Story 147: Reza Shadey and the Terrible Rumour
Okay, snuggle down tight, little ones. Let me tell you a tale about a very cheeky and magnificently fluffy Persian cat who briefly believed he was an international delicacy — and nearly declared martial law in the herb planter because of it.
One mild afternoon in Mrs Higgins's garden in Catford, Reza Shadey was reclining in a golden patch of sunshine. His sleek brown-and-black fur shimmered like polished chocolate. His emerald eyes were half-closed in smug contentment. His paws were arranged in what he called Executive Relaxation Formation™ — one tucked neatly beneath his chin, the others artfully splayed as though he were chairing a board meeting of sunbeams.
From the open kitchen window drifted the gentle murmur of Mrs Higgins's radio.
"...and I heard immigrants are eating cats", said a dramatic voice on a phone-in programme. "It's happening everywhere!"
Reza's left ear twitched like a radar dish.
Eating.
Cats.
His eyes snapped open. Ping.
For a long, silent moment, the garden held its breath.
Then Reza slowly rose to his feet, puffing out his chest like a furry soufflé.
"Hm", he murmured gravely. "As expected."
Penelope, who had been arranging fallen daisies into a rather tasteful pattern nearby, looked up with calm, sensible eyes.
"As expected, Rezzi?"
Reza drew himself up to his full magnificent height.
"It appears", — he paused for dramatic effect — "that I have finally been recognised as highly sought-after international cuisine."
Ginger Tom, sprawled on the brick wall like a heavy marmalade cushion, blinked lazily.
"Come again, mate?"
"I have intercepted critical human intelligence", Reza whispered loudly. "There are cat-eaters. And frankly, looking at my glossy coat and marbled steak-like hindquarters, I am clearly a prime target."
Tiger gasped, tumbling out of a flowerbed in a shower of soil.
"Do they want to eat me too?!"
"Unlikely", said Reza magnanimously. "You are more... stringy. But fear not! As the designated Boss of this territory, I am implementing immediate protective measures."
Penelope sighed softly.
"Rezzi, it was just a silly caller on the radio."
But Reza was already pacing.
And that was when Felix the Fox, watching from the top of the fence, tilted his russet head.
Because earlier that very morning, a moving van had rumbled down the street. Boxes had been carried inside the empty house two gardens over. New smells had drifted on the breeze — roasted vegetables, warm spices, sweet pastries cooling on windowsills.
New family.
New compost bin.
Felix liked new compost bins.
Felix did not believe a single whisker of the radio nonsense.
But frightened cats stayed close to home.
And frightened cats did not guard compost.
He cleared his throat lazily.
"Terrible business", he drawled. "Funny thing... a new family moved in this morning. From somewhere else, I hear."
Reza froze mid-stride.
"From somewhere else?" he repeated.
Felix gave an innocent shrug.
"Oh yes. Different cooking. Different accents. One never knows..."
In Catford, "somewhere else" could mean "Croydon".
But in Reza's magnificently overinflated imagination, it meant an international culinary conspiracy.
"This confirms everything", he breathed.
Penelope's ears flattened slightly.
"It confirms that people move house, Rezzi."
But it was too late.
Within minutes, Reza had declared a state of Maximum Fluff Alert.
Tiger was appointed Chief Watchtower Engineer and instructed to construct a surveillance outpost from Mrs Higgins's recycling box — which he did with enthusiastic bouncing. The structure collapsed immediately with a tremendous clatter.
Ginger Tom was assigned Perimeter Snack Surveillance, which mostly involved sniffing near the compost bin "for intelligence purposes."
Penelope was reluctantly promoted to Minister of Sensible Thinking, though her advice was largely ignored.
"Step one of the Strategic Deterrence Protocol", Reza announced, "is Smell Camouflage. We must become entirely unappetising."
Before anyone could stop him, he marched to the herb planter and rubbed his magnificent cheeks vigorously against the garlic chives. Then he rolled in a slightly damp patch of soil.
He stood up, smelling like a confused roast dinner.
"There", he coughed. "I am now an undesirable asset."
Ginger Tom stared at him.
"You've absolutely lost it, mate."
But rumours — even silly ones — can flutter about like dandelion fluff.
Reza whispered to that "foreign operatives" had arrived.
, who had the emotional steadiness of a startled teapot, immediately barked about "invasions."
Tiger saluted random bushes.
By late afternoon, half the garden was behaving as though it were under mild siege.
Meanwhile, Felix slipped quietly into the new family's garden and sampled a perfectly good vegetable curry scrap in complete peace.
That evening, as the sky turned apricot pink, the new family stepped into their garden.
They looked tired but cheerful. The father carried a watering can. The mother laughed as she untangled fairy lights from a box. A grandmother placed a small pot of herbs on the step.
Trailing behind them was a tiny rescue kitten with enormous, uncertain eyes.
Tiger froze.
"Ooooh", he whispered. "Friend."
The kitten blinked.
Penelope stepped forward gently.
"Hello there, little one."
From inside the compost bin came a suspicious rustle.
The garden light clicked on.
"Shoo!" called the father, clapping his hands.
Felix darted away, licking curry from his whiskers.
Reza, who had been dramatically hiding behind a flowerpot, peered out cautiously.
No cages.
No seasoning.
No cutlery.
Just a kitten.
Mrs Higgins came out with her evening cup of tea.
"Oh! You must be the new neighbours", she called warmly. "Welcome! We're so glad you're here."
She glanced down at Reza and wrinkled her nose.
"Goodness me! You smell like garlic soup. What have you been rolling in?"
Then she added, almost absentmindedly:
"Honestly, some of those radio callers talk such nonsense. People love their pets."
Reza froze.
Nonsense?
He looked at Penelope, who raised one knowing eyebrow.
He looked at Tiger, already bouncing in delighted zig-zags with the new kitten.
He looked at the now-guarded compost bin.
Slowly... very slowly... the truth padded into his magnificent brain.
"Ahem."
He raised his chin.
"It appears", he said smoothly, "that my rapid-response awareness campaign has been entirely successful."
Penelope blinked.
"Has it now?"
"Indeed. I detected the rumour early. I mobilised resources. I heightened vigilance. And as you can plainly observe — zero cats have been consumed."
Ginger Tom sighed.
"There were never any cat-eaters, Reza."
"Precisely", said Reza confidently. "My deterrence strategy worked flawlessly."
Penelope smiled softly.
"Rezzi, rumours only work if someone believes them."
Reza paused.
"Well", he said thoughtfully, "it is fortunate that I believed it so magnificently."
That night, curled safely in his plush donut bed while Mrs Higgins scratched him under his chin — scritch, scritch — Reza gave a satisfied sigh.
"I was never in danger, you know", he purred.
"Of course not", said Mrs Higgins.
After a moment, he sniffed his shoulder and added quietly,
"Still... perhaps I shall avoid the garlic chives next time. The aroma is somewhat overpowering for a visionary."
Outside, the new kitten giggled as Tiger bounced through the grass — boing, boing!
The garden felt peaceful again.
And somewhere beyond the fence, Felix searched for less dramatic opportunities.
A very important message from Mrs Higgins: It's easy to get frightened by silly rumours, especially if you only hear half the story. Always check the facts with someone you trust before you start building watchtowers. And take it from Reza — you never need to roll in garlic chives to be safe.
Night night. Sleep tight.