Kings don’t meow

The quiet suburban street glowed red and blue as Officers McCarthy and Ramirez rolled up in their cruiser, siren fading into the still morning air. McCarthy, a broad‑shouldered Irishman with the kind of build that suggested he was better at eating doughnuts than chasing criminals, stepped out, squinting at the large oak in front of them.

“Dispatch, Unit 12’s on scene,” he said into his radio, fighting a slight wheeze. “Situation appears… critical.”

Static popped before the dispatcher’s voice came through. “Copy that, Unit 12. What’s the nature of the emergency?”

McCarthy planted his hands on his hips. “It’s a serious one, so brace yourself. There’s a cat, and the poor creature’s stuck right up this tree.”

Ramirez, tall and lean with the patience of a man who’d seen McCarthy’s brand of chaos before, covered his grin with one hand. “Yeah, Dispatch, it’s a tense one. We might need a tactical ladder team.”

A long pause followed, then the dispatcher returned, amused. “A cat… in a tree?”

“That’s right,” McCarthy said earnestly. “The little devil’s up there starin’ down like he’s the king of the world. I even offered him me tuna sandwich—refused it outright!”

Dispatch clearly stifled a laugh. “Would you like animal control?”

“Negative,” McCarthy declared proudly. “We’ll handle it ourselves. Ramirez is taller. We’ll stack a few trash bins, climb up, and rescue the lad like heroes.”

Ramirez muttered, “Last time you said that, I spent an evening explaining a squirrel bite to the nurse.”

“That squirrel was an isolated incident,” McCarthy replied, dragging the bins over with determination. “This’ll be textbook police work.”

Moments later, Ramirez balanced precariously atop two dented bins while McCarthy steadied them, shouting tips upward like a drill sergeant. “Steady now, bit more to the left—get ready to grab him by the scruff!”

“Yeah, this feels perfectly safe,” Ramirez grumbled, wobbling.

Just as his fingertips brushed the lowest branch, the radio buzzed again.

“Unit 12,” the dispatcher’s voice crackled urgently. “Proceed with caution. We just received a call from London Zoo—they’ve reported an African wild cat escaped this morning.”

McCarthy blinked. “Say what now?”

“The animal sighted in your area fits the description.”

There was silence, except for the faint creak of plastic beneath Ramirez. McCarthy stared up in disbelief. “Dispatch, did you say African wild cat?”

The radio crackled again. “That’s affirmative—possibly a serval.”

McCarthy’s grip loosened in shock. The bins shifted. Ramirez wobbled. “Wait, what’s a serv—”

Before he could finish, McCarthy stumbled backward, knocking the bins sideways. Ramirez came down with a spectacular crash that sent both men sprawling onto the grass.

A low, throaty growl drifted from the branches above. The “cat” stared down with golden eyes and a twitch of its tail that made goosebumps run down McCarthy’s neck.

Ramirez groaned, flat on his back. “Tell me that thing didn’t just growl.”

McCarthy slowly reached for his radio, eyes still locked on the animal. “Dispatch,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, “requesting immediate backup. And if animal control’s listening, bring tranquilizers. Big ones.”

“Copy that, Unit 12,” Dispatch replied. “Stand by for further instructions.”

They crouched behind the cruiser, peeking nervously over the hood like soldiers in a cartoon war film. The serval shifted to a lower branch, keeping its eyes on them, methodically flicking its tail as if amused by their panic.

“McCarthy,” Ramirez whispered. “You sure it’s not going to jump?”

McCarthy swallowed hard. “If it does, I’ll distract it. You call your mother and tell her you love her.”

“You’re not exactly inspiring confidence here.”

The radio buzzed again with background chatter—rescue vehicles were reportedly a few minutes away.

“Dispatch says five minutes,” Ramirez said, glancing at his watch.

“Five minutes?” McCarthy moaned. “That’s a lifetime in wild‑cat time!”

A car door slammed somewhere nearby. Curious neighbors peeked through curtains, smartphones already filming. The news van of Channel 10 seems to have started a live broadcast of the proceedings. McCarthy groaned. “Brilliant. We’ll be internet legends before breakfast.”

Minutes dragged by. The only sounds were the sirens far off in the distance and McCarthy’s heavy breathing. Ramirez squinted from behind the door.

“Hey,” he whispered. “I think it’s… staring at me.”

McCarthy snorted. “Of course it’s staring at you. You’re the idiot who tried to climb a tree after a predator.”

“No, I mean it’s really staring,” Ramirez said, his voice strangely quiet. “Like it wants to say something.”

McCarthy groaned. “You’ve hit your head, lad. Cats don’t talk. Especially not the expensive ones.”

But Ramirez couldn’t look away. The serval’s head tilted, its gaze locked on him with unnerving intensity. For a long, still moment, they simply watched each other. Then Ramirez did something neither officer could have predicted.

He stood up.

“Ramirez,” McCarthy whispered urgently, “sit down! That thing could eat your face!”

Ignoring him, Ramirez walked out from behind the cruiser, his hands raised slightly. The serval remained perched, tail twitching slowly.

“Hey, buddy,” Ramirez said softly. “What do you want? You okay up there? Need a snack?”

McCarthy groaned into his palm. “Brilliant. He’s talking to it. Next, he’ll be offering it coffee.”

But just as Ramirez started to chuckle at his own foolishness, a sound rippled through the calmness—a deep, brazen growl that did not belong in the suburbs. It rumbled like speech forced through claws and teeth.

“How about a bit of recognition?”

Both men froze.

Ramirez blinked, certain he’d imagined it. “McCarthy,” he whispered, “did you just hear that?”

McCarthy’s face had gone pale. “Aye,” he murmured, eyes wide. “Unless the head trauma’s contagious.”

Ramirez stared up again. The serval’s mouth had not moved, yet the air still seemed to vibrate with the words, low and deliberate. It tilted its head, almost smirking.

“Recognition,” it repeated softly, as if testing them.

Ramirez swallowed. “Um… sure. You’re very… majestic?”

The serval’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I am the only one left of my kind. And you, human, tried to save me with bins and a sandwich.”

McCarthy sank behind the car again. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m chatting with a talking zoo exhibit.”

The serval’s golden eyes glimmered in the pulsing red-blue light like twin embers. Ramirez’s breathing came slow and deliberate as instinct warred with curiosity. Then, against every voice of reason in his head, he took a cautious step forward.

“How is it you can talk?” he asked softly. “You’re a cat… aren’t you?”

He kept his voice low and calm, careful not to break eye contact. The creature’s pupils narrowed to slits, its tail swaying with a subtle rhythm like a pendulum measuring his courage.

McCarthy hissed from behind the cruiser, “Ramirez, you absolute lunatic, what are you doing? It’s a talking wildcat, not a witness interview!”

Ramirez ignored him. The serval shifted slightly, the powerful muscles under its spotted coat rippling as it turned its head toward him. When it finally spoke again, the sound rumbled through the air like gravel sliding down stone.

“Talking,” it said, “is not the remarkable part. Listening—that’s the skill your kind keeps losing.”

Ramirez blinked, momentarily forgetting his fear. “You mean humans?”

The serval’s ears flicked. “You label everything… even me. Cat. Serval. Exhibit. Yet none of you see.” Its golden gaze softened, almost weary. “I was born under open skies, before cages and glass walls. The world spoke then. You people just stopped hearing it.”

Behind him, McCarthy muttered, “Grand, now the cat’s auditioning for a documentary.”

“Shut up, Mac,” Ramirez said quietly, without turning. “He’s saying something real.”

The serval tilted its elegant head, half-smiling in the moonlight. “For a moment, you listened. That’s more than most.”

Ramirez stood in the cool air, a faint steam rising from his breath as he gazed at the serval perched on the oak branch above.

“Why did you leave the cage?” he asked quietly. “And why talk to us? After all this time, why reach out to humans?” He hesitated, voice gentle. “Do you even have a name?”

The serval’s tail flicked once, and its ears twitched at the question. Its golden eyes sharpened, reflecting both the dawn and irritation.

“Name,” it said, voice deep and low, “that is where the problem starts.”

Ramirez stood still. The morning chill seemed to pause with the words.

“I was born four years ago,” the serval continued, “in the open realms of Turta—the land you humans call Kenya. There, the grass moves like waves, and the rivers whisper louder than your machines. I was given the name Pir‑tua‑til.”

The syllables rolled from its throat rhythmically, wild and ancient.

“It means ‘the undercurrent of the rivers,’” it said, eyes drifting briefly to the sunrise. “But I was captured and brought here. They gave me a new name—Dicey.”

Ramirez repeated it under his breath, “Dicey…?”

“Yes,” the serval said bitterly. “A marketable name. A friendly one for brochures. I was transformed from a being of the wild into a novelty behind glass.”

McCarthy, standing by the cruiser, muttered, “Fancy cat’s got a marketing department.”

The serval’s ears flicked toward the comment, but its gaze never left Ramirez. “They feed me. They shelter me. My life is called comfortable. Yet I am a monument to captivity. I remember the smell of rain on sand, the feeling of earth giving beneath my paws. You might call that dangerous—” it paused, the golden eyes narrowing “—but that was living.”

Ramirez’s voice softened. “So you’re not happy, but you said you’re cared for?”

The serval tilted its head as the early light caught its whiskers, giving it an almost regal glow. “Comfort is a quiet cage, officer. It soothes the body while freezing the spirit. A well-fed prisoner is still a prisoner.”

McCarthy scratched his head. “Right. And I thought philosophy class ended in high school.”

The pale light of dawn grew stronger, brushing the tops of London’s modest houses in a soft gold. The serval sat motionless beneath the oak, its coat shimmering like rippling sand. Ramirez listened, hands resting lightly on his duty belt, the hum of approaching rescue vehicles still distant in the mist.

“I understand your frustration,” Ramirez said carefully. “Captive life can be overbearing—I get that. But why didn’t you escape? You’re fast, quiet. You could have slipped away easily.”

Pir‑tua‑til turned his head slowly, his expression unreadable. “And suffer through the London cold?” he scoffed. “I may be the most pristine predator in the wild, officer, but this city harbors creatures far more unforgiving than me.”

Ramirez frowned slightly. “You’re saying there are things more dangerous than an African serval loose in London?”

The serval gave a deep, rumbling purr that almost sounded like a chuckle. “Oh yes. Men in suits and steel towers. Humans who measure everything they love in profit and publicity. You think a claw or fang frightens me? I fear irrelevance more.”

That caught Ramirez off guard. He blinked. “Then what is it exactly you want, Pir‑tua‑til?”

The serval’s golden eyes flickered, catching the morning light like liquid fire. “I have already got what I wanted.”

Ramirez tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Pir‑tua‑til’s voice lowered to a dry, almost bitter tone. “I am, by their claims, the most exquisite creature in the entire zoo. Yet not a living soul has treated me with the reverence I deserve. Nobody comes running to see me. No delighted faces at my cage, no children squealing at the sight of me.”

He shook his head slowly, tail twitching in irritation. “The brute tiger roars once, and they flood him with flashes and cheers. The hyenas laugh and roll in the dust—oh, everyone loves those filthy comedians. And the penguins? Those ridiculous birds waddle a bit, and suddenly they’re celebrities. Their every stumble goes viral.”

Ramirez pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re telling me this was about… attention?”

Pir‑tua‑til’s ears flicked back. “Not attention. Recognition,” he corrected sharply. “Even a fleeting glance that says, ‘There is something magnificent before me.’ But no. To them, I am a stretched‑out house cat. A curiosity. A polite yawn on the way to the gift shop.”

He rose slightly, the muscles in his shoulders rippling as he continued. “In an entire month, only one old woman lifted a camera to photograph me. And even that,” he said with a growl of disdain, “was because I resembled her dearly departed pet.”

Ramirez almost laughed. “That’s rough.”

“Rough?” Pir‑tua‑til spat the word like an insult. “Those fat elephants get fifty thousand photographs on your little social media playground, and I—born from hunters that once ruled the sun‑drenched plains—am ignored. Forgotten. Invisible!”

The serval’s tail lashed once, voice rising with theatrical indignation. “Imagine the humiliation, officer. The great undercurrent of rivers reduced to background scenery for penguins in bow ties.”

McCarthy, who had inched closer now that it seemed safe, snorted with amusement. “So all this drama because you’re jealous of penguins, eh?”

Pir‑tua‑til turned his head slowly toward him, eyes narrowing into slits. “Do not test me, man of sandwiches.”

McCarthy stepped back immediately. “Note taken.”

Ramirez looked at the creature, fighting to keep his tone gentle. “So, you came out here to make a point?”

Pir‑tua‑til tilted his head toward the brightening horizon. “I came out here so the world would finally look at me. And for a few hours, they did. Police cars, lights, radios buzzing. Now people will speak my name. Maybe even mispronounce it. But at least they will speak it.”

For a moment, even McCarthy went quiet. The serval stared ahead, eyes reflecting the thin rays of morning sunlight, regal again despite his rant.

The first rescue team vans appeared at the end of the street. The serval sighed softly, as if accepting an inevitable return.

“Well,” Ramirez said quietly, “you certainly got your recognition.”

Pir‑tua‑til gave a faint, satisfied purr. “Indeed. Even if it took flashing lights and human confusion to get it.”

The handlers approached, nets ready but respectful. The serval stepped forward on his own. Before entering the container, he turned to Ramirez one last time.

“When they write their reports,” he said, “make sure they spell my real name correctly. I’ll not have my grand rebellion remembered under the name Dicey.”

Then he entered the crate with quiet dignity, the door closing with a soft metallic click behind him.

McCarthy watched him go and muttered, “Out of all the calls we’ve had, this one’s going to haunt my paperwork forever.”

Ramirez smiled faintly at the departing van. “Yeah,” he replied. “But somehow, I think that’s exactly what he wanted.”