Chapter 1: Scamper

Chapter 1: Wild and Sunrise

Everyone knows how the stories start—"WhenPebbleswokeup on that fall morning, she had no idea where she would be in just a couple of days," or, "Looking back, I guess I am glad I didn't stay home on that fateful day," or a mouthful of, "Despite all the psychologically catastrophic, excruciatingly painful, or otherwise unpleasant experiences that ensued, I cannot help but fondly remember that early autumn morning."

Well, I don't think much of starting a story like the first option, because you never do know where you'll be in a few days, and though I would have preferred to be in exactly the same place as I was then, I can guarantee that in the specified number of days, I most certainly was not.

As for option number two, I most certainly am not glad I got up, because a lot of unpleasant experiences that followed could probably have been avoided, and besides, it was awfully cold outside.

And as far as the latter option goes... let's put it this way: it took me a long time to get over the final events of this adventure, and it took me an even longer time to think of all those big words.

Anyway, the point is, I have a story here, so shut it and listen.

When the morning sunlight filtered through the sparkly windows and filled the nest with dancing patterns of warm yellow sunlight and whatnot, I woke up. Ta-da. Breakfast was the sophisticated meal of delicacies imported from the long lost realms of The Kingdom of Cabinet-Under-the-Sink. Talk about jump-starting your day!

So I decided that it didn't look so cold out my old 'stained-glass' window (through which I couldn't see the lovely frost patterns), and made a further executive decision to get my friend Scamper's skinny fluffy butt outside for him to meet a few cats I'd met yesterday.

They had a cool idea about living together in a... 'Clan,' I think they called it, and there was a big leader dude named Ridge who talked pretty well, inspirationally and creatively-wise, to an extent were if he suggested it, you might consider jumping off the end of a dock. You might.

So, a few minutes later, I was freezing my rear off and sticking my head into Scamper's cat flap.

"SCAAAAMPER!" I bellowed. "C'mere!"

"Huh?" said a voice next to my head. I turned and saw him blinking blearily at me from his basket. "Pebbles? Wuzzgoin' on?"

"C'mon lazy bones," I told him, "There's some cats you need to meet.


Port Hope is a small town, mostly thriving on port stuff. Don't ask me. That's what Ivory said, anyway. She's an "insufferable know-it-all," but unfortunately, she does know it all. She tells me she's been traveling, and this town is poor and run-down compared to others, which just goes to show how much I know—I just thought all towns had dank, dark, wet, garbage-filled back alleys. Oh well. Lucky for me, I did get born into an alley-filled town, with a bunch of boats, the ocean, docks, less dogs than most towns, (though any dogs is still too many) and about twice as many cats.

For aesthetic points, you don't exactly want to look at the town, but more at the very nice landscape into which it was chucked. A panoramic ocean view of frothy waves and blue horizon meeting the blue sky filled with pale sunlight and fluffy clouds that arch overhead fills half of your... view, while the shadows of some whoppin'-huge mountains and some BIG forests tower over our town's other half.

To connect the snowcapped mountains view to the lovely ocean one, we have thoughtfully provided a HUMUNGOUSoil tanker that drops in from time to time from the northerly areas of around here, as well as some rotting wooden docks that go out into the water and then conveniently just end.

Our housefolk are not angels to us, nor are they mean, as the Alley Cats seem to believe. But it was awfully easy to get caught up in their emotions, convinced by mere words that the housefolk that had raised us and fed us and kept us safe and warm and relatively comfortable were villains and were oppressive and mean, when just believing the Alley Cats' words proved that they gave us more than we deserved.

Deep, aren't I?

Anyway, this town was our home: lovely, sure; picturesque, fine; fancy, negative. Ah, well. The housefolks were: nice, sure, pretty angelic, fine, evil, negative. My point? Background information is generally appreciated, but if you don't care, feel free to skip ahead several chapters, then a few more, wait a moment, then go to the end of the story and close it. This entire thingis background information, technically. The point being that our town was just here, waiting for something exciting to happen, I guess...

Well, guess who pulled the lucky ticket?


"Where're we going?" asked Scamper for the googol-eth time.

"Somewhere," I replied for the googol-eth time. He sighed irritably, and we turned a corner, and entered a—you guessed it—dark alley. Scamper gasped.

I sighed, shaking my head and grinning, and led him in.

The crooked cobblestone alley was filled with billowing sheets of steam and mist, the walls and ground were slick with dew and moisture, and housefolk garbage was scattered in the sand and mud that had gathered in the crevices and corners of the alley. But, naturally, Scamper wasn't gasping at the amount of cold mist, the atrocious amount of litter, or the distinct lack of a proficient cleaning crew. He was gasping at all the cats.

They were on top of milk crates, climbing around inside barrels; mewing and yowling and chattering and scuffling and generally milling about; there were giant toms, meek kits, pregnant she-cats, grumpy senior citizens, giant she-cats, scuffling young toms, and younger she-cats chasing each other through little obstacle courses. Let's put it this way: there were a lot of cats.

"Holy c—" Scamper began, but at that moment a hulking huge tomcat leapt up onto a teetering stack of milk crates and cleared his throat for silence.

"That's Ridge," I whispered to Scamper. He nodded. A long-haired brown tabby tom, Scamper isn't one to stand out on a crowd—'bottlebrush' tail, white markings, smudgy face, and a sort of bland personality. Like he says, though: opposites attract!

When I asked a friend of mine about how to describe myself in this narrative, he said, "a friendly, witty, brave, quick learner, sassy, smart-aleck." Sheesh, he is a nice guy! I don't think I'd describe myself like that in a hundred seasons! Okay, smart-aleck, I can see, but witty? Anyway, I was an ordinary dark gray tabby, with lovely pink-padded white feet. I'm still a gray tabby, but I have harder pads now; black. I was about nine 'moons' old then, and 'smart-aleck' pretty much sums me up. Okay, I guess not, but I don't know what else to say…

"Cats of the Alleys," said Ridge, and I cocked my head. I wasn't a stray! "We gather here today for our first organized meeting. When I first introduced my ideas to a few other strays, I had no idea that they would spread so far... The things I said seem to have caught on, and like a whispering wind, woven between the spirits and minds of our town's cats, taking root and growing stronger... All the cats that have gathered here today, called as if by some force that watches over us all, I know you all understand what we are here to discuss—the twolegs."

Murmuring broke out at this. 'Twolegs'? I'd never heard that word before. Most of the others appeared not to have either. "Weird," I muttered.

"Huh?" Scamper replied in an undertone. He was staring intently at Ridge.

"I said," I said, "'weird'. 'Twolegs'? That's a new one."

"Yeah..." He wasn't listening. I sighed and turned back to Ridge, who had started inspiring people again.

"...our so-called 'owners' are oppressing us, giving us little freedom, holding back our true spirits and natures—" He opened his mouth to continue, but cheering had broken out from the edges of the crowd. A fluffy house cat had stood up and was yelling.

"Yes! Yes! The housefolk—I mean, twolegs, are oppressive! They give us dry food! Horrible names! Nobody wants to be named 'Scruffy' or 'Stripes' or 'Whiskers'!" A few other cats yowled in agreement. I was a little alarmed. I had just befriended the Fire sisters, four funny, intelligent she-cats whose names were Ashes, Sparks, Charcoal, and Flicker. They seemed perfectly satisfied with their names, and I even liked mine! I didn't see them, and this 'meeting' was getting a bit out of hand. I turned to Scamper to say something, but he had stood up and yowled along with the others.

"Yeah! They name us horribly! Who wants to be named Scamper? I don't!" he yowled. Other cats joined in with cries of "I don't!" I stared in horror at Scamper.

"What's wrong with your name?" I demanded in an undertone.

"Who wants to be named 'Mocha'? I don't!" yelled someone. What's 'Mocha'?

"'Scamper'? That's an awful name! It sounds so... cowardly!" mewed Scamper, not bothering to keep his voice down.

"What—?!" I began, but there were so many yowling voices that he couldn't hear me. Scamper turned back to the crowd and his voice joined theirs.

"Who wants to eat dry rabbit scat?" demanded someone, and I almost laughed. Almost. "I don't!"

"We don't!"

"Who wants to eat glop? I don't!"

"I don't!"

"Who's going to put up with this? I won't!"

"I won't!"

"No!" yowled Ridge. "We won't put up with this! We deserve better!"

"We deserve better!" the crowd yelled.

"We deserve better names!" yowled Ridge.

"We deserve better!" they chanted.

"We deserve better food!"

"We deserve better! We deserve better!"

"We deserve better homes!" he yelled, and as I searched for a way out, I knew he was about to reach his point—"We deserve the wild!"