Story 139: Reza Shadey and the Papal Passport
Now then... shuffle down under the blankets, tuck your paws in nice and warm, and listen carefully — because this is the story of how a very tiny piece of technology caused a very large amount of inconvenience for an entire city.
Reza Shadey was still in Rome. At first, he had enjoyed it immensely. The sun was dramatic, perfect for illuminating his magnificent fluff. The ruins were plentiful, offering excellent high ground for looking down on people. And the pigeons were, frankly, delightfully inattentive.
But after several days, Reza found himself sitting on a broken column near the Colosseum, frowning. The stone was cold, and a tourist had just tried to feed him a low-quality breadstick.
"Hmph", he muttered, flicking his tail. "Too many draughts. Poor acoustics. And nobody here understands that I prefer my admiration served before lunch, preferably with a side of premium salmon."
Marcello, the skinny Italian street cat who knew every cobblestone in the city, was licking his paw nearby. He paused and looked at Reza with a weary expression. "You complain a lot for someone sleeping in ancient history, biondino", he said. "Most cats would kill for this view."
Reza narrowed his emerald eyes. "I do not sleep, Marcello. I strategise. And I have reached a conclusion. Rome is simply too... sprawling. Managing an entire empire is exhausting work for a solo operator. I require something more... compact."
Marcello blinked. "You are leaving?"
Reza stood up, puffing out his chest until he resembled a very confident cloud. "Upgrading", he corrected sharply. "I have read the guidebooks. There is a country nearby — the smallest country in the world. The Vatican. Fewer than a thousand residents. No taxes. And, rumour has it, excellent marble floors."
He jumped down from the column with a flourish. "It is perfect. A pocket-sized kingdom for a pocket-sized King. I shall rule it by teatime."
With that, and his green 'Participant' ribbon from the cat show still fluttering heroically around his neck, Reza marched across the square towards the river. Marcello watched him go, shaking his head. "Buona fortuna, little emperor", he whispered.
Reza arrived at St. Peter's Square. It was vast. It was grand. And standing at the gates were men in the most extraordinary outfits Reza had ever seen. They wore stripes of blue, red, and orange, and held tall, shiny sticks.
Reza gasped in delight. "My Honour Guard!" he purred. "They have dressed up just for my arrival! A bit flashy, perhaps, but I appreciate the effort."
Tourists stepped aside. Pigeons scattered. A Swiss Guard blinked, looking down as a fluffy brown-and-black blur wove confidently between his legs. The guard did not move. He was trained to be still. Reza took this as a sign of supreme respect. "At ease, soldier", he meowed, slipping past the giant wooden doors and into the quiet hush beyond.
Inside, everything gleamed. The floors shone so brightly Reza could see his own magnificent tummy reflected in them. The walls whispered with history. Sunlight lay carefully on polished desks as if it had been instructed to behave.
Reza trotted down a long, silent corridor. "This is more like it", he thought. "Quiet. Clean. And smelling faintly of incense and old paper. A proper office for a cat of my standing."
He found an open door and sauntered in. It was a very important-looking room with a very large desk. On the desk lay a stack of thick, creamy-coloured papers sealed with red wax.
Reza sniffed them. "Excellent", he murmured. "High-quality stationery. A clear sign of power. I shall sit on it immediately to assert my dominance."
He hopped up, turned around three times for importance — swish, swish, swish — and sat squarely on the most important-looking document of all. He curled his tail over the wax seal. "I am now the Pope of Fluff", he decided. "My first decree: sardines on Tuesdays."
Just as he was settling in for a supervisory nap, a man in a black suit entered the room, carrying a tray of espresso. He stopped very suddenly. The espresso cups rattled.
"Oh", the man whispered, staring at the desk. "Un gatto."
Reza opened one emerald eye and delivered a sharp, commanding "MEOW."
This roughly translated to: "Yes. And you are late. Begin the tuna course immediately. And tell the men in the stripy trousers to stand straighter."
The man did not begin the tuna course. Instead, he spoke into a telephone in a very serious, hushed voice. "Abbiamo un intruso. È molto... peloso." ("We have an intruder. He is very... hairy.")
A little while later, a woman arrived carrying a small, clever-looking machine. She didn't look like a guard. She looked like a vet. Reza's ears flattened. Vets were the enemy of dignity.
She crouched, smiling gently. "Well hello, traveller", she said softly. "You look a long way from home."
She waved a small wand near Reza's neck.
BEEP.
Reza leapt to his feet, bristling. "How dare you beep me!" he hissed. "I am the Superintendent of Ruins! A Roman Citizen of High Distinction! I am the Emperor of this Desk! Do you not see my ribbon?!"
The woman looked at the screen on her machine. Her eyebrows shot up.
"Oh my goodness", she said. "His name is Reza Shadey. And he lives in... Catford."
Reza froze. The word hung in the sacred air like a damp sock.
"...Catford?" he repeated carefully in his head. "That sounds... dreadfully provincial."
"Yes", the woman said kindly, scratching him behind the ear (which, despite his outrage, felt quite nice). "London. England. That's a very long way from here, little one. Your human must be worried sick."
Reza recovered instantly. He sat tall, smoothing his whiskers. "Ah", he purred smoothly. "Yes. Of course. Catford. My... summer residence. I was merely... on a diplomatic tour. Inspecting the colonies."
The woman picked him up. Reza tried to protest that a Head of State should not be carried like a baby, but he was actually quite tired of walking on cobblestones.
By late afternoon, Reza found himself back near the alley with Marcello — but this time, a sturdy travel carrier was being gently placed on the ground, lined with a soft blanket and a bowl of water.
Marcello stared at the box. "You are being... put in a crate, biondino?"
Reza sighed dramatically, gazing through the bars with the tragic dignity of a deposed king. "It has come to this", he declared. "The authorities have realised my presence here was destabilising international admiration levels. They are extraditing me."
Marcello frowned. "Is that like being chased by a dog?"
"Certainly not!" Reza sniffed. "It is a diplomatic procedure reserved for exceptionally important cats. Apparently, my microchip is not merely an identification device, but a highly discreet tracking system operated by the International Secret Service of Snacks. They cannot function without me in London. The economy is collapsing."
Marcello considered this. He looked at the carrier. He looked at the green ribbon. He looked at Reza. "That sounds made up."
Reza adjusted his ribbon. "Most true things do, Marcello. Most true things do."
As the carrier was lifted into a van bound for the airport, Reza caught one last glimpse of Rome glowing in the golden evening sun. The ruins, the fountains, the endless pizza crusts.
"Ciao, Marcello!" he called out. "Keep the ruins tidy! I shall return when the world is ready for my vision! And tell the Pope... the desk was acceptable!"
And so, thanks to a tiny chip no bigger than a grain of rice, Reza Shadey began his journey home — across the sky, over the sea, and back to the land of rain and radiators.
Back to Mrs Higgins.
Back to familiar sunbeams.
Back to cupboards that opened... mostly.
A very important message from Mrs Higgins: Microchips are very important for cats and dogs. They're like a secret passport that stays with them always. If a pet ever gets lost — or decides to inspect ancient ruins — a microchip helps them find their way safely home to the people who love them most.
Night night. Sleep tight.