Jeannie Marschall

The cat sat atop the hall closet in the moonlit black of two a.m., watching a person shamble inelegantly from the water-room to the one that held the too-loud wooden string things. At least this person didn’t bump into furniture as the cat’s humans usually did at night, bless their bulk.

Let’s jump them.

“No, Satan.”

It would be fun.

“No, Satan. It would be loud.”

The cat’s tail swished irritably across the smooth, oiled wood of the closet as she watched the person take one of the smaller string-screechers from its special, un-jump-uppable wall spot. The screecher needed that spot, had gotten it after The Incident that had made the cat’s humans yell such horrible abuse at her. She was still in Disgrace. All Satan’s fault.

You’re welcome, boringpaws.

The cat didn’t growl. She kept her eyes on the movements of the human, who was now putting the small screecher into a dark blue bag. The cat didn’t like that bag. It was the same colour as the thing that screamed at the dust on the floors every few days. The cat also knew that this bag was not where Big Woman usually put her string-thing.

Much mysterious.

The tip of her mottled tail twitched up and down, up and down. 

Let’s jump them, I’m telling you.

“Quiet, Satan, I’m thinking.”

What’s there to think about? Both your humans are out on the town with their other musician friends. Here’s another human who isn’t putting any food into your bowl.

“Granted, that is suspicious.”

See? And it’s the middle of the night. Replacement food givers have never come at night before.

The cat’s agitation grew uncomfortably, as did the tail’s movements. “What are you saying?”

I’m saying this person isn’t supposed to be in here.

“No duh. Only Big Woman and Small Woman should ever be in here, yet they let people in all the time.”

Hells, you tortoiseshells are all turnips. The tail whipped up so hard that the cat’s eyes snapped to it, narrowing and reproachful. Her ears went back.

“Watch your mouth.”

Don’t you get it? There is an Intruder in your humans’ territory!

The cat’s suspicious gaze went back to the person in the dark. They were now opening and shutting drawers and rifling through boxes and cabinets. All still rather quiet, and without a light either. Not bad for a human. Very strange.

The cat jumped down from the closet with a soft thump, which made the Intruder freeze in place for a full pawswidth of wandering moonshadow. More patience than the large people usually had. 

“Intruder, huh? Big and Small Woman will be very angry about that.” The cat tracked them when they finally made their way into the bedroom.

There was a pause as the tail curled itself softly around the cat’s flank and front feet. 

You know, we could—

“Hush, Satan.” The cat lifted a paw and smooshed it into the fluff of the tail’s idly tilting tip, gentle but firm. “Let me think.”

A muffled protest sounded from under her paw, but just a twitch of claw stilled the half-hearted struggle. Good. He needed occasional reminders of who owned this body.

The cat watched as the Intruder went through drawer after drawer, tossing items about in a manner that would surely earn them a Scolding. Some items they stuffed into their pockets. They seemed to be very large pockets.

“You know,” the cat said. “I think we will be blamed for this.”

Twitching and writhing between paw and floor made her release the tail at last.

Why, thank you! A haughty lashing.

The cat blinked. “We’ll be blamed for this, and I don’t like that. Things are already Bad.” A flicking ear. “So. You were saying. Intruder.”

Indeed.

“And that is wrong.”

Exceedingly.

“Big and Small Woman will be mad about this. We might suffer. All the Intruder’s fault.”

So if we …?

“…stop the Intruder. Show that this is their mess. Save the pocketed things.”

Then we will be …?

“Moved from Disgrace. Not scolded—properly praised.”

Rewarded, even.

The cat almost chirruped. “Rewarded, you say.”

We might get to sleep in the big bed again. Nice and warm, cuddled against your humans.

The cat had to purr then, but kept it so low and quiet that round, hairless ears would not detect it. “How?”

Oh darling, don’t disappoint me now. Nearly all the rooms up here have been raided. Think.

The Intruder was moving from the bedroom back into the hall. There was an air of accomplishment about them, of a prowl finished.

“Ah. Yes, well.”

Cat and tail pressed themselves close to the floor, ears flat, eyes very large. Footsteps hissed softly against the carpeted floor as the Intruder went straight past them in the dark then turned left to head down the stairs. One step creaked, a second and a third, and then the cat shot forward.

It was always unpleasant to be jolted by the momentum of these very large creatures, but this time the cat dug its claws into the runner on the stairs and consciously took the blow, ducking down low as the Intruder tipped past overhead with flailing arms and a strangled sound of surprise.

When the dull, crunch-accented sounds had passed, the cat sat back up and poked its head through the banister. The nasty blue bag was lying next to her, dropped but un-plummeted. Below, there was silence.

Neat work.

“Thanks, Satan. But it was loud.”

Fine, fine. A slow undulation of tail. Fun, though.

The cat slinked down the stairs to the Intruder – lying half on the doormat like an excessively large mouse – sniffed at their clothes, then sat down to clean her ruffled fur. Half an hour later, when keys jangled outside, the cat climbed atop the stranger’s back, tail twitching happily; just to make sure Big Woman and Small Woman got the message.

What Jeannie said about the prompt:
I’ve been allocated a lovely feline by the universe’s Spontaneous Cat Distribution System and am pleased to report that I am servicing almost up to her standards now. As such, I have time to write funny little queer stories.

Jeannie Marschall (she/her/any) is a European garden hag who reads, writes, and forages as much as possible. The results can be found in various pantries & bookcases, thanks to e.g. Flash Fiction Online, Snowflake Mag, Tenebrous Press, or Black Spot Books. Longer works—predominantly folklore-themed & queer—are simmering in the cauldron (ETA 2026).
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