Story 46: Reza Shadey and the Three Foolish Cats
Once upon a time, in the grand and extremely important garden of Mrs Higgins, lived Reza Shadey — the most splendid, spectacular, undeniably magnificent Persian cat in all of England.
Or so he frequently explained.
"MEEEOWWW!" he declared one morning, to absolutely no one in particular.
"Greatness such as mine cannot be expected to sit about doing... nothing."
For Reza, you see, was bored.
And boredom, in his opinion, was entirely unacceptable.
He gave his magnificent fur a regal fluff.
"I require adventure", he announced.
"And perhaps... an audience."
Next door, his neighbours — Penelope, Ginger Tom, and little Tiger — were having a sleepover.
A very jolly one.
They dashed about the garden chasing butterflies, tumbling over each other, and giggling like tickled jellybeans.
"HEE-HEE-HEE!"
Reza watched from the fence, his emerald eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"Oh?" he murmured.
"A gathering. Without me."
He spotted the open door.
"...how curious."
With the air of someone accepting a very important invitation, Reza tiptoed inside.
CREAK...
THUMP...
"OOPS."
He paused.
"...stealth", he muttered, "is overrated."
Inside, three bowls of food awaited.
Reza's whiskers twitched.
"Well now", he said, inspecting them,
"it would be terribly irresponsible not to evaluate these."
First: Penelope's.
A delicate salmon mousse with a sprinkle of parsley.
Reza sniffed.
He recoiled.
"BLEURGH!"
He blinked dramatically.
"Parsley? On salmon? What sort of culinary confusion is this nonsense?"
With a single, decisive swipe —
SWOOSH!
— off it flew.
SPLOSH!
"...improved", he concluded.
(Some might have disagreed.)
Next: Ginger Tom's.
Juicy roast chicken.
Reza nibbled.
"NOM... hm."
He tilted his head thoughtfully.
"Perfectly acceptable... but rather... pedestrian."
He examined a piece very closely.
"Where is the refinement? The restraint? The presentation?"
With a flick of his tail—
FLICK!
CRASH-BANG-WALLOP!
Chicken scattered everywhere — bouncing, rolling, and skittering across the floor like it had suddenly decided to escape.
Reza stepped back, satisfied.
"A touch more dynamic", he said.
Finally: Tiger's bowl.
Plain, crunchy kitten biscuits.
Reza paused.
He leaned in.
CRUNCH.
His eyes widened.
CRUNCH-CRUNCH.
"Ah."
A slow, delighted purr.
"Perfection."
He ate every last crumb.
"MUNCH-CHOMP."
Full and exceedingly pleased with himself, Reza turned to the beds.
"Now then", he said,
"let us address the matter of seating."
Penelope's bed: soft, pink, and satin.
He poked it.
POKE.
"It's... pleasant", he admitted,
"...if one were inclined toward excessive frilliness and kindness."
He was not.
Ginger Tom's: a rugged old blanket.
Reza flopped.
FLOP.
He froze.
"...oh dear."
He sniffed.
"Chicken... mud... adventure..."
He leapt off at once.
"Hmph. Absolutely not."
Tiger's: a neat little wool basket.
Reza circled it once.
PAD-PAD-PAD.
Twice.
TWIRL.
He nodded.
"Yes. Sensible. Elegant. Clearly designed with me in mind."
(Again... this was not entirely accurate.)
He positioned himself carefully.
Lifted his chin.
And lowered himself regally—
PLOP—
SQUISH—
...SQUEEZE.
Pause.
"...oh."
His front half disappeared neatly inside.
His back half did not.
It remained... decisively outside.
His tail twitched.
Once.
Twice.
"...I see", he said, voice slightly muffled.
WIGGLE.
"...a minor miscalculation."
Just then —
BOING-BOING-BOUNCE!
— the three friends burst back in.
They stopped.
They stared.
Silence.
Then —
"GASP!" cried Penelope.
"My beautiful mousse!"
"YOWWWWL!" cried Ginger Tom.
"My chicken! It's escaped!"
"SQUEAK!" cried Tiger.
"My biscuits!"
A pause.
Tiger squinted.
"...and... um..."
He pointed.
"...WHY is there an ENORMOUS BOTTOM in my basket?!"
All three slowly turned.
There, sticking out of the basket, was a very large, very fluffy, extremely undignified bottom.
Its tail was swishing about like a feather duster gone completely bonkers.
Inside the basket:
"...AHEM", came Reza's voice.
"I would like it clearly understood that this situation is temporary."
WIGGLE-WAGGLE.
"...and entirely the basket's fault."
Penelope blinked.
Then —
"GIGGLE!"
Ginger Tom burst out laughing.
"HA-HA-HA!"
Tiger clapped his paws in delight.
"He looks like an upside-down ice cream!"
"HEE-HEE-HEE!"
"Right", said Penelope, doing her very best to be sensible.
"I'm fetching my human."
Off she dashed.
Reza wriggled.
The basket held firm.
"...this", he muttered,
"is not how greatness is supposed to appear."
Soon, the human arrived.
She took one look —
— and laughed.
"Oh dear."
With very gentle hands, she tugged —
WIGGLE —
TUG —
POP!
Out came Reza, rather like a cork from a bottle.
His magnificent fur was sticking up in all directions.
His dignity... rather less so.
He was returned to Mrs Higgins, who opened the door with a warm smile.
"Oh, Reza Shadey", she said, scooping him up.
"What have you been up to?"
Reza said nothing.
Which, for him, said quite a lot.
Back inside, he smoothed his fur very carefully.
"Well", he murmured,
"that was... instructive."
Mrs Higgins gave him a gentle pat.
"Perhaps next time", she said,
"you might try joining in instead of taking over."
Reza considered this.
"...an interesting strategy", he admitted.
And from that day on:
The three friends made quite sure to close their door during sleepovers.
Reza, meanwhile, practised sitting in appropriately sized containers.
And occasionally —
just occasionally —
he was invited next door properly.
Where he shared the snacks.
(While still referring to himself as "Your Majesty", of course.)
And if you ever peek over that garden fence at just the right moment...
You might still see Reza very carefully lowering himself into a basket, muttering:
"Measure first... then magnificence."
Night night. Sleep tight.