called the creation Sense V6.5 Turbo, and took a long nap. Actually, It’s still on that nap, which could account for the way the world is, if you believe in the Great Silkworm at all. (Me? I’m a millipediatrist. We believe there is no Silkworm, Great or otherwise, and if we keep improving our long-distance running, eventually we’ll reach the Beginning of the Earth and get to start over. Ask the cats. They’re all millipediatrists, except they just have to imagine running to the Beginning.)
Anyway. Lady looked up from her grooming because she smelt the fish in the text message. “You love everybody. That’s your pathology. Lick yourself every now and then and get some perspective.” Lady slithered out of the divan, stretched her limbs and walked in through the mirror.
Prologue: Nice guys
“Very well done! I love the message! You should have sent it to the asshole who got let off the hook. Give him something toxic to chew on. Fish should never be allowed to die of old age.”
At 28, it’s a very good idea that you learn how to do something without feeling remorse. Like sending an ex a nasty letter, like spraying the flasher with pepper spray, like slipping little notes in people’s parked cars with the words “I know what you did last summer” scrawled in your 7-year-old niece’s handwriting.
Mab had a long way to go. What helped was, she started.
At 28, it’s a very good idea that you learn how to do something without feeling remorse. Like sending an ex a nasty letter, like spraying the flasher with pepper spray, like slipping little notes in people’s parked cars with the words “I know what you did last summer” scrawled in your 7-year-old niece’s handwriting.
Mab had a long way to go. What helped was, she started.
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