I did not feel like writing today, but I did it anyway. That's they way to write a book! Now, having written, I will go to sleep. Here it is. I'll polish it later.
3 - Mr. Kitten Discovers the Body
I hastened to the morning room, both drawn by my curiosity and pursued by the horrid wailing from Madeleine's room. When she sings, she sounds like a scalded...well, let us just say she is not exactly on pitch.
I burbled a greeting to the Captain as I entered the morning room, but ignored his outstretched hand, instead making the rounds of the room, which is both my custom and my duty. It was my intention to approach the Captain by the circuitous route possible before allowing him to massage me, but I was checked as I explored behind the couch.
There I found the soul-flown shell of my compatriot, Winston Churchill.
I circled the corpse, sniffing it and examining it. Then, driven ineffable instinct, I made ineffectual attempts to bury the empty husk. As I scratched upon the parquet floor, I heard Helen, that most excellent of servants, enter the room, and I knew she would make everything right.
"What are you doing, Mr. Kitten?" she called. She could hear my scratching, but could not yet see me. "Did you throw up?" It was an impertinant question, but I'll admit it was my custom to make the same scratching motions to cover my hairballs.
Then she came over to me, saw me and Churchill, and literally screamed. She fell back in horror at the ghastly sight. Although more stoic than her, I shared her horror. I approached to her for comfort. Imagine my chagrin when a torrent of abuse streamed from her lips.
"Mr. Kitten! You killed Winston Churchill!"
The Captain had hopped to his feet by this time, and they both stood looking down upon me, Helen heaping abuse upon me, and the Captain timidly attempting to calm her!
"Oh, no! How could he?" she cried. "I must have been stupid to buy a bird when I had a cat, but I thought they got along. Oh, I love you Mr. Kitten. I know it's not your fault and you don't know any better. I'm sorry I yelled at you." Then she burst into tears.
This was but an example of her bruality of speech. It was beneath me to refute her vile accusations. As the ancient Arab proverb says, the only answer to a fool is silence. And if I had fallen in her esteem, she had fallen infinitely more in mine. I repaired instantly to the top of the walnut highboy in the North corner of the morning room and observed from there.
The Captain comforted her and, to his credit, defended me. I meowed encouragement to him, and they both looked at me, or, rather at the gray feather that chose that instant to drift from my jaws down to the Oriental rug.
More recriminations from Helen, and embarrassment from the Captain.
I had a perfectly good reason for having a gray feather within my jaws [or maybe he throws up a bunch of feathers], but I did not trouble to explain myself.
Helen eventually calmed down. "Captain, please tell Blandings," she said, referring to the butler, "to bring the Jaguar around. I'm taking Winston to the vet to be cremated." She gave me a look that seemed to ponder that the Jaguar was a tribute to my own self, as all cats come from the same great race and various breeds or species vary only in size. "No wait," she amended herself. "Have him bring the Toyota." [think of another car which is dog oriented]
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