Author's Note: Months and months ago fanfiction dot net user MissAmyLovett sent me a whole bunch of story possibilities that she'd like to see written. She has been AMAZINGLY patient with me in writing this. So I thought I'd go ahead and share it here as well, for those who are interested. This one idea of hers that I ran with was the story of the family cat, Boisduval, who I first mentioned quite a number of years ago in "Victor's Daughters." There are a couple more sections after this, just a touch too long to be a one-shot.
Enjoy a bit of OC family fluff, everyone! And thanks again to MissAmyLovett for your idea and your patience!
Boisduval
"Mr. Visser?" Victor called, stepping into the narrow alley behind Van Dort's Fish. Even though he'd braced for it, the stink of brine and old fish made him wrinkle his nose. The alley was always at its worst on delivery days. Full of bits and pieces waiting to be hauled off, wet nets, and mewling stray cats. Victor was very glad that he worked at a desk.
"Mr. Visser?" he called again, taking a few steps down the alley and narrowly avoiding stepping into a pile of half-wrapped fish innards. Finally he spotted the squat maitenance man toward the other end of the alley, where the packing crates were stored. Mr. Visser was wearing the Van Dort uniform, white cap and emblazoned apron, and held a water bucket in one hand and a stick in the other.
"Excuse me," said Victor, joining the custodian at the crates. "Mr. Visser, we need you inside. Something's gone wrong with the fish meal processor. There are fish heads all over the floor, and brown powder everywhere...but whatever are you doing out here?"
Mr. Visser looked up at Victor and sighed. "Cats!" he exclaimed, gesturing with his stick so violently that Victor had to duck. "Cats all over. More every year."
"Well," said Victor reasonably, "There have always been cats around the cannery." Indeed, there had been scrawny gray and black cats ever since Victor could remember. No one in the village seemed to keep them for pets—more of a dog place, really—but Van Dort's Fish supported a little colony of fish-loving feral cats. Victor never really paid much attention to them, and the cats always returned the favor.
"Not like this," said Mr. Visser grimly. In a swift movement he pulled the top off of one of the crates. Victor watched as a veritable army of cats and kittens surged out of it. It was like the way the fish meal processor had blown, only with felines instead of fish parts.
"Goodness, there are a lot of them, though," Victor remarked. He watched as the cats scrambled to places of safety, running over his feet and between his ankles. One little gray kitten slipped under the crates, its little tail peeking out behind it. From beneath packing crates and nets he could see the hint of a tail here, the glint of an eye in the shadows there. "What will you do with them all?"
Mr. Visser, expression unchanging, hoisted the bucket. A few drops of water sloshed and landed on the already slimy cobblestones.
"Oh," said Victor. He looked at the little kitten tail, still poking out from beneath the crate, and felt terrible for what awaited its tiny owner.
"I'll go see to the meal cleanup," said Mr. Visser, setting down the bucket and the stick. Victor nodded, and thanked him.
He waited until Mr. Visser had disappeared back into the shop before dropping to his knees before the packing crate. The tail quickly disappeared. Victor could hear tiny paws scrambling against the cobblestone. He bent to look into the gap. Two tiny green eyes peered back at him. After a moment's judgment, Victor decided he'd be able to reach in there and retrieve the cat. Better him than Mr. Visser and his bucket. After that, he wasn't sure what he would do. Victoria had never mentioned wanting a pet, but surely she wouldn't object. At the very least she'd praise him for saving the cat, he was certain. Victor's daughters were a touch young for animals, Liddie only barely three, but weren't girls supposed to like cats?
So he carefully he reached into the shadows, wincing when his fingers brushed something slimy and wet. Still he kept on, tongue between his lips in concentration. The kitten kept inching away from his hand. Victor would feel the slightest touch of fur, and then quick as a blink it would retreat.
"Come on," Victor whispered, peeking under the crate. The eyes were in the furthest corner now. "Here, kitty. Here, kitty kitty."
The kitty continued to stare. Victor was beginning to feel foolish and wet around the knees. He shrugged, not without regret. Maybe the poor little thing's ability to hide out of reach would serve it well.
"All right, then," said Victor glumly, brushing off his hands and standing up. "Good luck." He turned to make his way back into the shop. He was nearly at the door when a little cry stopped him.
"Mew," came the cry again. Victor turned. The kitten was slinking its way out from under the crate. Once it emerged it sat and fixed that stare on him again. Victor smiled a little. This time when he knelt and put out a hand, the little cat toddled over to sniff his fingers.
As he ran his fingers over the kitten's head, he remembered the bucket. With one hand he scooped up the unprotesting kitten and stood. The kitten was so small it fit neatly in his hand. Gently he cradled it against his chest.
"I think my daughters would love a pet," he told the purring ball of fuzz. One little paw extended to knead gently at his tie. Carefully he pried the little claws loose, chuckling as he did so. "I would, too, for that matter."
2
"Why not simply call him 'Kitty'?" Victoria asked one day a week later. Victor looked up from the open illustrated book of animals on his lap.
"That's rather a girl's name, isn't it?" he asked in return.
Victoria shrugged. "It's what we've been calling him anyway," she said. "He's learning to answer to it. Isn't that right, Kitty?"
This last she directed to the kitten Victor had brought home, who was sharing the armchair in the parlor with her. The cat mewled in response. Much to Victor's pleasure the cat had swiftly become used to being among people, and one would never know of its humble street origins to watch it eat fish from a small china plate or enjoy the comforts of a footstool by the fire. When the cat wasn't sitting on Victor's desk in his study or sleeping on the rag rug on the nursery floor, he was sitting nestled next to Victoria. Her lap was usually taken up with the new baby, Anne, and today was no exception.
It was very pleasant to have a cat. He watched as Victoria ran her fingertips down the kitten's back. There was a little smile on her face as she did so. The baby dozed in the crook of her arm. Victor sat on the sofa with his other daughters on either side of him. Lydia, the oldest and quite precocious, was already beginning to trace words in the open book with her fingertips. Catherine, the middle girl, leaned heavily into his other side until he put his arm around her.
"Mittens," said Catherine, snuggling more deeply into Victor's side. "Mittens is a good name."
"But he hasn't got mittens," Victor pointed out gently. "He's gray all over."
Catherine considered this. "Socks?" she suggested. Victor patted her hair.
"We'll put that on the list of possiblities," he told her. At Lydia's prodding he turned the page of the book. Now they were in the chapter on butterflies.
"Tiger," said Lydia, pointing to the heading above a drawing of a Tiger Swallowtail. "We could name him Tiger."
Everyone looked at the small gray cat with the big green eyes contentedly nestled into Victoria's skirts. His purring was audible. Not exactly the fiercest in the jungle. But aloud Victor said, "Another good idea."
Lydia smiled, proud of herself, and continued tracing words along the page, Victor helping in a murmur when needed. Catherine was growing heavier and heavier. When Victor looked down at her he found her very nearly asleep. He glanced up to share a parental smile with Victoria, who held the baby a little closer. With her free hand she stroked the cat's side.
"How about Charlie?" suggested Victoria, now tracing little trails in the kitten's fur. The purring got louder, making Victor wonder how such a big noise could come from such a small cat. "Or Tom? Tom is a fitting name for a boy cat."
Victor was about to agree, but Lydia spoke first. "Mama, those are people names," she said, which was a rather good point. Victoria did not respond beyond "Hm," which made Victor think he might perhaps have sided with his wife on this one. Victoria gently shifted a waking Anne to her shoulder. Her movement woke the cat. Both baby and kitten made nearly identical mewling sounds simultaneously, making Victoria laugh.
As Lydia turned the pages and Victor continued to help her sound out words, Catherine started to snore gently beside him. Noticing, Victoria gently moved the cat and stood from her chair, baby Anne asleep again in her arms. Victor stirred Catherine to wake her up just enough so that Victoria could take her hand and lead her up to the nursery for a nap.
"You should join them, shouldn't you?" Victor asked Lydia after Victoria and the other children had started up the stairs. He was unsure of how this nap-taking arrangement worked. Lydia gave the merest of head shakes.
"I'm not sleepy," she assured him, and turned another page. "'Red. Ad. Ad-my..."
"Admiral," Victor supplied. Then, "That might be a good name. Admiral."
"Admiral cat," said Lydia. She sounded noncommittal. The two of them watched the kitten get wobbily to his feet and stretch mightily. Light of foot he hopped to the floor and sauntered over to them. With one hand Victor scooped him up and put him in Catherine's still-warm spot, which the kitten seemed to appreciate. He curled up into a perfect little ball of cat, tail touching his nose.
"What is this word?" Lydia asked, pointing to a caption. Victor looked.
"Boisduval," he told her, guiding her fingertip across the letters. "Boisduval's Blue. Boisduval was a lepidopterist, one of the best. And isn't the Blue pretty?"
Lydia nodded, going so far as to trace her fingertip over the broad illustrated wings. Victor was glad she was impressed. The Blue was always one of his favorites. It had even more special meaning for him now, as did all blue lepidoptera. He smiled, and traced a wing himself.
"Say, that's a good name," Victor said. "Boisduval. Let's name the cat Boisduval. What do you think, Liddie?"
Lydia slowly met his eyes. "I think it's naptime," she said, sliding to the floor. She was tall enough to not need to stand on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek before leaving the room. He listened to her footfalls disappear upstairs. Then he looked at the cat.
"Boisduval it is," he said, the only voter in the room. He continued to leaf through the book, petting fuzzy little Boisduval as he did so.