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I'm not sure what finally drove me to seek greener pastures. My territory had been overrun by pestering, obnoxious corvids. My companions were well tolerated, but nothing more. And there had been a badger sniffing around the borders in the night. I eventually decided that such a life was no longer acceptable.
As I've aged (currently a respectable 7 years), my longing has grown for a quieter, slower existence. Somewhere safe and warm and dry to curl up. Somewhere else.
So I ventured forth, crossing treacherous bramble laden landscapes, over rolling hills and along cobblestone pathways over three long days. I ended up strolling down the dark alleyways of Soho on a rainy moonlit night. The damp prompted me to seek shelter, so I snuck into a quaint little bookshop which fortuitously had a window cracked in the kitchen.
Two humanoids were having a chat in the room adjacent. Night owls, I supposed. I sat down to listen. To smell. To watch.
The darker, longer of the two looked up from his seated position, lounging in an armchair. "There's a cat."
"Where's a cat?" asked a softer, rounder thing sitting across from him with a book in his lap. It looked like a most luxurious place for me to rest my weary form after my long, arduous journey.
The long one pointed at me. "There's a cat."
The soft one rose from his seat and stared at me. "Oh." He frowned. "What are you doing here, little friend?"
You left the window open, you dolt! If I'm to even consider this den adequately inhabitable, you'd better pay closer attention to who you're allowing inside.
I hopped onto a cluttered desk, investigating the items strewn about it. Everything seemed to be in order. I wandered between the bookshelves, sniffing at the memories that wafted through the cozy space. Comfortable. Warm.
Yes, I decided. This will do quite nicely.
"Do you suppose he's lost?" asked the soft one.
"Oh, right. There's a cat." The other one shrugged. "I don't know."
I went over to sniff at the soft one's calves, judging him thoroughly before appraising him worthy. I then set to headbutting and rubbing my scent on him, as is the custom from my parts. He accepted my affections, naturally.
You glow like the embers of a fireplace on a cold winter night. After much thought on the matter, I've decided to join your colony. Though we are few, the territory seems promising. I'm sure we can make this work.
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Three weeks later
Life in the bookshop has been a nice change of pace. I'm particularly fond of sunbeams on the windowsills during lazy Sunday afternoons, and 'treats', which the softer one also seems to appreciate, though most often in the form of tea and biscuits.
The murder mystery books in the corner window are piled in such a way that is most comforting. I often choose to slumber there, with the soft one standing (or rather, sitting) watch as I traverse the dream realm. He's taken to calling me 'Poirot'. I have no opinion on the development.
I can't explain it, but there is something distinctly unnerving about the long dark one. The way he slithers is reminiscent of an ancient enemy I cannot name, though his fingers brush through my fur in a most appealing way. I am willing to overlook his serpentine energy for these offerings.
Late Tuesday afternoon I immediately set out to guard the grounds during my shift, patrolling the rows of books like a shadow for any hint of weakness at our fortifications. I can't tell how competent the other two have been on their shifts, but our colony seems to be standing strong. No badgers as of yet, and I mostly just watch the corvids through the windows now, though their ‘songs’ still make me want to sink my teeth into their feathered flesh.
I am a slave to my impulses. Aren't we all? But I know I'll have to venture further out to truly prove my worth.
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On Thursday evening, I presented my colony with a prize. A plump, fat mouse, which I laid at the feet of the soft one, who was more predictably receptive to my presence. I sat and eagerly awaited his appreciation. You can imagine my surprise when the appropriate praise and accolades were not immediately forthcoming.
"Poirot has committed murder!" he gasped. "We have mice?"
"Appears to be the case, doesn't it?"
"Oh, a death in my bookshop. How macabre."
"Don't you have some... pest warding enchantments or something? As a preventative?"
"Is that something I should have?"
The long one shrugged. "If I had a horde of precious manuscripts and books laying about, I'd try to ensure mice couldn't get to gnawing at their irreplaceable pages."
"Do mice eat books?!"
"I think they're one of those, 'consumes anything' creatures. Books, garbage, cheese, biscuits, souls. Tea out of mislaid thimbles."
"An innocent soul, murdered at the hands of Poirot!"
"You're being a bit dramatic, don't you think? Bring it back if you want."
"I can't have mice in my bookshop, Crowley!" He paused momentarily. "I'm sure he's in a better place," he said, inexplicably staring at the sheltered sky.
It's right at your feet, you imbecile! Are you blind? I've laid it before you. I dispatched it myself with a swift, stunning blow. Are you dense?
The long one reached out to pat and scritch me behind the ears. You are obviously the more sensible of the two.
"Can you please?" asked the soft one, gesturing at the gift I had bestowed upon them so selflessly.
The long one waved a hand.
Remarkably, the bounty I had brought forth in offering vanished before my very eyes! I stared vacantly at the space it left empty, unable to explain what I had just bore witness to.
No matter. They were now both well aware of my ferocity. I had secured the soft one's devotion, and he'd surely continue to feed me treats and allow me to purr in the lush warmth of his lap as he reads. And the long one, no doubt inspired by the soft one's newly solidified loyalties, would offer scritches with his marvellous phalanges whenever I might require the service.
I like it here. Yes. This will do quite nicely.