Story 48: Reza Shadey and the Holy Mice Mishap
Reza Shadey, the grandest, fluffiest, most magnificently bossy Persian cat in the whole wide world, was sprawled across a pile of Mrs Higgins's freshly laundered towels, looking like a furry emperor on a fluffy throne. His shiny brown and black fur glistened, and his emerald green eyes sparkled with very important thoughts.
"I am destined for greatness", he purred. "Possibly international greatness."
He imagined himself as the Chief Supreme Mouser of All the Lands, giving orders left, right and centre with a dramatic swish of his splendid tail.
Downstairs, Mrs Higgins was packing her famous Petunia Marmalade into a crate for a big trade show in New Zealand. Reza watched from his towel throne, his whiskers twitching with disapproval.
"Crooked ribbons! Wonky labels! Honestly, humans are quite helpless without my expert supervision", he huffed, already planning how he might take charge of the entire marmalade operation.
But then — OH NO!
A gang of cheeky mice invaded the packing room!
They scampered over the ribbons, nibbled the labels, and danced about like a band of tiny troublemakers having a splendidly naughty party.
Reza's fur puffed up like a chocolate-coloured thundercloud.
"The CHEEK! The OUTRAGE! The absolute..." he paused for extra drama, "...naughtiness!"
With a mighty HISSSSSS! and a grand flick of his glorious tail —
SWISH! FLICK! ZOOM!
The mice scattered in every direction.
SQUEAK! EEK! SCAMPER!
They dashed for cover, bumping into boxes, tripping over their own tiny tails, and squeaking in a most undignified fashion.
Mrs Higgins clapped her hands with delight. "Oh, Reza, my brave, brilliant boy! You've saved my marmalade! You're definitely coming with me to New Zealand!"
Before Reza could explain that aeroplanes were far too common for a cat of his distinguished importance, he was gently (but firmly) placed into a velvet-lined cat-carrier.
"This had better include excellent service", he muttered as they boarded the plane. WHOOSH!
The journey was dreadful.
"This air is doing absolutely nothing for my magnificent fluff",Reza complained. "And these biscuits! Not even a whisper of salmon! The disgrace!"
After what felt like seventeen million years, they finally arrived in Auckland, New Zealand, and headed straight to the Great Marmalade Trade Show.
Mrs Higgins set up her stall, her jars of Petunia Marmalade glowing like little golden suns. Reza lounged beside her like a very important judge, sniffing the competition.
SNIFF. SNIFF.
"Amateur hour", he murmured.
Then, along came King Kiwi, ruler of the splendid Feather Palace, wearing a shimmering feathered cloak and a crown that sparkled in every colour of the rainbow.
He tasted Mrs Higgins's marmalade.
His eyes lit up.
"SCRUMPTIOUS! DIVINE! ABSOLUTELY MAGNIFICENT!" he cried. "I shall take every single jar!"
He handed over a heavy sack of gold coins — CLINK! CLANK! — then beamed at them.
"You and your magnificent cat must visit my palace at once!"
Reza's ears perked up.
"A palace?" he thought. "At last — somewhere properly suited to my greatness."
At the Feather Palace, they wandered through rooms filled with glittering treasures and rainbow-coloured tapestries.
But then King Kiwi sighed.
"I'm afraid we have a rather unusual situation", he said. "You see, the mice who live here are not ordinary mice. They are our Sacred Temple Mice. They have blessed this palace for hundreds of years."
He gestured to a nibbled cloak and a crumb-covered table.
"They are very dear to us... but also very enthusiastic about sharing everything."
Reza's eyes gleamed.
"Sacred shmacred! Mice are mice", he declared. "And I am the ultimate mouse-catching machine!"
Before anyone could stop him —
SWISH! DASH! ZAP!
Reza shot through the palace like a furry whirlwind.
SQUEAK! SCATTER! SCRAMBLE!
The poor little mice fled in every direction.
Reza skidded around corners, leapt over cushions, and pounced with tremendous enthusiasm.
"This will be over in moments!" he declared.
But suddenly —
"STOP! STOP!"
King Kiwi came rushing in, waving his feathery arms in alarm.
"Those are our HOLY mice!" he cried. "They bring us luck and blessings! Chasing them away is terribly bad luck!"
Reza froze.
His paw hovered mid-air.
His tail slowly stopped swishing.
"Holy... mice?" he said, in a much smaller voice.
King Kiwi nodded gravely. "I'm afraid so. Now we must perform the Sacred Cheese Ceremony to invite them back."
Reza hesitated... just for the tiniest whisker of a moment.
"Oh", he said quietly.
For the next hour, Reza sat very still (which he found extremely difficult) while King Kiwi placed tiny pieces of the finest cheese around the palace.
"Oh great Mouse Spirits", he chanted, "please forgive our fluffy friend!"
Reza's ears drooped.
"Ahem... yes... quite", he muttered.
Then, very softly — so softly you might almost miss it —
"Sorry, little mice."
Slowly, one by one, the mice peeked out.
They looked at Reza.
They looked at the cheese.
They looked at each other.
At last, the smallest mouse squeaked, "We forgive you, Big Fluffy Cat... but no more chasing!"
Reza nodded with great seriousness.
"Quite right", he said. Then, under his breath, "Though I was extremely impressive."
King Kiwi was so relieved that he presented Mrs Higgins with a beautiful book about New Zealand's customs and traditions.
"So you'll know about our special ways", he said kindly.
On the journey home — by ship, because Reza firmly refused to fly again ("Boats are far more dignified, and I require recovery time!") — he spent much of the voyage reading the book.
"Sacred mice... blessed beetles... honoured hedgehogs..." he muttered. "Goodness. A cat must be prepared."
Back in England, Reza settled onto his favourite sunny cushion with a grand and satisfied sigh.
"Well", he announced to a passing butterfly, "I may not have conquered New Zealand... but I did learn something important."
He paused thoughtfully.
"Next time I travel", he added, "I shall read the guidebook first."
He gave a small, dignified nod.
"And perhaps", he added, flicking his tail, "ask before chasing anything squeaky."
He stretched magnificently.
"Now... where is my afternoon salmon? This international adventure has made me frightfully peckish indeed."
Night night. Sleep tight.