By Lynne Lumsden Green

“A place that smells of cat means the cats are unwell,” was Carl’s motto. His house and garden smelt — rather pleasantly — of flowers and disinfectant and beeswax.

Carl was everything a little, old, crazy cat lady should be, except he was a little old gentleman. His kitchen floor was always covered in bowls full of water, milk, dry food and tinned food, and once-in-a-while a few would hold chicken giblets as a special treat. Every item of furniture in his house had suffered from scratching claws and feline incontinence. He spent most of his money on his pets, and most of his time cleaning up after them. He was perfectly content, so long as he had the company of his ‘girls and boys’.

His other hobby was his garden. He’d had his entire backyard enclosed, so that nothing could get to his precious cats. All his cats were spayed or castrated, and unneutered tomcats had often attacked his animals beforehand. The enclosure stopped his darlings from catching and eating birds, which would infest his cats with worms, and it also stopped any complaints about his cats roaming and defecating in other gardens. Instead, he had turned his backyard into a feline paradise, with lots of trees to climb, bushes to play hide and seek in, and beds of catnip and other herbs that cats favourably regard. When Carl wasn’t cleaning house, he was tending the garden.

The neighbourhood had forgotten about Carl and his cats. He didn’t make a fuss and kept to himself. He didn’t play his television too loud, his yard was neat and he made sure there was no ‘cat’ smell. 

Well, nearly everyone had forgotten Carl. Just a few doors down the street lived Rod, who was very different from Carl. Carl was old, and Rod was young. Carl was quiet and kind while Rod was proud to be raucous and cruel. Carl was content with his life, and Rod was satisfied with nothing. And Rod cast his eyes over Carl’s house and garden, and wondered where the old man got all his money for cat food. 

Rod thought it was terribly unfair that Carl would waste all that money on useless moggies, when Rod could put it to much better use. So he popped over, late one night, to convince Carl of the error of his ways. He took his best mate, a battered length of lead pipe, for comfort and support; it was hard to get your hands on lead pipe with all the PVC they used these days. The pipe was a great argument stopper, the perfect wingman.

It was around eleven o’clock at night when Rod decided to drop in on Carl. The elderly man was still up, cutting up meat in preparation for feeding his cats the next day. He had the radio on and was listening to a ‘golden oldies’ station. The backdoor was unlocked, and Rob just walked into the house. Carl didn’t even look up.

“How’s it hanging, old man?” said Rob, posing, gripping his pipe like a baseball bat and holding it over his shoulder. He hoped he looked as cool as Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange, but even more intimidating without the poncy eye makeup and silly hat.

Carl looked up from his slicing and dicing. He had a ring of adoring faces surrounding his feet, and every available chair had a feline occupant. All eyes turned to Rob as he spoke. Carl looked at him with vague confusion and growing concern, but his cats all stared with an unsettling intensity. 

Rob ignored the animals and got right to the point. He said, “Where’s all your money?”

Several cats hissed and flattened their ears. Tails twitched and swished.

“Pardon?” said Carl. “Do you need some money for food?”

“Don’t pretend to be so slow,” said Rob, almost preening. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.” The thug looked at the cats, while the cats’ gaze drilled into him. “Or maybe I’ll just kill one or two of your little pets.”

Carl reacted to the threat to his cats. He went white and said, “Oh nonononono. I can’t allow that. They are much more than pets; these cats are my special friends.”

“Well, this is my special friend,” said Rob, slapping his length of pipe onto the counter with a clang. 

As if the clang was a bell to announce a fight, all the cats stood up and hissed and growled, with stiff fur and lashing tails. Several climbed up onto the bench, to place themselves between the old man and the mugger.

Carl hadn’t let go of his carving knife, and now he held it to stab rather than to cut. Colour and intelligence had returned to his face, and his expression was fierce. “What kind of idiot are you?” he asked Rob. “Did you think I’d be easy prey? You’ve bitten off more than you can chew. If I were you, I’d go now and forget about ever coming back.”

“Are you trying to threaten me, old man?” 

“No. Not threaten. I am trying to warn you off.”

Rob laughed. The old man had balls, you had to give him that. He said, almost kindly, “Just give me all your money, mate. You really aren’t up to starting something.” A cat took a swipe at Rob as the thug walked around the bench and leant over to physically intimidate Carl.

Rob casually swung his arm to knock the cat to the floor. 

He never managed to finish the gesture. Every cat jumped at him at once, claws out to slash, needle-sharp teeth ready to bite. In a moment, he knew he was in deep trouble, because he couldn’t fight all of them at once. He tried punching and kicking, but the limber animals just jumped out of the way, and then returned to their attack.

Carl watched impassively as Rob screamed and struggled under the blanket of fur. He ran around for a bit, shrieking, but eventually his struggles got weaker and weaker. When he collapsed, Carl took the opportunity to cut his throat. 

Blood pooled on the floor, but the cats were soon lapping it up. Once the blood was gone, they all commenced to wash.

Carl got out his electric knife.

“Wasn’t he a big man,” he commented to his cats, who were all purrs again. “He should keep you all well fed for at least a fortnight.”

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