Story 144: Reza Shadey and the Grumpy Skirting Board
Okay, snuggle down tight, little ones. And grown-ups — yes, you too. No pretending you're "just reviewing the brochure".
This is the story of Reza Shadey: a magnificently fluffy Persian cat who believed — with complete and utter certainty — that he was not merely a resident of Mrs Higgins's house...
...but the principal stakeholder.
To Mrs Higgins, it was simply home. To Reza, it was a well-positioned period property with generous light flow and strong snack potential.
The sofa was his executive lounge. The hallway was a high-footfall corridor. The kitchen was a premium food-distribution hub. And the catflap?
The catflap was a bold architectural statement about modern living.
The Inciting Incident
One perfectly ordinary evening, Mrs Higgins settled into her armchair with a cup of tea. She reached for the remote. It was not there.
She patted the cushion. She checked under the newspaper. She peered down the side of the chair.
"Hm", she said. Then, after a moment: "Honestly. It'll be that house goblin again. He never does like new technology."
Reza froze. The house... what?
He turned slowly, ears forward. House goblin. New technology. Remote interference. This was not a misplaced device. This was parallel governance.
Mrs Higgins sighed and wandered off to look in the kitchen. Reza's emerald eyes narrowed. A house goblin. Unregistered resident. Anti-innovation. Possibly hostile to remote controls. This required immediate executive oversight.
The Night Audit
When the house went quiet and Mrs Higgins had gone upstairs, Reza began his patrol. He inspected the radiator (acceptable). He inspected the rug (shedding but loyal). He inspected the skirting board.
The skirting board inspected him back.
Very slowly, the wood bowed outward. "I don't approve of the catflap", said a tired voice.
Reza did not jump. He merely adjusted his posture. "And you are?" he asked smoothly.
The skirting board peeled open like a door remembering it was once a tree. Out stepped a small, brown, sharp-featured goblin in a waistcoat that looked older than the concept of Wi-Fi.
"I'm Robin", he said. "House goblin. Legacy occupant."
Reza blinked once. "Ah", he said. "Pre-digital infrastructure."
Robin folded his arms. "This house", he said, tapping the skirting board, "was built on beams. On mortar. On proper doors that shut. Not flapping plastic portals."
"That", said Reza grandly, "is a catflap. It promotes seamless indoor-outdoor living. Highly desirable. Very now."
"It lets foxes look in."
"External visitors", corrected Reza. "Adds vibrancy."
Robin sniffed. "You've turned a solid house into a... a through-lounge."
Reza leapt onto the arm of the sofa. "This property", he declared, "has been thoughtfully repositioned to support flexible occupancy and community integration. Penelope offers emotional stability. Ginger Tom strengthens the biscuit sector. Tiger drives kinetic growth."
"They shed", Robin said flatly.
"Soft furnishing enhancement."
Robin's eyes moved to the television. "And now", he added darkly, "remotes."
Reza stiffened. "Ah", he said carefully. "Yes. About that."
"I hid it", Robin said. "Behind the piano."
Reza gasped. "Why?"
"It was blinking at me. It was judging."
Reza stared at him. "You object to modern convenience."
"I object to being replaced", Robin snapped. "Once, humans listened to the house. Now they point little black rectangles at it."
The room went quiet. Reza, for once, did not immediately respond. The catflap swung gently in the night air. Robin winced. "Listen to that", he muttered. "No respect for thresholds."
Reza flicked his tail. "Thresholds", he said loftily, "are barriers to growth."
"They are boundaries", Robin replied. "Without them, houses forget what they are."
For a moment they simply looked at one another. Modern fluff. Old timber.
Finally Robin said, more quietly: "When Mrs Higgins first brought you home, you hid under the radiator."
Reza bristled. "I was conducting reconnaissance."
"You were small", said Robin. "And loud."
Reza opened his mouth — then closed it. Robin stepped backwards into the skirting board. "I don't hate change", he muttered. "I just don't like being blamed for it."
And he disappeared. The wood smoothed. The house settled.
Reza remained very still. "Legacy occupant", he thought. "Emotionally invested. Risk-averse. Potentially useful institutional knowledge." He curled up on the sofa. The catflap swung once more. And the house slept.
The Morning After
Sunlight crept across the carpet. Mrs Higgins came downstairs in her slippers.
"Oh!" she said suddenly. "There it is." The remote lay neatly beside the piano. "Well", she said mildly, "thank you very much." She glanced at the skirting board. "No more hiding things, all right?"
Then she went into the kitchen and returned with a small saucer. Fresh cream. She placed it gently by the wall. "There we are", she said. "Peace offering."
Reza's whiskers trembled. Cream. Premium allocation. Highly desirable. He padded over. He sniffed.
He could, very easily, reposition himself between saucer and skirting board. Exclusive cream rights secured. He glanced at Mrs Higgins, buttering her toast. He glanced at the wall.
Nothing moved.
Very deliberately, Reza stepped back. He sat beside the saucer. Guarding it. Not touching it.
After a moment, the skirting board shifted. Robin emerged cautiously to shoulder height. He eyed the cream. He eyed Reza.
"This is not a subscription model, is it?" he asked suspiciously.
Reza gave a slow, magnanimous blink. "Consider it heritage support", he said. "From current management."
Robin sniffed the cream. Then, carefully, he tasted it. The room felt warmer. Not hotter — just steadier. Robin wiped his mouth with the back of his waistcoat.
"You still use too many words", he said.
"And you still hide essential infrastructure", said Reza.
They regarded one another. The catflap swung. Robin winced — but only slightly. Reza stretched luxuriously.
"This house", he announced, "benefits from adaptive coexistence."
Robin snorted. "It benefits from someone remembering where the beams are."
Reza considered that. Then he leapt onto the windowsill to supervise the street.
"Me, Modernisation Consultant", he thought. "Him — Legacy Asset Manager. Yes. That sounds right."
The catflap moved gently. The beams held firm. And the house — old and new, cream and remote, goblin and cat — remained exactly where it belonged.
Night night. Sleep tight.