At twelve forty-seven we discovered that the cat wasn't asleep. He was waiting for you to fall asleep. A rather important distinction if you've left a plate of chicken in the kitchen.
We'd gone out to investigate. Three Magikitos, one notebook and a firm intention to stay out of trouble. By ten past one we were galloping along on a cat, one of us had lost a boot and an entire page of the notebook said “BLOODY HELL”. Promising start.
This is one of our tales from the secret life of the forest. Our leading character is Nugget, a ginger cat with a white bib and a look that turns anyone on the receiving end into staff.
Two dinners and absolutely no explanation
In daylight, Nugget was a pitiful sight. He'd lie beside his empty bowl and look from the bowl to his human, then into the distance, apparently remembering a deeply deprived childhood. He'd finished his dinner four minutes earlier.
Whenever someone opened the fridge, he arrived at a leisurely walk. This was the clever bit. Running would suggest that he wanted food. Walking suggested that he just happened to be passing and had spotted an opportunity to help.
We admired the technique. To get a second biscuit, we have to tell a decent story. Nugget sat down. Sometimes he added a tiny mew, barely enough sound to fill his mouth, and the human immediately went, “Oh, you poor thing.” Poor chicken, more like. The little chancer had the whole household trained.
That night, though, we wanted to know where he went afterwards. For days he'd been coming home looking suspiciously pleased with himself. Blue Hat wrote “possible romance”. Purple Hat wrote “possible supper”. Experience would favour the second theory.
Our discreet surveillance got as far as a flowerpot
We hid behind a pot in the courtyard. Two of us did, anyway. The third insisted that his very visible hat was a seasonal flower. A seasonal flower wearing glasses.
Nugget came out, washed a paw and sat down. Five minutes passed. Then he stared at a wall. We stared at the wall. The wall declined to assist with our enquiries. Purple Hat suggested getting a snack in case it intended to keep this up until Thursday.
Then Wink appeared, a black-and-white cat slipping along the wall. Nugget raised his head. She paused, then carried on. There was no briefing, no map, no secret password. All the conspiracy was in our heads. The cats simply left through the same gap.
We followed as quietly as we could. This involved dragging one dry leaf, stepping on another and discovering that crouching doesn't make a brownie silent if he's got a loose chestnut rattling in his pocket.
Nugget turned round, looked at us, let us approach and looked towards the next garden. We took that as an invitation. It might have meant “Do you lot never go home?”, but that interpretation suited us rather less.
On a cat, you don't get to steer
When he drew alongside the low wall, we climbed onto his back. In our stories we're small enough to ride there without bothering him. Green Hat in front, the one with glasses in the middle and Purple Hat at the back. He'd appointed himself luggage officer on the grounds that he was carrying a peanut.
At first it was wonderful. Warm fur, the smell of damp earth and moonlight between the branches. We got quite carried away. One of us started talking about freedom. Then Nugget spotted something moving beside a plant pot and shot off.
Freedom bounced about six inches into the air and nearly fell off.
“Left!” we shouted. Nugget went right. “Slow down!” Nugget jumped. “Stop!” Nugget stopped. We thought we'd finally established some sort of understanding. Then he started licking his shoulder. He'd paused the expedition for a wash.
When we say we gallop about on cats, it sounds like a magnificent woodland cavalry. The truth of this particular tale is less grand. We go wherever the cat fancies, as fast as he likes, and express whatever opinions we can squeeze in between jumps. We learnt a lot about control that night. Mostly about Nugget having all of it.
Wink was already waiting beside a kitchen door that stood ajar. Nugget stopped on the windowsill and we got off. Purple Hat needed a moment for his stomach to catch up with the rest of him. The peanut had left the expedition.
The chicken heist and a theory of ownership
There were pieces of chicken on a plate on the table. We took cover behind the sugar bowl and a tea towel. Nugget hopped onto a chair, then the table, and brought his nose close to the plate. Very gently. With the sort of delicacy that makes theft look like quality control.
Blue Hat whispered that we ought to intervene. Purple Hat asked whether that would involve tasting the chicken. Before we could settle the ethical question, Nugget reached out a paw, hooked a piece and ate it.
Then another.
Then he examined the empty patch on the plate as though this shortage of chicken had come as a terrible surprise and he intended to get to the bottom of it.
That was when we understood his philosophy. Humans ask, “Who does it belong to?” Nugget asked, “Can I reach it?” An entire debate about private property settled with one paw. We'd have found the argument unconvincing if it hadn't worked so well.
A floorboard creaked in the passage. We froze. Wink backed towards the garden. Nugget dropped to the floor, sat beside the chair and assumed an expression of professional innocence.
A human woman came in wearing slippers. She looked at the plate. She looked at the cat. Nugget looked back with the dignity of someone who would also very much like to know what had happened here.
“You again!” she said.
Fascinating. Our suspect had previous.
Undone by a hat
We'd have liked to leave quietly. Unfortunately, as Purple Hat ducked, its tip nudged a teaspoon sticking out of the sugar bowl. The spoon fell. He fell after it. Blue Hat tried to help by bellowing “Discretion!” at the top of his lungs.
Time to leg it. Nugget took advantage of the clatter to bolt into the garden. We scrambled aboard when he paused beside a step. Nobody discussed freedom on the return journey. We were busy keeping our teeth.
Back at the house, Wink disappeared among the plants. Nugget went indoors, settled in his usual spot, tucked his paws beneath him and closed his eyes. Nothing to see here. We smelt of somebody else's kitchen and were a boot short. He looked immaculate.
An innocent gentleman requires breakfast
At dawn we heard his human. “What's up, Nugget? Are you hungry?”
The cat mewed.
What a performance. He sounded like a Victorian orphan who'd spent three winters living on memories. We had to get behind a planter before we burst out laughing.
We spend our lives trying to produce a convincing explanation for everything. Nugget had stolen chicken, carried us through two gardens and was now requesting breakfast. No excuses. No elaborate account of the previous evening. He was hungry again, or fancied a bite, or had simply noticed someone capable of opening a tin.
We haven't decided to copy him. We lack the whiskers and the ability to sit on a problem until somebody strokes us. But we've been less trusting of appearances ever since. That adorable lump asleep on the sofa might have more stories than the rest of the household put together.
We closed the notebook. Beneath “BLOODY HELL”, we'd written our conclusion. “The suspect has had breakfast. The investigators haven't.”
Are cats nocturnal?
They're generally crepuscular, most active around dawn and dusk, as Cats Protection explains. That doesn't rule out the occasional commotion in the small hours.
Do Magikitos really ride cats?
In our stories, when the cat allows it, with no say in the destination. Nugget and this expedition belong to Magikitos fiction. Our cold porcelain figures represent us, but they don't sneak out to look for chicken.
