#catfiction

In a dark dark cave, a litter of kittens tumbled over each other and fought about what they were going to do when they were grown up Witch’s Cats.

‘I shall be bad!’ said Sooty proudly. ‘I shall stir potions with my tail and ride on my witch’s broomstick.’

‘I shall fly all by myself!’ boasted Sweep.

‘No you shan’t,’ said his sister crossly. ‘You haven’t got wings’.

‘Well, I shall help my witch cast a spell to give me wings!’

Adso stayed quiet, for all he longed to do was catch mice and play with the darn for the socks, mind the baby while they slept and sit by the master while he snoozed. Yes, Adso wanted to be a Kitchen Cat.

The little kittens grew older and were allowed to go nearer and nearer to the outside of the cave. As they did, they looked at Adso in horror.

‘Adso! You are not black like a Witch’s Cat! What is wrong with you?’

Adso looked down at himself. Sure enough, his fur was grey and he had little white socks on his paws. Sweep nudged them and miaowed. ‘How can you be a witch’s cat with white socks?’ The little cats all began to laugh, and their laughter carried up the cave to the witch.

That was how poor Adso found himself all alone on the mountain, for a witch had no use for a grey cat with white socks, even if he did have lovely green eyes. He was so afraid on the lonely mountain path by himself that his tears ran down his cheeks and made his fur wet. He wept so piteously he gave himself the hiccups, and frightened himself with each gulp.

Then Adso decided that, if he was going to be a Kitchen Cat, he needed to find a house. So he pulled himself together, cleaned his paws and face and journeyed off through the mountain in search of a Kitchen.

But the people on the mountain knew all about the Witch and her Cats, and they wanted nothing to do with a Witch’s Cat, even one with grey fur and white socks. Every time Adso found a little cabin with a glowing light, he would straighten himself up and tap on the door and prepare to ask in his most lovely manners if they would like him to be their Kitchen Cat. And every time, poor Adso was told to go away, sometimes with pity, sometimes crossly and once even very angrily indeed.

It was no use, he thought to himself as he sat on the path by himself again, tears dripping down his whiskers. No one would ever want him to be their Kitchen Cat, and he was no good as a Witch’s Cat either. He was trying to think of what to do when he heard the terrible noise of a horse coming. He scrambled into the bushes, afraid of the giant hooves and big teeth, but was brave enough to peep out between the leaves as it passed.

A Man was riding on the horse, the biggest Man Adso had ever seen. He began to shake as the big Man came closer and closer, and closed his eyes as he felt the big Man reach down for him.

But the big Man only spoke in a language Adso didn’t understand, before stroking him softly. Adso felt his little heart lift! Surely this Man would like him to be his Kitchen Cat. Adso rubbed his face against the big Man’s cheek to tell him so. The big Man carefully put him down his shirt, to sit in his pocket. The bumping of the horse made him giggle, especially when the Man rode very fast.

Adso had made up his mind: he was going to be this Man’s Kitchen Cat.

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He felt the tears rise up again. He had tried so hard to find a house to be a Kitchen Cat in, and everyone had been so cruel. He rubbed his sore head and straightened his whiskers. He didn’t think he could find it in himself to go off travelling again. He had wanted so badly to live with the kind big Man.

He turned around to find the door and was surprised to see the big Man’s blue eyes looking back at him. ‘Please leave me alone,’ he begged, for his little heart could take no more.

The big Man smiled again and picked him up, smoothing his fur and bringing him back over to the Lady. Adso glared at her. He was a very well mannered cat, but there had been frankly no need to scream so loudly. There had certainly been no need to throw him!

The Lady had put out a hand to him. She did look very sorry, he thought, so he permitted her a stroke of his lovely soft fur. He couldn’t stop himself from miaowing and cuddling in closer to her again, especially once she had apologised very nicely and promised not to do it again.

The Man had come back with a dish of something. Adso’s nose twitched. His whiskers fluttered and his tummy rumbled. Ooooh, it smelled like heaven. He tentatively dipped a pink tongue into the cream and purred joyously. He hadn’t realised how hungry he had been!

Once he was finished, he cleaned his paws and mouth. The Lady and Man were whispering quietly, cuddling in their blankets together. They looked so warm and cosy, just perfect for a Kitchen Cat. Adso climbed onto the bed and laid down beside his Lady, rubbing her arm to let her know that she was really forgiven and that he loved her so. 

And that was the story of how Adso came to be the Kitchen Cat on Fraser’s Ridge, where he caught mice (and cockroaches, which was even harder). He played with the darning wool and minded the babies when they slept in the cradle. He watched for visitors on the sunny porch and sat by Jamie when he snoozed by the fire. He accompanied Claire to the digging patch and chased the birdies away from her garden. He was a truly excellent Kitchen Cat indeed.

Adso was determined that he was going to go to the big Man’s house, so he carefully climbed out of his pocket and slid into one of his saddlebags. He was glad he had done so, for all of a sudden the horse made a terrible noise and threw the big Man onto the ground.

Now Adso still could not understand the big Man but he knew he was cross with the horse. He stomped around the clearing and shouted, before grabbing his hat from a tree. He briefly stopped and spoke quietly again.

Adso peeked out of his saddlebag. He recognised those noises! Those were the noises that the Man had made when he picked up him, the ones that sounded like cheet-tie. Oh, he was so excited! He scrambled out from his saddlebag and began to yelp ‘I’m here! I’m here!’ The horse swung his head around and neighed crossly at him, frightening poor Adso back into his bag. Even the fright couldn’t dampen the glow in his heart, as he cuddled against the soft material and thought of going home with a Master of his very own.

A Lady’s voice came now, high and clear, and Adso could understand her perfectly. She called the Man Jamie. Adso practised miaowing Jamie so he could call his Man by his correct name. He washed his face and cleaned his ears as best he could, and then he practised his speech about being the best Kitchen Cat, one who could mind the baby and catch mice and sit by his Master while he snoozed at the fire. The horse started to move again and the little cat fell fast asleep.

When he woke up, he was in a house. He pushed the flap of the bag open with his paws and twitched his little pink nose. He peeped out carefully and looked around. The Lady was sitting by the fire, rubbing ointment on her hands. Adso scrambled out of his bag by his back legs and hid behind another bag, for he remembered the Witch in the cave making her own ointment.

Now you have to understand that Witches are not, as most people think, old and very ugly. Witches are in fact young and very beautiful, and they use their magic to keep themselves so. Adso suddenly felt very afraid that he had accidentally come to another Witch’s house, for this Lady had lovely dark hair and her skin was as clear as pearl. He looked about him for clues. Witches only wear black, but this Lady was wearing white. Hmmm. He sniffed the air and fell back in fright, hiding his eyes with his paws. He could smell herbs coming from the Lady!  He gathered all of his courage and sat up again, staying as still as he could, trying to make up his mind. There was only one thing for it.

Adso waited a long time for the Lady and the Man to go to sleep. He slipped round from the luggage and leaped gracefully onto their bed. The lady was small. Hmm. He pawed at her hands and smelled the herbs again. His whiskers twitched and his tail waved. Herbs, yes, but not the type the Witch had used in the cave. He pawed at her hair, and saw the moonlight shine on her face. He was a clever little kitten, and now, when he looked at her up close, he could only think of good things about this Lady.

The customer said the microphone had poor sound quality.

No defect.

No background noise.

No missing parts.

He had used it once.

A black-and-white cat named Barcode sat on the box and refused to move.

Then the old returns ledger opened by itself.

ITEM: Studio microphone STATED REASON: Sound quality did not meet expectations ACTUAL REASON: Owner was frightened by his own voice RESOLUTION: Do not dispose

The man’s name was Paul.

He had bought the microphone to record a message for his fourteen-year-old son, who lived in another state.

They barely spoke.

“How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“Did the money arrive?”

“Yeah.”

Paul said he had become a banking app with a voice feature.

He recorded one message, listened to it, and hated everything about it.

His breathing.

His pauses.

His old, frightened voice.

So he decided to return the microphone.

No microphone meant no failed attempt.

“You’re not returning the microphone,” I told him.

“You’re returning the first attempt.”

Paul gave us the flash drive.

There was one file:

for_danny_1.wav

The recording began with static.

Then:

“Hey, Danny. It’s Dad.”

A pause.

“I keep asking about school because school is safe. It’s something I can ask about without sounding completely like a stranger.”

Another pause.

“I miss you. There. I said it. You don’t have to answer. I just wanted you to know.”

The file ended.

Paul called it terrible.

Alex said:

“It’s terrible because it’s alive. Alive things don’t sound like commercials. They breathe, cough, lose their place, and leave the wrong pauses.”

Paul took the microphone home.

He didn’t promise to send the recording.

He didn’t promise to make another.

He only stopped pretending the sound quality was the problem.

At the door, he asked:

“What if my son doesn’t answer?”

Alex replied:

“Children aren’t required to accept parental returns immediately. They have procedures too.”

After he left, our manager called the district supervisor about the impossible ledger and the cat who wouldn’t clear the system.

She mentioned manual review.

The voice on the phone asked a question.

Her face went pale.

“Yes,” she said, looking at Barcode.

“The cat is here too.”

We locked the cat in the stockroom.

Seconds later, he was back beneath the returns counter, lying on a red evening dress.

The door was still locked.

The key was still in my hand.

OmniCart support asked for photographs of the “item.”

I sent them a picture of the cat.

They replied:

Please confirm whether the item is an electronically complex product.

Alex said, “Yes. Features include judgment, dishonesty detection, and self-navigation.”

I typed:

It is a cat.

Support answered:

Please provide brand and model.

The cat returned to the red dress.

The customer said it didn’t fit.

It had fit perfectly.

Hidden in the lining was a restaurant reservation from the night before.

Then our system changed the return status:

MANUAL REVIEW REQUIRED.

An old ledger opened by itself.

ITEM: Red evening dress STATED REASON: Wrong size ACTUAL REASON: Owner was afraid of being desired RESOLUTION: Do not dispose

The woman came back furious.

Then she admitted the truth.

She had reached the restaurant, seen herself reflected in the window, and gone home because she looked like a woman still hoping someone might choose her.

She left the dress overnight.

Before leaving, she named the cat Barcode.

“Everyone keeps trying to scan him,” she said, “and he never clears.”

A final message appeared on our screen:

Do not attempt to return the cat. He is not in the system.

Barcode lay beside the scanner with his tail across the ACCEPT button.

By eleven in the morning, people had already returned a red dress, two humidifiers, a child’s scooter, a self-help book they never opened, and a man who looked like he hadn’t fit into his own life for years.

I worked at an OmniCart returns counter in Chicago.

My badge said:

MATT. I’M HERE TO HELP.

The badge lied more professionally than I did.

Every day people brought back things that had looked like the beginning of a better life.

“Didn’t fit.”

“Changed my mind.”

“It’s not me.”

People said it’s not me about dresses, running shoes, journals, home gyms, and mirrors that reflected them too honestly.

Then, during a rainstorm, a courier brought in a box without a tracking number.

Inside was a soaked black-and-white cat and an old ledger marked:

RETURNS. MANUAL REVIEW.

The courier handed me a pen printed with a slogan I had written years ago:

TAKE BACK WHAT MATTERS.

“I’m not accepting this,” I said.

“You already did.”

Then he disappeared.

The security camera showed the door opening.

Rain coming in.

No courier.

The box simply appeared on the counter.

The cat climbed out and sat beside my computer. A white stripe ran down his nose like an unfinished barcode.

The screen turned on by itself.

ITEM CATEGORY: LIVE. UNCLASSIFIED. CONDITION: USED. PACKAGING: COMPROMISED. RECIPIENT: MATTHEW HALE.

Then the final field appeared.

REASON FOR RETURN: DIDN’T FIT HIMSELF.

I pressed cancel.

The system replied:

RETURN ALREADY ACCEPTED.

The cat walked across the store and lay down on a red evening dress a woman had returned because it “didn’t fit.”

It had fit perfectly.