The Cat with a Bowler Hat

The idea of becoming a butler had appealed to me for some time. After all, I had the name for it—Jeeves—a fine and respectable moniker, even if I say so myself. My natural attire was perfectly suited to the role: a sleek black all-in-one suit complete with a white bib in the front. I practically looked the part already. Add to that the fact that I lived in a sprawling, posh English castle—and well, you could say I was born for the job. More than anything else, though, it was the allure of carrying a polished walking cane and wearing a smart bowler hat on my trips to town that made it so appealing. I had a vision of myself strolling down the cobblestone streets with an air of importance, tipping my hat to passersby. The mere thought made my whiskers twitch with pride.

But before approaching my boss, Lord Melberry, with the idea, I had to consider the circumstances carefully. James, the old butler, had only recently passed away after sixty loyal years of service. Lord Melberry himself was eighty-nine, ancient by anyone’s standards, and while he was still sharp as a tack, he had no business living alone without someone looking after him. That someone, I decided, should be me—Jeeves, the cool, capable cat about the castle.

Of course, there was another important factor to consider–money. It wasn’t that Lord Melberry lacked funds—far from it. No, the old geezer wasn’t skint, he was simply tight-fisted. But as I already lived in the castle, ate his leftovers, and required little more than a decent basket to sleep in, I was confident I could make a compelling argument for my employment. All I wanted in return was a proper walking cane and a bowler hat—small investments, really, considering the dignity they would bestow upon me.

Still, it never hurts to get a second opinion.

After breakfast, I looked out for my old friend Ginger Tom. He was the scruffiest feline in the castle grounds, orange with white stripes and always covered in a layer of garden debris. I suspected that was his way of hiding the fact that after a night on the tiles he spent most of the day lazing around.

It took me longer than usual to find him that morning. Normally, I could count on him dozing in the strawberry patch after a meal, but today he was conspicuously absent. I systematically scoured the garden—past the cabbages, the carrots, and the radishes—calling out for him as I went. Eventually I found him curled up under an enormous rhubarb leaf, snoring soundly. I gave him a sharp nudge.

“Tom. Wake up.”

He blinked, then wrinkled his nose. Phew! The smell nearly pole-axed me. He must have been gorging on the stinky leftover fish the cook put outside the back door the night before.

“Yeow, Jeeves,” he yawned, stretching luxuriously.

“Good heavens, Tom, you reek. Must you eat that dreadful stuff? No self-respecting butler would ever go near it. Mark my words, when I’m butler, I’ll dine on the finest cuts from his Lordship’s table.”

And, I thought, I’ll be very careful to keep myself smart and smelling sweet. Tom will never be a butler.

Tom snickered. “You? A butler? You’ve got a wild imagination.”

“Why not?” I sat back, offended. “I’ve got the looks, the charm, and the practicality. I’ll do a fine job of it.”

Tom flicked his tail lazily. “Well, you’ve certainly got the suit for it. But have you got the balls?”

“I’m going to ask Lord Melberry if I can take over from James. I think he’ll see the sense in it.”

Tom smirked. “Go on, then. Don’t be a pussy. Ask him today.”

Bolstered by Ginger Tom’s cynical encouragement, I decided to make my move that evening.

***

After dinner, I found his Lordship in his favorite wing-back chair in the lounge, puffing away on a fat cigar and sipping his evening brandy. It was his most relaxed hour of the day, and I knew it was now or never.

I padded softly to the door, knocked softly with my paw, and entered. Normally, I would have hopped up onto his lap, a position of comfort and privilege I enjoyed greatly, but tonight I stayed standing, tail up like a periscope.

“What is it, Jeeves?” Lord Melberry asked, raising an eyebrow.

I cleared my throat. “Your Lordship, might I have a word? A professional word, as it were.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Professional, is it? Go on then, Jeeves.”

To my great delight, he gestured to the chair opposite him—an honour reserved for very few. I leapt up onto it and composed myself with great dignity, my tail curled neatly around my paws.

“I understand, sir, that you are in need of a new butler,” I began.

Lord Melberry chuckled. “I suppose I am. Do you have someone in mind?”

“Yes, sir. Myself.”

He stared at me for a long moment, cigar suspended mid-air. Then he burst out laughing. “You, Jeeves? A butler? Oh, that’s rich.”

I waited patiently for his laughter to subside.

“If I may, sir, I believe I am the most logical candidate. I already live here, I am impeccably attired, and I require no salary beyond the occasional luxury. Namely, a walking cane and a bowler hat for my trips to town.”

Lord Melberry studied me with renewed interest. “A bowler hat, you say?”

“Yes, sir. James’ old trilby simply won’t do. I require something more distinguished.”

To my surprise, he didn’t dismiss me outright. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and nodded. “You know what, Jeeves? Why not. You’ve got the attitude for it; I’ll give you that. Very well—you’re hired.”

***

The next morning, I caught the bus to town. First stop was the gentleman’s outfitters, where I purchased a very fine walking cane with a polished bone handle. Then I visited the milliner’s shop for the bowler hat. It required a special fitting, of course. My ears, situated atop my head, unlike human ears, needed room to breathe and hear, so the standard bowler design simply wouldn’t do the job. The milliner assured me they could craft something suitable within a week—complete with invisible pinholes for ventilation and sound.

Once my errands were complete, I set about shopping for his Lordship’s special needs. Shaving cream, aftershave, toothpaste, Brylcreem (can you believe they still make that disgusting slimy stuff), and a handful of other bibs and bobs. Although as yet not in full butler attire, I received many approving nods as I walked through town, carrying myself with the dignity of a human butler. By the time I returned to the castle, I was positively glowing with pride.

***

The years passed swiftly, and my role as Lord Melberry’s butler suited me down to a tee. My trips to town became legendary. Children pointed excitedly as I strolled by, bowler hat perched smartly on my head and cane tapping rhythmically against the cobblestones.

Now, however, things have changed. Lord Melberry is ninety-nine and frailer than ever, but I, too, have aged. At thirteen, I am half-blind and plagued by a limp that makes my cane more necessity than accessory. Ginger Tom has long since gone to the great vegetable garden in the sky; a bittersweet relief, if I’m honest, as the castle smells far better without him.

As I prepare for dinner service tonight, I realise I’ve misplaced my cane. Where on earth is it?  My leg aches as I search high and low, muttering under my breath.

It occurs to me, not for the first time, perhaps I am now the one in need of a butler.

Ah, well. Time to serve dinner. The life of a butler never ends, even for a cat in a bowler hat.