Anne Dorrian

Tom thought he was tough until I had him pinned up against the back wall. ‘King’, he squeaked, his voice almost extinguished. ‘Your name is King.’ And by the tilt of his head I could tell he would give me no more shit. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t enjoy violence (ok maybe just a little). I whacked him across the face for good measure, then I let him go. From then on, every time the guards came round with dinner I gave him another whack across the face. Just to make sure he knew I’d be eating first when they pushed the bowls into our cell. My scars don’t just tell a story. They let everyone know who the King is. Only the guards messed it all up. They opened the cage and did that thing where they pick you up by the scruff of the neck. You go all helpless, paws sticking out at stupid angles. It’s fucking humiliating. Like when you were little and your mum groomed your face in front of all your friends. So they shove me into this travel box that stinks of the up-chuck of some other fucker who probably died in it or something. And these people look at me through the bars of the box with all their teeth on show and say: ‘Are you looking forward to your forever home? Because we’re a nice family.’

My name is still King

I think the breaking point came when I pissed in their shoes. To be fair, we all tried our best at first. Both sides. We really did. I brought them a gift, not just some dead mouse, which any idiot can catch, but a big, juicy rat. It was still breathing, but just barely, its tail twitching in agony. It was a masterpiece, something only a top-notch mouser could pull off. And they pretended like they admired it. Wow, look at that, thank you, big guy! Then, later, I smelled what they had done with it. It was in the rubbish bin. I guess we just didn’t have the same love language. They called me Rocky. Apparently Rocky is some lovable boxer guy, but I don’t know. He sounds a bit wet to me. I couldn’t make them understand that my name is King. So, it was never going to work out between us. Eventually they put me back into the vomit-box and for a moment I thought they were going to drown me in the river (I would have!), but then I remembered that they were a nice family; that we were not cut from the same cloth.

Queen

When they talked of taking me to aunty Betty’s in the country, I feared the worst: net-curtains blocking the view and lap-sitting. I couldn’t have been more wrong. There was a mouser I knew growing up who used to say: ‘Son, the older the fiddle, the better the tune.’ I always thought he was talking out of his arse, because I liked my ladies young. Now, I think he may have been right. For starters, aunty Betty didn’t try to give me a name. When I brought home a rat she looked at it and said: ‘Next time, gift me a squirrel because I hate the buggers; they chew my tomatoes. Or better, get me a rabbit. I can make a stew with that.’ See what I mean? A woman after my own heart. And the dinners, well. She’s on good terms with the butcher and the fishmonger, so I get all the good stuff: On-the turn-liver, heart, fish guts. It’s pure class. I bury half my face in it and then I sit in the evening sun on the back stoop, licking the blood from my whiskers. She runs a tight ship, aunty Betty does. No rodents allowed within a mile. I’ve got a job and a half, but I love a challenge. Don’t get me wrong, we have our disagreements. Like she won’t let me sleep in her bed. But we´ll get there. These tough-acting ones just need a little extra love. She’ll come round. I’ll be curling up by her feet before she knows it.   

What Anne said about the prompt:
I am a sucker for any cat looking for cuddles and/or a human servant.

Anne Dorrian’s stories have featured in Pithead Chapel, Flash Frontier, Fairlight Shorts, MONO., Pigeon Review, Funny Pearls and others. She has written a novel and is querying agents and publishers. She currently lives in Germany.

Read more from Anne:

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