Tiddles Is Watching

Shimmering light illuminates the dark wooden fence that encloses the garden as Mr. Jones pulls his bulked torso out of his car. The lit jack-o’-lantern grimaces at the black cat above, while the ghoulish orange highlights the broad shoulders of the human moving into the back garden and nearer to Tiddles, who meows a sentence or two.

With a red face and hair sticking out, Mr. Jones yells, “You said what about my wife?”

Tiddles is licking his paw while his back leg scratches behind his ear. “I said every Friday night your lady wife wears her plunging neckline dress, turns up her jiggly jazz music and wobbles about with the lounge curtains wide open for all the cul-de-sac of neighbours to gawp at.”

“Do you know why?”

Finishing his wash, Tiddles rolls his eyes. “I presume she wants to dance, Monsieur. We French cats understand that more than most.” His loud meow echoes through the late evening like a police siren.

Mr. Jones rubs the back of his shin with his bloodstained boot. “I sold a lot of fresh meat last week.”

“Oh, by the way, we told your wife who you kill-and-dice to get such fresh meat.”

Tugging at his greasy onyx hair with one hand while beads of moisture find a path down his face and past his chunky neck into his open-necked shirt. He tuts, “I can’t help that I never liked the in-laws. Ah well, time to hunt for a new head cook and bottle washer then, as she’s going to disappear,” says Mr. Jones. Grabbing his meat cleaver from his butcher apron, eyeing the cat, he steps nearer the curling black tail.

Behind him, his garden fence encloses the broad man.

Light-pawed Tiddles, however, flits across the fence and scrambles up a branch. “Meow, I have told the cat council about your skullduggery. We don’t like your type of humans in our neighbourhood; it brings down the tone.”

The bright orange of the pumpkin flickers underneath Mr. Jones, turning his face to a menacing two-tone black and orange. “But I don’t like meddling....”

A large blue and white golf umbrella darts out the back door held by a manicured woman’s hand. “Look what the cat brought in. Leave Tiddles alone. He is a credit to the neighbourhood, unlike you, nasty husband. Take that!” Thwack, the crunch of umbrella spokes hits the skull of Mr. Jones, and his face slips into the lit cold mush of the carved pumpkin.

Groaning and rubbing his head, Mr. Jones yells, “Argh, you meddling wife, you need to go first! Giggling your wiggly bits about and causing unnecessary attention.”

“Husband, you keep leaving trails of blood in the bath. You still stink even after you have scrubbed. I am leaving you and going to live at the Cat Council with Tiddles. Goodbye and good riddance!”

Tiddles’ tail touches Mrs. Jones’ hand, transforming the dark-haired woman into a sleek female cat. Both she and Tiddles dart further up the tree and onto the wings of a very large pigeon flying by.

The flutter of large wings fades.

Alone, Mr. Jones sits with a thump against the rattling fence. “Now where do I go? The Cat Council will be after me wherever I am.”

Fence-high black shadows peer over at cornered Mr. Jones. Feline growls increase as a multitude of ears and tails stand side by side holding rope to drag off Mr. Jones. A large black cat with a gleaming black satin top hat pushes open the low garden gate with his silver-tipped cane. “Time to come with us now. You’ve been cat napped, permanently.”

Curtains twitch as the howl of a human being tugged away ends the case of the killer butcher solved by his clever cat Tiddles.

Remember Tiddles is watching!

***

Between the fish shop and Mr. Jones' butcher shop, the Cat Council members dragged the roped up howling Mr. Jones.

The top of Mr. Marmalade's cane leaning near him changes his howls to yowls. His shrunken size made most of the rope fall away to tie itself around the red collar Mr. Jones now wears.

“Mr. Marmaduke, sir, the humans have stopped looking now a cat cries out.”

Adjusting his black satin bow tie with red dots, he tuts, “Typical humans. Roll up that rope into a ball and teach that menace how to be a cat. He will forget how to be a villain by morning. I bet my silver-tipped cane on it. Then put him in the newbies’ playpen ready for indoctrination.”

The smaller cat with a gold patch over one eye bows. He lifts his onyx paw and makes a circle. The unused rope thins into twine, rolls as a ball toward the cat council playpens. It bounces over the cobblestones, and changes speed as a grass hill appears. Tumbling down at a faster speed.

“Meow, twine!” Mr. Jones calls out. Scampering after the red wiggling lines, he soon disappears into the pale brown brick recess, and the wall returns between the two shops, covering the Cat Council secret entrance.

Mr. Marmalade tips his hat at the ninja cats behind him, who wait in front of the fish shop sniffing the air. The shrouded forms shrink into the shadows. One last tail tip wiggles goodbye before it too fades.

“Time for warm milk and biscuits before we go out on patrol. In the early morning, we meet with Mr. Tiddles for our new orders. Time for some cushion time by the fire at Cat Council Headquarters. Mrs. Miggs, please use the golden key to take us home.”

A large round tabby cat slides out of the shadows as a silver glow catches her ear tips. “Righty ho, Sir, will you all be wanting wet food with your milk and biscuit bowl?”

“Of course, Mrs. Miggs, but we are happy to drink our milk first and warm our tummies while you get the feast ready. Catching a murderer deserves a party, don’t you think?”

Her fluffy tabby tail tickles Mr. Marmalade’s nose. “Oh yes, Mr. Marmalade, I do agree. As soon as the call came in that his wife had turned him in and she had become one of our new spies, I told the kitchen to prepare a dish fit for us all to enjoy!”

“Well done, Mrs. Miggs.”