Chapter Three: Bartholomew

He didn't deserve to die. Imagine the perfect combination of cunning sycophancy and true friendship, and that was Bartholomew. When one of Ratigan's harangues had concluded with the rat's claws swiping my nose and the pads of my paws, Bartholomew had put his skills to use.

"Boss," he began, "I greatly admire the way you showed that worthless cat who is truly the great criminal mastermind!"

Ratigan lit a cigarette. "Yes! That was clever of me, wasn't it?"

"I wish I could have helped!" Bartholomew added. "Rubbed salt in the wounds, so to speak! But I understand that I am unworthy."

"Salt in the wounds?" Ratigan asked. "Why, Bartholomew! That would be just the thing! I knew there was a reason I chose you as one of my favorites! Out of all who work for me, you truly are my best henchman! Go rub salt in the scratches I gave Felicia, and enjoy yourself! You deserve to have fun, my dear friend!"

"Thank you, boss!"

Bartholomew walked over to me and whispered, "Something to ease your discomfort, Felicia. Stay still, but yowl pathetically like I am administering salt. It's only to fool Ratigan. It won't really hurt you."

I did my best to sound like I was in torment while he gently applied something that assuaged my pain.

"There now. Do you feel a little better?" he whispered. "We victims of Ratigan have to look out for each other."

I softly purred, causing him to smile.

Loud enough for Ratigan to hear, Bartholomew exclaimed, "This is what you deserve for upsetting the boss!" He winked at me.

I winked back to show I understood.

Ratigan came over to me. "Oh, dearest one, I hate it when I have to punish you! It causes my heart great torment and deprives me of sleep for many nights!"

I struggled to suppress my anger at his lies.

"I love you, my dearest, sweet darling!" He attempted to embrace me, but I was too tall. "My precious pet! My princess! My baby! My little honey bun!"

This from someone who only moments ago had shredded me with his claws and was willing to have the injuries salted!

The next day, Bartholomew spoke words of comfort to me. "I know you tremble in fear of the criminal mastermind. It's not anything to be ashamed of. We're all scared of him." He held out a bow. "May I put this in your hair?"

I held out a paw. He climbed on, and I slowly raised him to my head. While he worked, Bartholomew explained that he had no brothers, so since he was the youngest child in his family, his many sisters had forced him to learn the skill of a hairdresser. The other boys in the neighborhood had teased him mercilessly.

"I hated my sisters for it," he concluded, "but now I'd give anything for the chance to style their hair again. You see, Ratigan killed my family so he could seize our vast fortune. He left me alive so I could serve him. I never wanted to be a criminal, but agreeing to this lifestyle was the only way Ratigan would let me live."

The anger in Bartholomew's voice startled me, for he was usually so soft spoken. "Mark my words! He isn't half the gentleman he pretends to be! He's nothing but a murderous sewer rat!"

His tone softened again. "But one day I'll escape, and I'll have a good life with a respectable career and my own wife and children."

When I answered him, I noticed that my mews were starting to sound more like meows. I still gave no indication that I could speak the same way they could.

"You must learn to ignore Ratigan," Bartholomew continued. "You can't take his lies to heart. When he belittles you, he only proves his inner blindness. He can't see how amazing you really are, and he's trying to make sure you can't see it either. You must never believe him, Felicia."

Having finished his work, he instructed me to look at my reflection. I caught sight of myself in one of the many jewels that Ratigan used to decorate his lair. I looked even better with the bow.

"See? You're pretty," Bartholomew stated. "What are you doing working for the world's greatest criminal rat? You have a gentle spirit, a sharp mind, and good looks. You'd make an excellent companion for a human who would give you the proper care you deserve."

Unused to being complimented, I purred. Ratigan happened to walk by at just that moment.

"Bartholomew!" he gasped. "How did you get her to purr? She never purrs for me!"

"I just showed her who's boss!" Bartholomew replied.

Perhaps it was because he missed his own sisters, but for whatever reason, Bartholomew became like a brother to me. We were both trapped as victims of Ratigan's pugnacious truculence. Neither of us had chosen this lifestyle. Once when Ratigan was punishing me by withholding food, Bartholomew managed to sneak me a few sardines. It wasn't enough to ease my hunger pangs, but his kindness touched my heart. I knew other cats would laugh at me if they knew I was friends with a mouse, but I didn't care.

One day, Bartholomew had news. "Mr. Ratigan" had officially become "Professor Ratigan." Ratigan was proud of himself and had a celebration planned in his own honor. As a surprise to please his boss, Bartholomew had suggested that all the thugs perform a song.

Professor Ratigan poured himself a glass of his finest champagne and began singing his favorite song. It was to the tune of the song the other crooks used to taunt him with, but instead of describing failures, he sang as if all his crimes had been successful, even though very few ever had been.

After singing proudly at the top of his lungs, he concluded with the often heard lyrics: "My earlier crimes were fine for their times, but now that I'm at it again, and even grimmer plot has been simmering in my great criminal brain!"

He thought that was the end of the song, but the other criminals began singing on cue:

Even meaner? You mean it?

Worse than the widows and orphans you drowned?

You're the best of the worst around

Oh, Ratigan! Oh, Ratigan!

The rest fall behind

To Ratigan! To Ratigan!

The world's greatest criminal mind!

Oh, Ratigan! Oh, Ratigan!

You're tops, and that's that!

To Ratigan! To Ratigan!

To Ratigan we all tip our hats!

Ratigan smiled. "For me? I'm deeply moved! Thank you!"

When he learned Bartholomew had thought of the lyrics and the tune, the rat insisted on sharing his champagne with my friend.

"I'm flattered, boss, but I don't drink," Bartholomew explained.

Ratigan gasped. "What do you mean you don't drink? Everybody loves champagne!"

"I'm sure it's wonderful, but I've never…"

"Drink it." Ratigan handed him a glass. "I insist."

The professor's tone was friendly, but his eyes warned against argument.

That was the night Bartholomew died. Almost everyone thinks his death was yesterday, on the 21st of June in the year 1897, but the champagne flavored mouse I ate was not Bartholomew. My "tasty treat" was merely a shadow of who Bartholomew used to be, just as I am a mere shadow of the happy kitten I used to be.

Ratigan taught Bartholomew to enjoy drinking, just as he had taught me to like the taste of dead mice. Soon my former friend couldn't get enough champagne. His clever mind dulled, and his kind heart cared for nothing but liquor. The alcohol took control of his life and destroyed him in more ways than one. The mouse who was executed for insulting Ratigan in a drunken stupor was not the same one who first put a bow in my hair, but I still don't blame him. He was just Ratigan's victim, as I was, and he didn't deserve to die.