A King and His Crumb

Tick-Tock.

Patience is a virtue.

Tick-Tock.

The moment is nearing.

Tick-Tock.

It is only a matter of…

BEEP-BEEP! BEEP-BEEP! BEEP-B—

A hand propels from her sheet cave to assault the wailing thing beside her. It submits, as expected, unable to last against a fierce warrior like herself. Stretching, her mouth opens and an aroma leaks from it. I lean closer to inspect. Her usual morning scent but with a faint undercurrent of—what is that, exactly—a particular acidity, notes of garlic….ah yes, the piatto di pasta from last night.

A peculiar rumble comes from high in her throat and nose. She does adore her sleep—it is the only occurrence she purrs for. Though I suspect the fear of judgement over the quality of her execution plays a role as well.

I would loathe to interrupt, but there is a pressing matter that needs tending. A rumble from my stomach—that is not my purr—joins hers, and it appears the wailing thing has lost again. Seventeen days in a row now. I know, because the second most worshipped wall paper in our residence has seventeen blood-red strikes and when it had none, well, she has been uncooperative with the wailing thing since.

As fortune would have it, I am a seasoned professional.

I advance my position, close enough to see her strange line of baby furs flutter. While the wailing thing uses the strong presence of volume, my approach is more refined: the absence of volume. And movement. This mix of close proximity and the force of my undivided attention awakens something within her survival instincts, alerting her to—

“WHAT THE–” Her static irises meet mine in presumed horror. “Holy crap, Reggie, why do you do that? Are you trying to send me to an early grave?”

“If that were my goal, waking you would be counter productive.”

“Alright, alright, I’m up. I know what you want, mister.”

“With urgency please, Sarah.”

The name is Reginald. Reginald the Third if you want to address me by my government name. I do not understand it, but there is a preposterously growing list of ways she addresses me. Reggie-boy, RegReg, RangerReg, mister, fancyman, mister fancy pants. It’s actually quite difficult to keep up with, but it’s inconsequential, because even when I do know she is calling for my attention, responses are not necessary.

“Who’s ready for breakfast?”

Except for now.

“Oh, me! I am very much ready, Sarah. I have been preparing for this moment since before the light first broke.”

As we make our way to the preparation room, I wind between her legs. It’s important that she notices my presence, therefore, my readiness to eat. This morning, I am especially famished, so I dart in front of her in quick successions. She responds amicably, a sudden gallop to her previously sluggish pace. And a few words she uses when impassioned fall from her lips.

I am eager to see what is on the menu today.

***

“Oh, delightful! I love this recipe. How is it that you are able to catch the same fish every day, Sarah? And I never do see you put them in the cans. Remarkable.”

She pays no heed to my compliments as she sets my breakfast before me on a silver platter.

“Today would have been our anniversary.” I suspect she has another water clog in her face by the tone of her voice.

Lick, lick, lick.

“We were just two months away.”

Lick, lick, lick.

She must have found the issue—liquid drips onto the floor like raindrops against our window panes.

Lick, lick—

That sound she makes, the one that discomforts my insides, is echoing in the quiet space. It is rather difficult to enjoy a meal in this ambience.

I sit in front of her, expectantly.

“Sarah, this is preposterous. You must stop this at once.”

Any second she’ll look up at me and comprehend.

She does not.

“It still hurts, Reggie.” She yowls.

I cannot, for the life of me, understand why. She should feel relieved, she hacked up the biggest hairball. Life has been much more enjoyable since the greasy-fingered, rotten-smelling, loud-mouthed, good-for-nothing imbecile left our residence permanently. Good riddance, I say!

“I miss him so much.”

I tuck all four paws underneath me.

This may take a while.

***

It has been a long while since Sarah has left seeds outside the window. I suspect she is waiting for them to grow, but they never do, because thieves come while she’s away. It is my duty to sit upon my castle and guard the sill.

The most worshipped wall paper in our residence sits above my castle—an oil painting that depicts me in a most fitting professional status. My long black and white coat is impeccably groomed, dressed in a humorous ‘human tuxedo’. A monocle is placed over one of my striking, golden eyes and a top hat sits between my formidable, pointed ears.

Sarah says it suits me.

I’m inclined to agree.

But even the most proper must get their paws dirty for those they love.

A blue bird lands on the wooden stick before the seeds—an unfortunate architectural oversight.

Every muscle stills—besides my tail, but I’ve long abandoned efforts to make it cooperate.

I wait.

And wait.

And wait until—

He pecks, grabbing a beak-full.

“Hey, you! I see you! A criminal, you’re a criminal, I say!”

The bird flies off from understandable fear, as Sarah walks into the room.

“Were you hunting, RangerReg? Did you see a bird?”

“Do not fret, I am getting closer to capturing one. Any day now, Sarah.”

She carries a box in her hands. I must test its suitability.

“Oh delightful, your hunt was fruitful today.”

I jump down from my padded throne as she sets the box onto the carpet.

“What a lovely offering, Sarah. The size, the smell—”

I freeze. What on Earth is that smell?

Relax, Reginald. Remember your training.

Stomach to the floor, head bobbing, every sense engaged.

“It’s okay, Reg. It’s your new brother.”

Now is not the time, Sarah. I need complete silence.

You are the third of your line. Nothing dare frightens you for—

She reaches into the box—

“Stranger! I am very much in danger!”

I take up a fortified position beneath the lounge chair.

“Oh come now, Reggie-boy. Don’t be such a big baby.”

I beg your finest pardon.

“He won’t hurt you.”

Then I see it. Or, him. A little ginger ball of fuzz, fitted snugly between Sarah’s two palms. I approach cautiously—its size leading me to assess the danger levels as low. I lean in to investigate further. The thing reaches out and swats me with both paws.

“I CURSE YOU!”

“Reginald!”

“AND YOUR ANCESTORS BEFORE YOU!”

“Stop hissing at him!” Sarah pulls the creature to her chest as though I am the one without manners. “He's just a baby.”

The gremlin launches from her hands and ricochets around the room. Bouncing, sprinting, leaping from every surface he can reach.

“Age does not define one’s capacities to be a nuisance, Sarah.”

“He’ll grow on you, Reginald.”

She knows I can’t help it when she uses my full name.

I press my head into her hand. A show of good faith.

“Thank you,” She says, “I think he’ll be good for us.”

I cannot see how.

The greasy human at least remained stationary. This thing is everywhere simultaneously.

“His name is Cheeto.”

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

***

One week in and I am far beyond my professional limit. The creature has no concept of appropriate volume, personal space, or the sacred hours during which the sun stretches across the lounge carpet. He has twice leaped on my head. He attempts to feast from my silver platter, though his…colorful fish-shaped dish sits before him. He sleeps on my throne and everyday, shoves one of my collectables deep in the unreachable depths of the under-couch.

Let the record show, I have practiced patience far past reasonable means.

I have reason to believe Sarah is in a similar position. I have never heard her so exasperated over the cheesy-powdered snack—though at this moment, she can’t seem to stop obsessing.

“Cheeto? Cheeto, where are you? Cheeto!”

The sun is exceptionally warm today.

“Reg, have you seen Cheeto?”

My stomach is rather cold, actually, I think it might require—ah yes, that is quite right. Back against the soft rug, stomach stretched to the sky, everything is just as it should be. Besides Sarah tearing up our residence.

“OHMYGOSH CHEETO WHY ARE YOU IN HERE?!”

The floor thumps as she storms into the room, an overgrown crumb cradled to her chest.

Oh, magnificent.

“Reginald the Third."

Now, why would you take trash out of—

"Did you put him in the trashcan?!”

I stretch, my sunbathe gone cold, and ascend my castle. “No, I was simply fascinated with the silver lever and stood upon it.”

“He couldn’t have done it on his own. That is not nice, Reggie!”

“It is not my fault if the Chee-toh lacks situational awareness and enters on his own free will. My paw grew tired.”

“My poor baby,” she coos to the thing, “How long were you in there?”

“Not long enough.” I sigh.

***

“And just when I thought I had some peace and quiet!” Sarah yells, “What gives him the audacity!”

There’s a glass of blood-red liquid in one hand—the drink of a warrior—and a paper box in the other. Her eyes have been leaking for two drink worths—the evidence crumpled in soaked paper decorating the lounge table.

“I hear you, Sarah, I really do. It’s time we rid ourselves of the little punk. He’s sleeping in a box by the door. What if we were to just…ship it?”

“I just—it’s just not fair.”

“No, I think it’s quite fair. We gave him a chance. It is, perhaps, most compassionate and merciful to let him go…and might I suggest we leave all processed grease—feline or man—behind us indelibly?”

“How dare he try to waltz back into my life—and right as I’ve begun to heal!”

“I did try, Sarah.”

Water falls from Sarah’s eyes at an alarming rate.

In a show of proportional support, I blink slowly—from my castle—but to no avail.

With catastrophic timing (or fortuitous, I have yet to tell) the orange abomination strides in, cumbersome. His eyes hover above the edge of the table.

Slowly, he lifts his paw. Ever so slowly, reaches for the nearest crumpled paper. He shakes with barely contained anticipation. Just before making contact, he snatches his paw back.

The dance of prey.

Then he reaches again, Cheeto-dusted fur taps the paper and it moves. He taps again. Then again. His movements more eager than the last—

Tissue flings across the room. Then another.

Enticing, I admit. But in poor taste.

Entirely inappropriate whilst Sarah’s eyes leak. We are meant to watch from an appropriate distance in silent support. Not whatever this—this charade is.

He leaps onto the table, sliding across the surface like a water bug. Paper balls shoot in all directions—launched across the room, slid under furniture. One flings onto my castle, though my paw acts swiftly, reprimanding it.

One lands perfectly in Sarah’s red liquid, soaking it up like a crime scene.

Her crying stops.

Chee-toh’s funeral.

“Well it can’t be helped, orange one.” Paper dangles from my claws. “Sarah is a fierce warrior and does not tolerate—”

A deranged laugh—one I haven’t heard in a very long time—is coming from Sarah. Curious.

She eventually calms, her features brightened, her eyes now dry, and she bares all teeth.

“Thanks, little buddy. I needed that.”

He does not stop. She watches, laughing.

This is preposterous. It is only chaos and destruction masquerading as enjoyment or sport.

A paper flies past, bouncing off the window pane.

Oh, mine!

***

“I can’t catch it!” The fur-ball has recently become aware of the ligament attached to his behind.

“The tail is yours, Chee-toh.” I lounge on the highest platform, my own tail swishing over the edge. “Catching it won’t produce the results you seek. You must learn to live with it.”

The little tiger growls and strikes his claws against the nearby arm chair—once again.

“Sarah would disapprove.” I tsk. Though she isn't around to reprimand. Her hunting hours have increased as of late, yet they seem to be fruitful as she brings back little boxes with delectable smells.

“We’re not all perfect like you, sometimes the tower doesn’t cut it.”

I unfurl from my position before stretching and jumping down to his level.

“Firstly, castle. Secondly, your perception does you credit. And third—I concur.” I cross to the couch unhurriedly.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Follow—or don’t. It is of no consequence to me.”

The large structure is pressed up against the wall, leaving just enough space for me to pass through—and not enough space for Sarah.

Along the entirety of the hidden fabric is my work of art, carefully crafted from the moment this couch entered the residence. Long strokes, threads hanging in varying lengths, material pouring from the cracks. It’s a thing of beauty.

“Holy cat! You did all this?” If there is one thing he has, it is keen eyes—they glow in admiration as he studies my craft. “Why do you hide this?”

“It is not from shame, young cat. Some of the best art may yet remain unseen. I understand the call to create, I can…appreciate your vigor. Take to this canvas, if you must.”

He wastes no time, the young artist eager, and my youth flashes before my eyes. His fresh claws are bringing to this canvas new life and I am emboldened to create alongside him.

Perhaps, with the right guidance, young claws don’t only destroy.

***

“Destroy him, Chee-toh!”

The orange feline pounces from the castle, his paws and head knocking into the glass, before catching himself on the sill. The brown bird flies away with a beak-full of seeds.

“Oh hairball, I thought I had him! What happened?” He licks his paws, no doubt sore.

“This material,” I place a paw on the cool surface. “Is not pliable. Try a less…physical approach. Here, observe.” Another small bird lands on the perch, twitchy like that of a robber about to hit the jackpot.

“You there! Winged criminal. I see you! If not for this blockade, you’d be deceased. I would leave you on Sarah’s bed as a gift and she’d rejoice in your post mortem.” It flies away without seed.

“Woah, RG! You’re like one of those gangsters in Sarah’s shows. But you talk a little different and look a little—”

“Do not let a proper exterior fool you. Perhaps, it is but the most proper who are the most dangerous beneath.” I gesture to my painting.

“How come mine doesn’t look like yours?”

A similar styled oil painting hangs beside mine, a young orange tabby cat sitting in a bowl of Cheeto puffs, a green party hat between small ears.

“Because you are not like me, Chee-toh. And you are no danger. You are something else entirely.”

His paw slips, as he climbs up onto my platform, before pressing his body into mine.

“What am I?”

Sarah enters, fully dressed, with color on her cheeks, tidying Chee-toh’s mess from this morning. I cannot recall the last time Sarah has disagreed with the wailing thing—rather, the wailing thing cries long after she has already served us breakfast. She shows her teeth far more than her eyes leak. It reminds me of my kittenhood.

“You are chaotic good. You are an unfiltered light.”

From the vantage of our castle, we watch Sarah traverse our kingdom, heads moving in unison.

Eventually, she comes to stand before us, a sweet aroma wafting from her.

“Okay, boys.” She claps her hands together. “Castor is going to be here any minute.”

“Good heavens, Sarah. You cannot be serious.”

“I really, really like him, so please—” She cradles each of our cheeks. “I need both of you to be on your best behavior.”

DING-DONG!

A death bell.

“Coming!” She spins around and we drop down, following close at her heels. The door opens to reveal a man. Hair slicked back—in castor oil, I presume—and nauseating flowers in his hand. The only thing decent is his acceptable formal attire.

“Sarah, confiscate the flowers. They are poisonous and unsafe, especially with a young cat who is still in the phase of consuming everything, you should know be—”

“Oh, those are beautiful!” She takes the flowers in her hands. “Let me just check if they’re all cat-safe first.” She gestures to where Chee-toh and I stand—appropriately, guarding the back of her legs—though Chee-toh ventures too far.

“I made sure to check, but a double-check never hurts,” the man says before crouching down. “You must be Reginald and Cheeto, I’ve heard so much about you. You’re even cuter in person.” Cute.

He extends his hand toward us in a deceptively submissive downward position. Chee-toh presses his head to mine. Fingers reach past Sarah’s legs, along with a smell—

“STRANGER DANGER!” —“CURSE YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE BLOODLINE!”

Sarah gasps, “Stop it, you two! I’m sorry, they’ll warm up to you.”

“We most certainly will not. He has already attempted murder, Sarah.”

“Yeah! He’s lucky that you’re blocking us or he’d be dead!”

"Well said." I look at the orange gremlin beside me, growing so fast. “In due time, young Chee-toh.”

Patience is a virtue.

“Let’s leave him on Sarah’s bed as a gift.”