A Clinic Cat's Plight

Tibbles knew his life was charmed in a way other cats were unlikely to experience. He was aware of his privilege and pitied the poor souls who were not so fortunate to live as he did. He had fourteen diligent servants, ceaselessly working to keep his estate clean, keep him well-fed with his favorite snacks, and keep all the Others in line. They each seemed to have their own name for him, like the perky blonde who called him “Tibby” and the girl with dark rings around her eyes who referred to him as “Tibblet.” The tall, stoic, bald man all the others called “Doc” rarely spoke to him, but when he did, he only said, “Tibbles.” Tibbles like this best.

So, yes, Tibbles was well-aware of his advantage of so many kind and steadfast servants. As such, he bestowed upon them his favor: giving them plenty of opportunity to pet him when they groaned about paperwork, letting them gaze at his figure in front of that atrocious blue light box, and in special cases, rubbing against their legs as they walk so they are aware he appreciates their work. Indeed, he was a most indulgent master.

Usually, however, he could be found, if one were to look (and who wouldn’t want to look for him?), on the topmost shelf in his drawing room. He had the best visual advantage, able to see nearly all of his servants as they worked on their chores, and the air was warm and ideal for napping. The tall beds below were too cold and hard, someone was always shooing him off to clean it or keep one of the others in order. (How could a servant shoo their master? Perhaps he was too soft on them.)

Most of the Others did not stay long. They were only there for a day or two before they left and were replaced. Some stayed for a week, some a month, but more often than not, they were gone rather quickly. Tibbles did not often concern himself with them. It was the servants’ job to keep the Others in line, not his. Even when one got particularly feisty, the servants coaxed them back into acceptable behavior until they could leave.

Some of the Others returned regularly, though Tibbles never bothered to learn any of their names. Several of his servants seemed pleased to see them again when they came back, and the feeling appeared mutual, but he was not worried. He knew he had their loyalty first and foremost. He was their master; he saw them daily and nothing would replace their bond.

Tibbles could not remember the day this changed. He only began to notice something odd with his servants when they locked him in the Dark Hall. The Dark Hall was pitch black when the door was shut; it was filled with a variety of items, all sorts of extras of things in the drawing room. There were bottles of substances he hated to even think about--they smelled of them chemicals the braided girl poured on him when he was wet. Bags rustled suddenly when he stepped on them. Plastic bottle chattered against one another if he bumped a box too suddenly. Without question, the Dark Hall was his least favorite spot in the entire estate.

He was quite sure his servants knew this, so he could not determine why they would see fit to put him there. But then he heard it: a bell rolling on the floor and the soft chittering of paws little chasing it; the giggles of three of his servants. A certain dread filled his bones. This could not be; an Other roaming in his drawing room? And his servants were allowing this?!

He could not tell how long he was in the Dark Hall for, as time had little concern to him. When he was let out, he could not see the Other anywhere, but he could smell her. She was young, probably not even old enough for her first Mating Week. The servants were still laughing, as if they had not committed adultery within his own estate.

“I wish we could have kept her out longer,” one of them said, almost pouting. Tibbles was already plotting his revenge against him.

“Yeah, but we don’t know how Tibblet would get along with her, and he’d been in storage for too long already,” another said. The girl with the dark rings was his new favorite.

Promising himself to give her extra attention when she was doing her paperwork later, Tibbles scuttled out of the drawing room. He wanted nothing to do with that place. Nothing to do with treasonous servants or Others stepping beyond their bounds.

After calming down with some scritches from the Desk Ladies--his absolute favorite servants, there truly was no compare--Tibbles made his way back to his usual locale. The reek of the encroaching Other still lingered in the air, and Tibbles knew he had to know what she looked like. He had to be prepared for the worst.

The youngling Other’s personal room was on the bottom row of the apartments, much like his own. He observed her through the bars of her door. She certainly didn’t seem like much. She was a tiny wisp of a thing and grey with white paws. The most interesting thing about her were her eyes, which were a blue so pale, he almost felt cold looking at them.

Not that he could let her know that, of course, so he sidled up to her room and glanced at her, hoping to impart his meaning.

This is my estate, he tried to express. You may be a passing fancy, but you will never be master here.

He wasn’t sure if she understood him, as she reached a paw through the bars and bapped him on the face.

His hair stood on end. Such insult! Such insolence! How could his loyal servants betray him for this . . . this . . . kitten? This would not stand.

Tibbles was locked in the Dark Hall thrice more before he was able to meet the youngling Other with no barrier between them. She seemed slightly older now, her scent less noticeable. Perhaps she would not be having a Mating Week; he’d noticed that was common with more discreet scents.

She stood before him, curious eyes wide. His servants stood around warily; surely they were concerned the two of them would fight, and for good reason. However, he was no longer confident that they would side with him, if such an occurrence were to arise, which tempered his ire if only with a depression. To lose such devotion, he must have done something severe indeed.

He would not fight the youngling, he decided. If he were to win back the favor of his servants, he would need to maintain the upper hand, and fighting one of their beloveds would not ensure his success.

But, he amended, spitting as she took a tentative step forward, I will not lie down and be the litter in which you defecate.

All things considered, it had gone well. So long as the Other retained a respectful distance, he would not engage in untoward violence. They kept their spaces from one another, though he could tell the youngling wanted to play with him. This he would not allow. He’d made far too many concessions already. She was able to roam around his estate as no other Other was. He did not immediately claw out her freezing eyes when she neared him. Surely that was enough.

It was clear the youngling disagreed with his assessment of the situation, as one afternoon he returned to the drawing room after some particularly attentive scratches under the jaw by the Desk Ladies to find her in the one place he had forbidden her to go.

She was on his shelf.

Tibbles couldn’t believe the audacity. She took his servants, she took his drawing room, she even borrowed his rightful title of master from time to time, but this? His shelf? That was the final straw.

Tibbles jumped onto the counter and then atop the cold box. He sat back on his haunches and lifted his right paw and---SMACK!

The youngling jumped up and hissed at him as fiercely as she could, but he was undeterred. He’d taken care not to release his claws. It would not do to have his servants fawn over her from a little blood. No, this was between the two of them, and they needed no one else to be involved.

Tibbles growled lowly in his throat, but the youngling must have had more gumption than he’d anticipated because she swung her own paw at him, and not just once. Bapbapbapbapbap! Five times she hit him across the nose. So stunned was he that he couldn’t bring himself to retaliate. Instead, he sat back and stared at her. She stared back.

There might have been a moment between them, some sort of understanding that passed. They might have learned to share their space, or they might have immediately gone back into fighting, with claws this time, dedicated to determine a winner, a true master. Tibbles could not say, for at that moment, one of the servants walked up, the tall, bald one, and gave the youngling a hard glance. “Galatea, you know you shouldn’t be up there. That’s Tibbles’s spot.” He reached one of his bizarre, long human paws and scuttled her off the shelf, leaving it empty for Tibbles.

So while it is possible that Tibbles and the youngling could have learned to evenly split the shelf, the master himself was quite pleased to know he could count on at least one of his servants to have his back, and he decided that he would not quit the war just yet. No, his servants would return to him, and it was just a matter of time before the youngling returned to being just another Other.