Lost Victorian Novels 2.

              My Life as a Cat.

Once more the potion fell from my paw as the change o’er came me.  I glanced behind me to witness the tail rushing outward from my trouser leg.  Clawing frantically at the offending garment I was able to shred and remove it before the change was complete.  Stopping only to pick up the ripped dress trousers in my teeth and deposit them in the laundry basket for Mrs Bridgson to deal with, I bounced into the pantry, up on to the shelves, out through the open pantry window, free into the night.

As I stretched my elegant front paws and leapt on the fence, the bow tie slid up, over my nose, obscuring my vision.  Consequently I made contact with the fence top only briefly before sliding, yowling, backwards and downwards, vainly seeking purchase with every flexing claw.  Arriving in a heap on the cabbage bed I urgently licked my knee to avoid loss of whisker.  Unannounced, a bucket of water drenched my dinner jacket.  As I ran through my shirt collar, my bow tie detached itself and lodged round my middle.  I must remember to have a word with the fat cook to ascertain if she can sew one something more suitable for transformations.  Some sort of union suit with trapdoors everywhere.  I could knead it with my claws and make it soft to sleep in.  Pussy will do it.  Pussy is very beautiful and clever.

What is that?  Someone is singing one wall away and then another wall away.  Here is the cucumber house.  Behind the water barrel.  Up!  The wall.  Up!  Thing with leaves.  Up!  Up!  I see.  Big light in sky show clever Pussy.  Beautiful singer.  Must sing.  Down!  Down!  Over grass, round flowers.  Nice flowers.  Smell flowers.  Bite flowers.  Small mouse!  Little moving!  Moving moving!  Must have.  GOT YOU!  Ooh, gone.  Better, chase.  GOT YOU!

Singing.  The singing.  Take present.

If mouf if quite a lot gigger van it ookfs.  Heavy.  Pah.  Put mouse down, carry by tail. Where mouse gone?

Singing.  The singing.  Go.

Wall.  Up!  Wall down.  Grass, grass, flint path, owowowowowow, grass. Fence.  Up!


The beauty of the singing!  Banging.  Shouting.  More water.

Hungry.  Fat human have tinned mouse.

I awoke at eight thirty, in the pantry, draped along the pie shelf, covered in mud and desperately in need of a smaller waist or a new bow tie.  Mrs Bridgson bustled in.

“Awake are we now, M’Lord?”
”Me?  Ow.  Long have I been here Mrs Bridgson?”
”Since six thirty M’Lord.  Saucer of milk?”
”Purrfect.  Could you just scratch me behind the ear, if you would be so good?”
”Right after I fetch your long johns, M’Lord.”
”Oh, sorry, quite.  Is it time we let Mr Bridgson in on this, do you think?  Mrs Bridgson?”
”Can I remind you, Sir, that he’s allergic to fur?  Here are your long johns, Sir, if you would care to put down that pie.”
”Oh right, probably better not to let him in on it, in that case.”
”No Sir, also with him being a werewolf and all……..”
”Oh tricky.  Undoubtedly silence is the preferred option.  Is the breakfast ready, Mrs Bridgson?  I have to be at the Law courts by eleven.  I may be late for dinner, I shall try to try the case quam celerime, but one cannot tell.”
”Yes M’Lord.  I have a new pudding, Sir, it is baked spiders, mouse tails and cat treats, with custard.”
”Well then I shall be home promptly, have it on the table by seven.”
”Very good, M’Lord.”
”Thank you Mrs Bridgson.  Oh, Mrs Bridgson.”
”Yes M’Lord”
”The ears.  You forgot to do the ears.”
”Sorry M’Lord.  An oversight.  Ooh’s a good pussy then?  Ooh you are.  Yes.  Ooh’s got big furry ears then?  Oh you like that don’t you.  Yes you do.”


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