The Tardis door swung open, and the Doctor stepped out into the field. The breeze ruffled his grey hair and billowed his jacket, exposing the crimson lining. He turned around, eyebrows raised in anticipation.
"Well, come on. We're here!"
Clara poked her head around the door, clutching an empty cat carrier.
"Doctor, I'm still not sure about this."
"You said you wanted a cat. You won't find more cats anywhere else in the universe than here."
"Yeah. Still not getting it. Why do we need to travel halfway across space? We have these things on Earth called 'Animal Shelters'. Believe it or not, they have plenty of cats in need of a home."
The Doctor snorted. "Earth moggies – so boring and bland. All stripes and fleas! This planet has all sorts of feline species you can choose from."
"But-"
"Clara, Clara, Clara…" he began. Clara frowned. She did not entirely trust the Doctor when he repeated her name like that; nor did she trust the somewhat crooked grin he flashed her. The Doctor had been acting odd ever since she revealed she was planning on getting a pet cat. Bundling her into the Tardis. Whisking her off to this planet – whatever it was. What was he up to?
"…where's your sense of adventure?" the Doctor finished.
Well. He had her there. She found herself returning his smile. She never could pass up the opportunity for an adventure with the Doctor. Anyway, this place looked harmless enough. Sunshine and fluffy clouds overhead. They'd landed in a meadow of what appeared to be grey, spongey grass. In the distance stood a collection of stalls and shops. A marketplace.
She stepped out of the Tardis, and her foot sank into something sticky. And furry.
"Urgh! Doctor, what's wrong with this grass?"
"Ah," said the Doctor. "I don't think it's actually grass."
"What is it?"
The Doctor put his Sonic Sunglasses on, and scanned the ground. "Fur balls."
"Fur balls? Oh, god, that's disgusting."
"It's perfectly natural."
"And perfectly disgusting." Clara twisted around. "A whole field full of fur balls!"
The Doctor shrugged. "Better out than in."
Clara suppressed a shudder of revulsion. "Well, if I'm going to find a cat, we'd better press on."
"Wait." The Doctor seized the cat carrier and threw it back inside the Tardis. "You won't be needing that. Many of these species will come willingly. If you ask them nicely enough, of course. And others simply won't fit."
"Won't fit? How big are they?"
"You'll see."
They walked across the field towards the market place, the fur balls sucking slightly at the soles of their shoes.
"What's this planet called, anyway?"
"Cat Planet."
"Cat Planet?"
"Yes. It's a planet. Full of cats. Cat Planet."
Clara shook her head. The last planets she and the Doctor had visited were named Abroxus, De Talana, and Ko'i. One of these names is not like the others, she thought. Out loud, she asked, "How many cats live here?"
"About three million, from over ten thousand different species," replied the Doctor. "You've got the Tharils, the Kitlings, the Cheetah People – perhaps stay away from those – the Flatheaded Mousers, the Alleyslinkers, the Catkind, the Leonine – avoid those too – and the Fanged Grimalkins. Surprisingly friendly, the Fanged Grimalkins. They like tea with a slice of lemon."
They'd reached a rough track which led towards the markets. Clara heard the clatter of wooden wheels, the chink of glasses, laughter, shouting, and meowing.
"Do you like cats, Doctor?" Clara asked curiously.
"Sometimes they're a useful source of information," he admitted. "Sometimes they turn up at the wrong moment. Sometimes they're too big, and you're too small. Mostly, I think, they just get in the way."
The Doctor said no more until they reached the market place. It took Clara's breath away. Barrows and stalls lined the narrow laneways, selling a variety of cat-related goods. Dead mice, rats, and other unidentifiable rodents lay heaped in baskets. Handcarts displayed braces of milk bottles. Clara glanced at the signs. Cows milk, goats milk, yaks milk, buffalo milk, quoddle milk (whatever that was). Dead birds hung from strings – some the size of starlings, and others the size of turkeys. They passed a cluster of barrels containing an assortment of sardines, kippers, herring, and tuna. The place smelt of fish and smoke and meat and damp fur.
And the cats! Felines of all types packed the market place. Clara realised what the Doctor meant about several species not fitting into a cat carrier. Some were the size of humans and walked upright on their hind legs, dressed in clothing. Clara watched in fascination as a pair of cats dressed like Earth nuns passed by, heads downcast in silent contemplation. More of these humanoid cats stood behind the stalls, flogging their wares. Others sat at tables, neatly carving platters of raw meat with knives and folks, or playing cards. There were smaller cats, quadrupedal, twining through the alleys. Those cats could have passed for normal Earth cats, save for the fact that their fur was bright green. Others looked like regular tortoiseshells, but had three tails.
Which type of feline should she pick? And how would she go about it? Could she just walk up to one and say "Hi, my name's Clara. Want to be my pet?" It didn't help that the Doctor, two paces behind her, was rather distractingly whistling the song 'Memories'. Which – Clara realised, was from the musical 'Cats'. Of course.
Luckily, the Doctor ceased both whistling and walking. "Clara. I think I have the perfect cat for you."
They stood outside a luxurious tent; rich velvet and decorated with tassels. On the side was a symbol of what appeared to be a cat slaying a snake.
"Wait here a moment," the Doctor told her. "I'll see if she's willing to grant you an audience."
An audience - what? And who was 'she'? Before Clara could ask more, the Doctor yanked aside the heavy curtain covering the entrance, and disappeared inside. She waited with arms crossed, tapping her foot, and smiling awkwardly at the customers browsing the stall next door (which apparently sold balls of yarn for nine droogles each).
The Doctor emerged. "Okay, Clara. You can enter."
Clara stepped inside the tent, blinking in the lamplight. As her eyes adjusted, she made out the figure of a cat sitting on a cushion. This cat was about the size of an ocelot, with sleek blue-grey fur and rather protuberant golden eyes. On either side of this elegant animal were two large bipedal cats; dressed in tunics and carrying spears.
"Lady Bastetly, may I present Miss Clara Oswald. Clara, this is Lady Bastetly; High Priestess of the Upper Ter, Slayer of the Pana Serpent, and Major Shareholder of Comfy Cushions Pty Ltd" said the Doctor.
He then whispered in Clara's ear: "Curtsey."
"Because she's a High Priestess?" Clara whispered back.
"No, because she's proud to be a major shareholder. Takes her cushions very seriously."
"Right. Okay." Clara plucked at the hem of her short polka-dotted skirt, and curtseyed as best she could.
"Be seated," said Lady Bastetly, pointing with her paw at a camp stool. Her voice was a refined purr. Clara obligingly sat. "I understand," continued Lady Bastetly, "That you are a devotee looking for a feline to worship?"
"Um, no. I'm just a human. From Earth. Looking for a cat, to keep as a pet."
"Same thing," said the Doctor, quietly.
"I am willing to accompany you back to your home on Earth," said Lady Bastetly, in a tone which suggested that Clara should be extremely grateful for this. "Of course, I expect to be fed, sheltered, attended to, and have complete dominion over your hearth and its furnishings."
"That means Lady Bastetly will sleep on your furniture," explained the Doctor.
Clara hesitated. How much did fur did Lady Bastetly shed? Would it be polite to ask?
"I also have several other conditions," continued the feline High Priestess. "I must be brushed every day."
"Sounds reasonable…" began Clara, but Lady Bastetly wasn't finished.
"Three times; at 6am, 12pm, and 9pm. One hundred strokes exactly each time, from head to tail. No more, and no less."
"Hold on," said Clara. "I have a full time job, not to mention a life, so that might be a little-"
Lady Bastetly interrupted her again. "Using a brush made from the hairs of a Mangalitsa Boar."
Clara threw a glance at the Doctor, who shrugged in return.
"The brushing will occur after I am bathed," continued Lady Bastetly.
"Oh. You mean after you clean yourself?" asked Clara, picturing cats licking themselves.
Lady Bastetly's eyes widened in astonishment. "I would not sully my own tongue! As my devotee, I expect you to be personally responsible for my toilette."
"Doctor," whispered Clara. "Does she mean what I think she means?"
He nodded slowly.
"Just to be clear, Lady Bastetly," said Clara politely. "Am I to understand that I must… lick you three times a day?"
Lady Bastetly purred in response.
Clara stood up. "Right, this is not going to work."
Lady Bastetly suddenly rose, arching her back and hissing.
"Clara, you've offended her," murmured the Doctor. "You can't simply refuse a High Priestess."
"Oh, Doctor. Watch me."
Lady Bastetly's two guards swung their spears down, pointing them directly at Clara and the Doctor.
The Doctor jumped back, holding up his hands. Clara sat down again, thinking rapidly.
"Lady Bastetly," she said carefully. "Now that I think about it, I'm really not worthy to be your owner – I mean, your worshipper."
"Yes, that's right," said the Doctor, nodding eagerly. "She's not worthy!"
Clara glared at him briefly, before continuing. "A superior being like yourself deserves the best. My abode is… too small. And my furnishings are humble. And… and… I have no cushions!"
Lady Bastetly sat back on her haunches, her golden eyes full of disappointment. "That will simply not do. I agree. You are utterly inadequate as a worshipper. I give you my leave to depart."
Once outside the tent, Clara stormed down the alleyway, the Doctor trailing in her wake.
"Oh come on! She wasn't that bad."
Clara wheeled on him. "She was completely insufferable! Whatever made you think she'd make a good pet?"
The Doctor sighed. "Okay. I have another feline in mind. You may find him more easygoing. Follow me."
Clara hesitated, then plunged through the crowds after the Doctor. No one could be worse than Lady Bastetly. Right?