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Welcome to the Atlas friends.
The day four prompt, (mildly late) has been one of the most fun for me so far. I am a self professed cat lover, and so the opportunity to write from the POV of a cat was immediately appealing. When I was plotting this idea I was watching an episode of Frasier, you might sense that in the tone of the piece.
It took a while to write, simply because I had far too much fun and made something nearly 2.5k words. It is now under the required 1.5k. I hope you enjoy it.
The Reviewer
I am a master of insight, a quester on a cause, a purveyor of finer things. My instrument is the humble paper block so beloved of these odd creatures. They come in droves, both the blocks, and the apes that take them. Invariably these creatures are without a shred of taste, and so it falls to me to guide them. I walk in front of them when they hold a tragic tome, or resort to shouting when their primitive minds fail to comprehend the ineffectual nature of the block in their hairless paws.
You see, I am the reviewer, Bartholemew, (Bernard to my stubborn and rather dim mistress), and I know the qualities of every block in this shop. The bestsellers are often a place of stark resistance to good taste. To nap upon a bestseller is to be brazenly barbarous to one’s own body. They are peak banality. Their spines are stiff, and the pages smell of chemicals.
A writing pad is not much better; most can barely support themselves, let alone a nap.
No, there is much in this shop to dismay, but occasionally you will find a block that is just right. Springy outer layers, thick but yielding, paper that smells of antiques and long established things. The kind of block that would serve to sleep the most royal of all felines. I had high hopes for a new, untested block that appeared in the shop yesterday.
This block was thick and large enough for nearly two naps back to back, or so I thought. It was wrapped in a luscious springy material, and it had all the pre-requisite smells. I could even detect a small amount of mouse on it, which hinted at delicious dreams of chasing and catching. My favourite.
I wish to state that I was deeply wrong in my original assessment. It was hard, unruly, barren and smelt of rot underneath all of its more brash perfumes. I wish never to set another paw on it, and for that matter, I wish no one else the same displeasure. So it was with a heavy heart that I threw it behind the warm place. Out of sight and out of mind.
I was surprised to find my mistress the next day looking absolutely ragged. She was bustling to and fro, looking for that dratted thing, and I had no mind to help her. There really is no accounting for some people’s tastes. Instead I bullied her into feeding me in order to distract her from such concerns. However, the delicious smell of duck and gravy failed to coax her from misery, even after I generously dropped some in her lap. No, instead she scrabbled about like a lunatic trying to simultaneously wipe her dress which now smelled much better than it had, and shout at a plastic box she keeps on her desk.
“Detective Miller, yes, that is right, it really is invaluable…”
You are darned right, that duck was a precious gift, I do not give away food lightly.
Later, a bedraggled man entered. He was wet, which was upsetting, and smelled of old ham, which was doubly distressing. His most egregious crime,however, was the appalling block he carried about with him. A small one with metal rings that would undoubtedly dig into one’s sides, and not a whiff of cushioning cover. It was flimsy at best, and seemed to buckle under its own weight. I was not much inclined to have dealings with anyone of such an atrocious sense of quality. I had half a mind to shoo this tragedy out into the rain immediately. Had my mistress not appeared so glad to see him, I might have.
She, however, was rapturous, spending a good quarter-nap wagging her chin at him, with animated arms and a look of concern. I heard him mutter such things as:
“What, pray tell, was the significance of the book?” and “Yes, quite, £50,000 is an extraordinary value. It must be a rare thing.”
The man then began to crawl about the floor. He was graceless. He poked at skirting boards and lifted the rug with an uncomfortable grunt.
“No signs of forced entry,” the Ham-Man announced, dusting off his knees and depositing a fine layer of street grit onto my pristine floorboards. “And you say the alarm didn’t trip?”
My mistress sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that was already damp, and muttered some garbled nonsense. I watched this pantomime from the high ground of the non-fiction section. It was painful to behold. They were hunting in quite the most abstract way imaginable. I attempted to guide their primitive attention toward a particularly comfy book on the lower shelf, a paperback with a spine so wonderfully cracked it offered the lumbar support of a cloud. I rubbed my cheek against it significantly.
“Meow,” I articulated, quite clearly saying, ‘Observe the superior textural quality of this item.’
“Not now, Bernard,” my mistress sighed at me.
“He’s probably hungry,” the Detective offered, reaching a sausage-like finger toward me. I recoiled. The audacity. To assume my critique was a plea for sustenance? I turned my back on them, flicking my tail with calculated disdain. If they wished to remain ignorant, I would let them wallow.
But then the mistress made a noise. It was a high, thin sound, like a child mewing. She sank into her chair, burying her face in her hands. I paused in my grooming. A sensation arose in my midsection. It felt suspiciously like indigestion, though I had not eaten in at least 2 naps. It was a heavy, stone-like feeling. I looked at my mistress. Her face was wet and she was starting to smell of salt. This was unacceptable. A distressed mistress leads to erratic meal times and a distinct lack of lap stability.
I sighed, a long exhale through the nose. I am a critic, not a monster. The offending brick needed to be returned to restore the equilibrium of my dining schedule.
I descended from the shelf, landing with a silent, heavy thud. I approached the warm place. The wet ape was currently busy examining a smudge on the window, entirely missing the real drama unfolding at ankle height. Squeezing into the dark abyss behind the metal fins, I rummaged. An indignity. Dust-mice, the size of actual rodents, clung to my coat. The heat was stifling. But there it was, the wretched thing, right where I had hidden it. Lying flat, gathering dust, looking every bit the uncomfortable slab of masonry I knew it to be.
I extended a claw. I hooked the leather binding. It was heavy, resistant, obstinate. I pulled. I scrambled. I sneezed, a violent, undignified explosion that echoed in the small space.
“What’s the cat doing?” the stupid ape asked.
I backed out, dragging the tome with me. I emerged covered in grey fluff, looking, I imagine, like a common alley cat. But I had succeeded. I shoved the book into the open air with a final, disgusted thrust of my hind leg.
The man shouted. “Look!” Before lunging for it. “It must have fallen! Slipped down the back!”
Mistress gasped, snatching the brick up. ‘Oh! Oh, thank god. It’s barely scratched. Just… dusty.” She looked at me. I prepared evasive maneuvers, fearing a hug. But she simply stared, a dawning realization in her eyes. She looked at the dust on my coat. She looked at the dust on the book.
“Bernard,” she breathed.
“We should get this in a protective case immediately,” the impertinent fellow interrupted, oblivious as ever. “Evidence, potentially. Or just safety.” Mistress nodded, her demeanor shifting. She treated the book suddenly like a prize catch. She walked it over to the glass display cabinet, placed it on a velvet pillow, and locked the door. Click.
There it sat. I supposed there were worse endings. At least under glass it would not suffer itself upon some poor fool. The useless man left, taking his ham-scent with him. The shop went quiet. The rain lashed against the windows. Mistress slumped into her reading chair, looking exhausted. I seized my moment, leaping onto the armrest, then gingerly onto her lap.
I circled three times. I looked at the perfectly formed paperback she had placed in her lap. An ape of great taste, it looked delectably comfy. I stepped onto it. It did not resist. It yielded. It conformed perfectly to my paws. Warm from her hands. Smelling of her. This tatty thing beneath my chin? It was an easy 98 point score.
Mistress stroked the top of my head, her fingers scratching that impossible-to-reach spot behind the ears.
“You’re a funny old thing, Bernard,” she whispered. I ignored the name, settling my chin onto the open pages of the block. I closed my eyes and let the aroma of it sweep me off into a dream.
This block as a pillow? It was a masterpiece.
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That was fun )