Story 57: Reza Shadey and The Cost of Living Crisis
It all started on a Tuesday, when Mrs Higgins sat at her kitchen table with a big pile of papers and a very small cup of tea.
She let out a long, slow "Siiiiigh..." that ruffled the curtains and made the biscuit tin tremble.
Reza Shadey, the world's most magnificent Persian cat, opened one green eye.
He knew that sound.
It was the sound that came just before disappointment.
At dinner time, his worst fears came true.
Instead of his favourite "Supreme Ocean Delight" tuna pâté, a bowl of small, brown, dusty-looking nuggets was placed before him.
Clatter, clatter.
They were called "Savvy Saver Cat Biscuits".
Reza Shadey sniffed them once.
Sniff!
He gently poked a nugget with his paw.
Flick!
It skittered across the kitchen floor like a sad little stone.
He looked at Mrs Higgins with utter disbelief.
"This isn't food", he thought, his whiskers trembling. "This is gravel. Gravel that dreamed of being food and failed miserably. The absolute cheek."
He let out a long, loud, furious yowl.
"MEEEEOOOWWW-OWWW!"
Which clearly meant: "Fix this appalling mistake at once, or I shall depart."
He stalked to the door, his tail held high like a fluffy, angry flag.
But when the next meal came...
So did the dreadful nuggets.
That was it.
As soon as the cat flap was unwatched, Reza slipped out.
His mission:
To find a new, more appreciative owner with better taste.
First, he marched to the home of Penelope, who was sunbathing on a rather fancy velvet cushion by her patio doors.
He explained his terrible situation in great detail.
Penelope listened kindly, her tail wrapped neatly around her paws.
"Oh, Rezzi", she said softly, "it's dreadful. But my human says if one more mouth to feed turns up, we'll all be on bread and water for a month".
She gave a delicate shudder.
"Bread!"
Reza drew back in horror.
The situation was clearly worse than he had imagined.
Next, he visited Ginger Tom, whose home was a cheerful, comfy-looking house at the end of the road.
Tom offered him a lick of his own dinner — a rather plain-looking meat-and-jelly concoction.
"Cost of livin' crisis, mate", Tom sighed, chewing thoughtfully. "I get what I'm given these days. Still, it fills a hole".
Reza backed away slowly.
Plain meat and jelly?
How... ordinary.
Even Tiger, bouncing on a sunny garden wall, had no useful solutions.
"A new home?" he said. "Good luck with that! My human says we're cutting back. We're only allowed to chase the grey squirrels now, not the fancy red ones!"
He gave a cheerful shrug, as if this were perfectly acceptable.
Reza Shadey's magnificent fur became slightly less magnificent.
He was cold.
He was hungry.
And his pride felt very prickly indeed.
As a light rain began to fall — pitter-patter, pitter-patter — he shivered under a hedge.
A lowly earthworm wiggled past.
It seemed, somehow, to be laughing.
At him.
Reza Shadey.
Laughed at by a worm.
Just as he was beginning to suspect that the world had lost all sense of proper standards, he saw a warm light glowing in the distance.
He crept towards it.
Step by step.
And found himself on the porch of "St Whisker's Cat Shelter".
Inside were rows of cages, soft voices, and kind people in aprons.
Reza slipped in quietly, hoping for a miracle.
Perhaps even a forgotten tin of salmon.
The food was called "Economy Mousse".
It was served lukewarm.
His bed for the night was a shared scratch-post that had definitely lost all its bounce.
A one-eared tabby cat kept trying to start a sing-along.
It was a nightmare.
But as the evening went on, Reza began to notice things.
He watched the people carefully sharing out the food, making sure every cat got a little bit.
He saw them mending old blankets, smoothing them down with gentle hands.
And in the cage next to him, a tiny kitten whispered:
"My human cried when she left me here. She said she couldn't afford the vet's bills anymore".
Reza paused.
A strange feeling bubbled up in his chest.
Was it... humility?
Absolutely not. What a ridiculous idea.
He shifted his paws with a small, important huff.
"...Hmm", he thought.
Then, very firmly, he tucked his fancy collar — engraved with "Reza Shadey - Connoisseur of Fine Foods" — deep into his magnificent fluff.
"This establishment", he decided, "is clearly operating under extremely limited resources."
He gave a small, important sniff.
"Standards are... constrained."
That explained everything.
The very next morning, the door burst open.
A frantic Mrs Higgins rushed in, her eyes red from crying.
She was carrying posters with Reza's picture on them.
"Reza!" she cried when she saw him.
Reza, determined to maintain his dignity, pretended not to notice.
He turned his head and gave his fur a slow, deliberate wash.
But then...
Mrs Higgins opened a tin of budget tuna.
The smell drifted through the air.
It was not gourmet.
But it was...
Acceptable.
Reza's tummy let out a loud, traitorous:
RUMBLE-GURGLE!
He paused.
He walked over.
He took a bite.
Then another.
It was...
Tolerable.
Barely.
He allowed Mrs Higgins to scoop him up and carry him home.
Back in his own kitchen, she mixed the dreadful brown nuggets with the juice from the tuna.
"We'll get through this, you cheeky thing", she whispered, stroking his fur.
Reza purred — a soft, rumbling engine.
"I shall endure this nugget-based arrangement... for now", he decided.
"A temporary measure."
He curled up on Mrs Higgins' warm lap, arranging himself into a perfect, important ball.
Outside, Tiger and Ginger Tom peered through the window.
Reza opened one eye.
He had not failed.
He had simply conducted a thorough investigation of alternative living arrangements.
He closed his eye again, very satisfied.
"The external options", he thought sleepily, "are clearly suboptimal."
He tucked his paws neatly underneath himself.
"My current arrangement... remains acceptable."
And with that very sensible conclusion, Reza Shadey drifted off to sleep.
Exactly where he had intended to be all along.
Night night. Sleep tight.