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Kittens! They were everywhere in Nicholas' loft when I arrived. Some were curled up in a box on the floor by the piano. Three more chased a dust bunny and each other around the floor. One daring little fellow with marmalade stripes was stretched out on a leather chair methodically pulling out the stitching with his claws.
Do these have anything to do with the problem Nicholas mentioned? I wondered to myself as I peered around the loft. No sign of its owner, so I called out Nicholas' name, assuming that he was the one who let me in.
"Feliks." The relieved voice came from above my head. "I'm so glad you could drop by."
A few moments later, Nicholas walked down the stairs, a kitten in each arm. "Found these two using my bed as a litter box."
The precise reason why Nicholas had asked me to stop by his loft had suddenly become crystal clear, but I decided that it was only fair that he be forced to ask me himself. With this in mind, I pushed the striped kitten off the chair. Since there was no sign of a coat rack, I draped my jacket and scarf over the arm of the chair before sitting down. "You mentioned a problem in the message you left on my answering machine. Have we mislaid the de Brabant Foundation funds again, Nicholas?"
"No. The money was all there last time I checked." Nicholas bent down and deposited the two kittens in the box with the others. "This problem has nothing to do with my finances."
"Then why call me?" I settled back in the chair, steepling my fingers in front of my face to hide my amusement. "Do you need assistance with one of your cases? Advice about some monetary finagling perhaps?"
"It's nothing like that." Nicholas looked ill at ease. "Can I get you something?"
I tried. I really did. But I was completely incapable of preventing neither the shudder that passed over me at the thought of drinking that vile...liquid that Nicholas consumes, nor the distaste that twisted my mouth as I spoke. "Thank you, but no. I...had something... before I came out."
"Sure. I understand." Nicholas smiled wryly and went to the kitchen area, returning with a glass of cow blood. He stepped carefully over a couple of kittens who were racing around in a circle, trying to catch one other's tails, and settled himself on the couch.
We talked desultorily for a while, discussing the pleasures of long winter nights, and the enforced boredom of long summer days. Nicholas inquired about my plants, and I about his police work. Nothing of any real import, and no hint of why he asked me there. A slight breeze toyed with the end my scarf, where it hung down almost to the floor, swaying the wool back and forth. Annoyed, I tugged the scarf up and tucked it behind me. For some reason, it never crossed my mind that the "breeze" might really have been a playful kitten batting the fringe with his paws.
As I waited patiently for Nicholas to begin his explanation, sharp pinpricks crept slowly up my left leg. A rapid shake only caused the offending claws to dig deeper into my skin. Sighing audibly, I reached down and disengaged the marmalade kitten from my leg with only minimal damage to my trousers. Holding the kitten in front of my face, I glared at it with yellow eyes, then dropped the creature on the floor.
A little thing, but it broke the ice and started Nicholas talking. "That is my problem. A litter of kittens was left on my doorstep with instructions to find homes for all of them."
"And...?" I prompted Nicholas, hoping this would not be as long and drawn out as it was threatening to become.
"And I thought that you might like to help me find a home for one or two of them. I'm asking everyone I know."
I would have said something brilliant in response. The words were right there, balanced on the tip of my tongue, just waiting to drip sarcasm and wit into Nicholas' ears...until they were rudely bounced out of my head by a tiny orange striped kitten playing with my hair, and swiping his claws across the back of my neck.
Nicholas choked, sputtering blood over his clothes, as my scream reverberated around the loft. He fumbled his glass onto the coffee table, spilling a little onto the surface.
Ripping the beast away, pulling threads out of my favourite sweater — a memento of when I played on the Oxford cricket team — I held him by the scruff of his neck, dangled him before me and snarled: eyes golden, fangs bared.
The kitten batted at my face with one minuscule paw, claws carefully sheathed, and purred. Unbelievable!
"I think he likes you." Laughing hysterically, Nicholas clutched at his sides.
"He has a rather odd way of showing it." Fractionally calmer, I peered at the animal and poked it in the nose with a finger. "As for you, little devil, we'll have no more of that type of behaviour. Understand?"
Yawning hugely, the cat stuck out its tongue and rasped it across my finger — again and again. Such an odd feeling. He struggled and twisted in my grasp, trying to lick more of my hand, until I had to clasp him in one hand to prevent him from plummeting to the ground. Clutching the shreds of my dignity around me, I placed him in the box with his siblings and returned to my seat.
Nicholas must have retrieved a towel from the kitchen while I disposed of the kitten. He mopped futilely with the towel at the red stains on his chambray shirt. "I've got to change. Wait here. It will just take a minute."
I sank back into the chair, crossed one leg over the other and allowed the shudders of repressed rage to pass over and through me. As soon as Nicholas comes back, I decided, I will take my leave of this madhouse. Deep breathing helped to bring my equilibrium back. So had the peace and quiet. I straightened and looked around. The kittens had stopped playing. They were curled in and around the box near the piano, huddled together. A pang of remorse jabbed through me, as I realized that I was responsible. My angry, precipitous flight had introduced fear into their carefree existences.
Further examination revealed that the marmalade kitten who had caused the whole incident was nowhere to be seen. He was no longer amid the heap of his siblings. That worried me. Craning my neck around, I confirmed that he was not poised on the back of the chair, waiting to wreak more havoc. Settling back into the chair, I tried to relax, but thoughts of that poor little devil kept stabbing through me. It was impossible to identify one little heartbeat when there were so many kittens in the room.
After a couple of minutes, I decided that recovering my usual tranquil poise would be impossible until I made sure the marmalade kitten was not irreparably harmed. I stood up to look for him and....
SQUAWL!!!!!!
My scalp crawled. I jumped six feet off the floor, landing carefully next to the orange striped kit. He stared at me with hurt and betrayal clear in his green eyes, nursing his tail. The tail that I — great big oaf that I am — had stood upon.
Gently, I picked up the little fellow and cradled him in one arm, stroking him with my free hand. I continued petting him as I collapsed into the chair.
The kitten snuggled in my lap, squirmed around until he lay on his back with his oversize paws stuck up in the air. I did not have the energy to remove him.
His collar announced that his name was 'Muffin'. Rather precious; not something I would have chosen. I thought of giving him a more suitable appellation, such as Copperfield or Pip, but could not settle on just one. So, Muffin, he remained.
A couple of weeks after I took him home, Nicholas called me and said that he had found another home for Muffin if I did not wish to keep him. It was a very good thing for Nicholas that we are friends. I had to suppress a lot of uncharitable thoughts before being able to say a reasonably polite "no, thank you."
Muffin always keeps me company when I do my gardening, jumping from table to table, sniffing and talking constantly. Meow. Meow. Meow. Sometimes, I understand what he's saying.
The day I potted his catnip plant, he sat on the counter and watched me. I think he understood that this meant he was staying for good. After that, he went into the living room, curled up right in the centre of my favourite chair and went to sleep. That was the first time he ever did that. And definitely not the last.
Fifteen years is not long enough. It seems like just yesterday that I was over at Nicholas' loft, and was reluctantly adopted by a soon-to-be-enormous orange tiger-striped cat. We've shared so much over the years. Playing. Fighting. Keeping me company during those excruciatingly long summer days.
And now he's dying.
The veterinarian just said one word: cancer. One tumour buried deep in his stomach. Another eating away at his brain. Inoperable. Terminal.
I was given two options, but there's really no choice at all — at least not in my mind. A week to a month of agonizing pain, or a quick, painless death. An easy decision. I choose the third alternative; the one the veterinarian doesn't know exists.
Muffin knows exactly what I'm doing. For years, he has known what I am, carefully avoiding piercing my skin with his teeth while we play.
I've drained almost all his blood, leaving only enough to keep him conscious. Strange cat dreams flit through my mind, leaving half-understood images behind. He's laying on the bed, watching me as I make a long cut in my forearm. Blood wells up, and the slit heals almost immediately. I reach over, and Muffin stretches his head closer, each movement careful, painful.
The cut heals before he can drink. I take the knife to my arm again, re-tracing the earlier slash.
My beloved cat meows quietly, and winks at me: a slow, deliberate closing of a single eyelid over a cloudy green eye. Finally, he stretches out his neck and rasps his tongue over my skin, lapping up my blood. Faster and faster, he licks. Occasionally biting down with his teeth when I have healed too soon.
Muffin is my one and only fledgling. My playmate. My companion. My keeper. I'm never quite sure who picked whom that night at Nicholas Knight's loft, but I will always be eternally grateful.