Story 108: Reza Shadey and the Folly of the Gown Cats
Okay, little one, settle in cosy. Today we're leaving Catford, because even a genius like Reza Shadey must, on rare occasions, travel for what he calls Executive Outreach. What this meant in practice was Reza being wedged into his wicker carrier, vibrating with a mixture of fury, nausea, and crushed self-importance.
Mrs Higgins, sparkling in a very silly hat shaped like a giant blue flower, was far too cheerful for someone transporting a furious Persian cat.
"A graduation, Reza", she said. "My nephew is graduating! Isn't that lovely?"
"Lovely?" hissed Reza, digging his claws into the wicker. "Mrs Higgins, this is a strategic miscalculation. I am the undisputed Head of State for all felines in the Catford catchment area. This journey constitutes a compulsory International Executive Reconnaissance Mission to assess rival power-bases."
He said "power-bases" the way other cats say "hoover".
When they arrived at the Oxford college, Reza was immediately offended. The lawns were too green. The buildings were too old. Even the pigeons looked like they had degrees.
Mrs Higgins set the carrier down by a grand garden. "Now behave, Reza. They have college cats here. Don't you dare cause trouble."
Reza didn't just dare. He considered it a solemn professional duty.
He slipped out, puffed his chest fluff, and performed his legendary Catwalk Strut. It was like watching a small hairy emperor trying to walk in slow motion.
Two cats lounged nearby in the sun: a handsome tabby named Professor Biscuit and a glorious ginger called Admiral Flapjack. They looked comfortable, relaxed, and completely unthreatened — a personal insult in Reza's eyes.
Reza strutted forward. "Good day, gentlemen. I am Dr Reza Shadey."
Professor Biscuit blinked... "Doctor of what?"
Reza lifted his chin. "Oh, numerous fields. Doctor of Applied Snack Sciences. Doctor of Advanced Tuna-Based Motivational Analytics. And, of course, Doctor of Executive Excellence. All from Catford College, a Faculty of The University of Life."
Admiral Flapjack gave a polite, baffled smile. "Oh. Lovely. We're just the college cats."
"Just the college cats?" Reza repeated, horrified. "I prefer to call my residence a High-Net-Worth Residential Patrol Zone."
Professor Biscuit yawned. "We were all rescues, really. Our degrees are mainly in General Welfare."
Reza's eye twitched. Humble cats. He wasn't prepared for humility. He'd been ready to battle arrogance with superior arrogance.
He launched into his spiel. "My doctoral thesis — a highly influential piece — was titled The Art of the Pre-Dinner Scam. Essential reading in the emerging discipline of Purr-to-Power™."
Just then, two more cats appeared: sleek, serious Benny D Cat, and the magnificently plump , who looked as though he had eaten every biscuit ever produced in Oxfordshire.
nodded politely. "We focus on soft power here. I manage atmospheric comfort in the library."
Reza sniffed. "Admirable. I myself host weekly Board Meetings behind the compost bin, dictating strategic direction to my subordinates, Penelope, Ginger Tom and Tiger."
Benny tilted his head. " is a bit of a VIP, actually. He was mentioned in a book by Malala."
Reza froze. Connections... Prestige... A Nobel Prize laureate... This was dire. He had one trick left.
He reached into his inner fluff and withdrew a dried artisanal Catford chicken strip, smuggled from home. It glowed slightly in the Oxford sunshine.
"Gentlecats", he whispered, "I offer an exciting opportunity. Leave behind your simple academic lives. Join my High-Net-Worth Residential Patrol venture. Together we could rule Catford by teatime."
Professor Biscuit leaned in. "Benny... look at the texture."
Benny gasped. "The dryness... the faint streaking..."
whispered, awestruck: "Is that... the Lost Manuscript of the Chicken Scholars of 1452?"
Reza blinked. "The what of the who?"
But all the Oxford cats were leaning forward, trembling with academic excitement.
Admiral Flapjack breathed, "A relic... a primary source from the great poultry philosophers... astonishing."
Reza's brain spun. He could correct them. OR he could ride this wave like a majestic intellectual surfer.
He cleared his throat. "Yes. Obviously. This is that."
Immediately, a bell rang somewhere deep inside the college.
A porter sprinted across. "ACADEMIC EMERGENCY! Emergency symposium! Clear the lawn!"
Students and professors rushed out with notebooks. A lectern appeared as if summoned by magic. Someone dragged a projector across the grass. Before Reza could escape, he was lifted onto the lectern by three extremely enthusiastic postgraduates.
Professor Biscuit addressed the crowd. "Presenting our visiting scholar — Dr Reza Shadey, Keeper of the Chicken Text."
Thunderous applause.
Reza blinked in disbelief. This was his moment. This was destiny. This was insane.
He coughed grandly. "Esteemed scholars, today I shall explain the philosophical implications of dehydrated poultry in medieval governance."
A hush fell. Pens hovered. A professor mouthed "brilliant".
Reza improvised wildly.
"This chicken represents leverage. The dryness symbolises economic austerity. And the flavour profile is, of course, a metaphor for resilience."
The scholars nodded as if witnessing genius. One student burst into tears at the beauty of it.
But then — disaster struck.
A sharp gust of wind blew the chicken strip off the lectern.
It landed on the lawn.
And a passing duck waddled over, quacked thoughtfully, and swallowed it whole.
There was a collective gasp.
Professor Biscuit sighed. "Well. Primary source destroyed. Right, tea everyone."
And just like that, the entire crowd wandered away, discussing scones and whether the jam should go on first.
Reza stood trembling with indignation. His greatest intellectual triumph — eaten by poultry.
Mrs Higgins hurried over, relieved. "There you are, Reza! You didn't cause any trouble, did you?"
Reza inhaled slowly. "Mrs Higgins... Oxford is a dangerous place. Their scholars study chickens. Dead ones. And I have completed my mission. Take me home before I am forced to deliver a second lecture."
Back in the car, he flopped onto the seat with theatrical exhaustion.
"I have gathered the data", he announced. "The Oxford cats are simpletons. They prefer heating schedules and committee meetings to grand heists. Their Ambition Quotient is dangerously low."
Mrs Higgins smiled, knowing full well that four gentle, content, friendly cats had politely ignored him.
Reza closed his eyes and declared:
"Catford College remains the superior institution. Now drive, Mrs Higgins. I must publish my findings immediately."
Back home, Reza gathered the neighbourhood cats and retold the entire Oxford saga three times, each version containing more "genius" and fewer ducks. When he finally finished, Penelope stretched delicately and said: "Rezzi, dear... if you're a doctor, I'm a steam train. And I don't see any wheels." Ginger Tom snorted biscuit crumbs out of his nose. Tiger fell off a plant pot. Reza pretended not to hear a word.
Night night. Sleep tight.