This can be taken as a companion piece to Thaumaturgists, which I keep meaning to update, but it can stand on its own as well. Enjoy!
Props to TSE!! (And Al Dubs, I guess...)
"Take this kitten out of my sight," Macavity gestured to the little tuxedo kitten. "Ensure that he is placed with cats that will care for him. I never want to see him again, is that clear?"
The night was clear, but for one small, little cloud threatening the moon with its wispy tendrils. The air was crisp – not too cold, but not to hot – and permeated with an excitement that only came once a month. The sound of excited whispering filled the clearing as equally attentive eyes scanned it, searching for the leader of the tribe. Perhaps tonight would reveal a new secret the leader was concealing, a new story to tell, a new dance to learn.
For the first time in his life, Bustopher Jones would not be joining the others in this monthly celebration. Tonight he was in no mood to revel in the joy shared by the others, to be admired and fawned over by some of the older queens.
Bustopher had one thing on his mind that night: rice pudding.
It was an unfortunate craving for a cat, seeing how it was hard to get at the best of times. His respectable owners did slip him the slightly burnt end of the mutton, the under-steamed pieces of broccoli, and he would eagerly lap up the carelessly spilled drops of curry, but rice pudding was never at the top of their menus. Even when going out to eat, leaving Bustopher to his vices, rice pudding was never among the leftovers they would tip into his bowl.
Bustopher had taken to wandering the streets that night, following his nose for any trace of his favorite type of pudding.
There had been none at the Tomb, which surprised him very much. Harrumphing with disappointment, Bustopher had left the restaurant in a huff, causing quite a disturbance at the door. There had not been a grain of rice at any of the cafés on the street one over, and Bustopher had not seen a hint of pudding at the fancy Italian place around the corner. It wasn't until he had wandered off his normal beaten path until he came across something that smelled positively heavenly.
Drunk on this intoxicating smell, Bustopher followed it eagerly, his footsteps quick and light. His eyes were watering from the wind that was blowing in his eyes, but he pressed on. It was not until he had padded across the street when he found the source of this smell.
A small, out-of-the-way Thai restaurant had its door ajar, colorful lights and interesting smells wafting out onto the sidewalk. The colorful awning was flapping in the wind which had blown the smell right to Bustopher's nose. A smile curling at his lips and making his whiskers twitch, Bustopher looked through the glass.
As he did so, a foul clap of thunder broke overhead, and he looked up to see that the wispy cloud had passed on, giving way for a thick black blanket threatening to obscure the Moon. Snarling, Bustopher shied towards the glass, completely unwilling to get wet. Throwing caution to the wind, Bustopher entered the restaurant, avoiding legs and feet quite skillfully for a cat of his size.
He settled himself underneath the table of an unoccupied booth, curious eyes peering out from his perch, trying to locate the source of the smell once again. The kitchen was hidden by swinging doors, the occasional waiter or waitress emerging with trays laden with foods Bustopher had never seen before. He trained his eyes to flit back to this door occasionally, checking to see if someone emerged carrying a bowl of rice pudding.
It was as he did a 180-sweep of the room with his eyes that he spotted the delicacy resting on the table across the room and a bit to the right. It was in front of a young man with a mop of untidy brown hair wearing mismatched socks. Although Bustopher did not like the look of the man himself, he quite enjoyed his taste in food. This man was spooning the pudding into his mouth, hungrily, a smile on his face
Licking his lips hungrily, Bustopher made his way across the restaurant, meaning to wait for the man to spill a drop of his pudding onto the floor. Bustopher inhaled deeply, his entire body shuddering as he grew closer. His tail flicked from side to side impatiently as he sat under the table, waiting.
The man was sitting with a woman who had a habit of moving her feet, which meant that Bustopher had to stand and avoid her pointy heels more than he could sit and simply inhale the delicious aroma coming from the man's bowl. After a minute of this continual dodging, it began to irk Bustopher and he had half a mind to get up and settle himself under another table.
Suddenly, the woman's foot swung forward and Bustopher flattened himself as best as he could, his stomach pressing against a tiled floor that he hoped was cleaner than it felt. Looking up to see where the woman's foot had gone, he realized that she had pressed it against the man's ankle. The man jumped, no doubt surprised by the woman's actions, and Bustopher had a great clang from the top of the table. Looking up further, he saw the bowl the man's rice pudding had been in falling to the ground, making a graceful arc and falling just under the side of the table.
Bustopher shot forward, eagerly lapping up the food. It was different from the rice pudding he had had in the past – this kind was made with dark rice and was more sticky than runny – but Bustopher did not mind. Rice pudding was rice pudding in the end, and there was something about this kind that Bustopher really enjoyed.
Suddenly, something fell onto Bustopher's back and pulled away suddenly, as if recoiling from something disgusting. He looked up from his pudding just in time to see the man's hand raising back up to the table. Two heads then looked under the table and Bustopher stared back guiltily.
The woman screamed and jumped up from her seat, pointing at him. The man frowned and stood up as well. The woman's screaming was attracting the attention of the entire restaurant. Bustopher thought she was being rather silly; he was just a cat.
Then he remembered that cats are not supposed to be inside restaurants. His owners could get away with bringing him to their favorite haunts because they were well respected socialites, but at this place he was completely alone and vulnerable.
Forgetting about the rice pudding that lay wasted on the ground, Bustopher shot out from under the table, running for the door as fast as his feet would carry him. Several other people started yelling and one person shouted, "Loot at the fat cat go!"
I resent that, Bustopher thought. Admittedly, he was large, but fat was going a step too far. He was glowering by the time he reached the door and bolted out of the restaurant.
The sidewalk was wet and slippery, and Bustopher nearly lost his balance as he came to a halt outside the restaurant's window. Chest heaving, Bustopher pressed himself into the nook where the building met the pavement, making himself virtually invisible. He listened to the noises from inside, feeling slightly pleased with himself.
Oh, the things I will do for pudding, he grinned to himself. One by one, the diners left the restaurant, each grumbling. When the man and woman whose table he had been under left, Bustopher heard the woman say a few choice words before they walked briskly out of his earshot.
Laughing to himself, Bustopher began his walk home. It had obviously rained while he was inside the restaurant, and the cars passing sprayed water on unfortunate pedestrians. Bustopher remained near the buildings to avoid getting soaked. Apart from the unpleasant thought of getting wet, Bustopher was very much enjoying his walk home.
He had walked about a block when a new smell met his nose. Inhaling deeply, Bustopher realized that rice pudding was being made somewhere else, somewhere closer to home. Feeling his mouth water, he realized that one excursion had not been enough for the night. Following the scent, Bustopher moved without realizing where he was headed.
He was so intent on following that smell that he did not realize that the conveniently placed dog-door led into his own house. He walked through the hallway he knew so well into the kitchen he spent most of his time in still not figuring out that he was at home, and settled himself beside the counter, sniffing.
Bustopher did notice when his owner scooped him up and began speaking to him. At first he squirmed and mewed in protest, thinking he had been caught, but when he smelled her familiar scent, he stopped fighting her grasp and snuggled closer into her embrace. Looking down at the countertop from her arms, Bustopher realized that there was a delicious looking bowl of rice pudding resting on a red pot holder, steaming. His other owner was stirring the concoction, mixing in a spice that made Bustopher's whiskers twitch.
"Ooh, you're getting heavy, Mr. Jones," his owner giggled, setting him down on the floor gently. He padded over to his bowl and nudged it towards her expectantly, looking at her with eyes wide.
"Hungry, are you?" she asked in a sing-songy voice. She picked his bowl up and nudged her husband aside with her hip, spooning some of the rice pudding into Bustopher's bowl. She placed it back in its proper spot and Bustopher wound around her legs affectionately, loose fur clinging on her slacks.
He was making his way back over to his bowl when he heard the small clatter of the dog-door. Confused and annoyed that his owners had not noticed, Bustopher left the pudding and went back to the hallway to see what poor creature had stumbled into the wrong house.
From the kitchen's entryway, Bustopher could tell that the figure was a cat. He felt a swoop of guilt, thinking it may be a fellow Jellicle come to check on him to see why he had not attended that night's meeting. Coming closer, he saw that this cat was a stranger, soaked from head to tail, carrying something in its arms.
"Who are you?" Bustopher's voice was little more than a growl. "What are you doing here?" Though this cat could be anyone, he could not help feeling a twinge of pity for the poor creature, soaked through as it was.
"I come with a message from the Hidden Paw," the cat started, his voice deep and menacing. Bustopher suddenly felt very cold and he took an involuntary step backwards. The Hidden Paw – that meant Macavity. Macavity had no business sending his henchcats into Bustopher's house to bother him. He had done nothing to offend the Napoleon of Crime, so why was this cat here?
"He wishes you to raise this kitten," the henchcat continued, laying down the thing he had been carrying on the floor none too kindly. "It is a nuisance to him and he believes that you are the best suitable caretaker for it."
"Now wait here –" Bustopher began, but the henchcat abruptly leapt through the dog door, leaving the small kitten on the floor in front of Bustopher.
Sighing heavily, Bustopher approached the kitten. He had never been good with kittens, even when he had been one, and was not at all looking forward to the prospect of taking care of a kitten until he could pass the little one off to another cat, Jennyanydots maybe. He was more annoyed at the henchcat for leaving another cat here than he was afraid of Macavity's intentions.
It was with a shock that Bustopher realized that this small kitten looked almost exactly like him. The small thing had a white tuxedo-like chest and a small white tip on its tail. Its feet and one arm had white socks, something Bustopher realized was also similar to himself. When the little thing squirmed and ended up lying on its back, Bustopher realized that it was a tom.
"Hello there, little fellow," he said kindly, taking the kitten into his arms. The little tom shrank into Bustopher's chest, tiny hands grasping at his fur. His eyes were shut and his mouth was open, quiet, squeaky meows coming from it.
"What do I do with him?" Bustopher wondered aloud, but at that moment his owner called, "Mr. Jones, where did you go? Your pudding will get cold!"
So, dragging his feet and taking the little kitten with him, Bustopher entered the kitchen again. He did not want to take care of this kitten; he hoped his owners would give it to another household that wanted a pet.
"What've you got there?" his owner asked, bending down so as to get a better look. "Linda, come here!" The woman joined the man, and the two gently pried the kitten from Bustopher.
"He's so tiny," his owner said, stroking the kitten's fur gently. "He can't be more than a week old."
"How did you find him, Mr. Jones?" his owner's wife bent down to pet Bustopher. "They two look exactly alike; do you think Jonsie is a father?" Bustopher felt his fur prickle in indignation. He, a father! It was enough to make him laugh.
However, this comment made him wonder who this kitten's father really was. Who was the mother? Bustopher began racking his brain, trying to remember anything that might help. The only other cat with markings similar to his was his niece, Celesta.
It was with a shiver that Bustopher remembered that his niece had been found and captured by Macavity before the previous Ball. Could it be possible that she had given birth to a litter of kittens, that the Hidden Paw was the father?
His heart heavy with remorse and sorrow, Bustopher found it hard to believe that mere minutes before he had been a carefree tom whose greatest problem was finding rice pudding and getting stepped on in a restaurant. That minutes ago he had not been an adoptive father.
His owners seemed quite taken with the small kitten. Bustopher knew them well enough to understand that they already planned to keep the kitten, before they themselves probably knew. He dejectedly padded over to his bowl of rice pudding, figuring his owners would take care of the small kitten.
Eating slowly and steadily, Bustopher forced himself to focus on the thick, sugary pudding he was eating, to savor each tingling feeling of his tongue as he swallowed. He buried his face in the concoction, practically inhaling it.
The feel of a small body against his own stopped Bustopher's meal. His owners had placed the kitten next to him, and the tom was snuggling closer to him, paws searching Bustopher no doubt for milk. This made Bustopher feel embarrassed. He lowered his sticky face and nudged the kitten softly, a particle of rice sticking to the kitten's face as he did so.
The kitten's tiny hand fastened around the rice and he put it in his mouth, sucking at it. Bustopher could tell the kitten was confused and hungry, and he pitied the poor thing. Sighing dejectedly again, Bustopher laid down on the floor, pulling the kitten closer. Dipping one of his fingers into the rice pudding, he shifted the kitten into the crook of his arm and offered the dripping finger to him. The kitten's hands fastened eagerly on Bustopher's hand, pulling it closer, and he began sucking at the sugary liquid.
"I sure hope you like pudding," Bustopher told the kitten.
I'm sure everyone has noticed by now the way Quaxo licks his lips during Bustopher Jones's song when he mentions rice pudding, right? Ever wonder why? I guess I was paying too much attention to the background again, and I wanted to write about Bustopher Jones. Seeing how I believe BJ is Quaxo's uncle, this was a pretty appropriate result, no?