The Cats of Vicar Jones

An outlying suburb of London, 1928 - or thereabouts

The Reverend Edward T.S. Jones, Vicar of -on-the-Serpentine Church, owned three cats. Owned, that is, as much as any man could possibly own three cats who spent their days in the garden, coming indoors for their meals, and catching the occasional vole or mouse.

The first cat, and possibly the Vicar's favorite, was Deuteronomy. Grey, long-haired, mostly Persian by blood, thought it was impossible to tell who his father had been. The Vicar had never paid money to own a purebred cat, and Deuteronomy's Persian mother, Leviticus, had been a gift from the retiring Vicar Tulley who came before him.

The old cat had been a part of the Vicar's household for so many years that most of the parishioners could not recall a time when the fat, long-haired cat had not lounged in the garden, immovable and silent, except for the occasional glint of a half-opened yellow eye that winked and shut again, or the thick gray paw that flexed, the one white toe that stood out in the sunlight, or – more dramatically – the unexpected body stretch and cavernous yawn, followed by a lazy flick of the gray plume of a tail when he sat in the sun on the Vicarage wall.

Deuteronomy, in his youth, had spent his nights roaming the neighborhood in search of mice and queens. Many queens. He had won the rights in many battle with other toms, and now he was the oldest cats along the Serpentine, having outlived almost all his rivals and fathered more kittens than any of them. He was past that now, and spent his nights indoors, curled up before the hearth on cold nights, or sleeping in a vast ball of fur at the feet of the Vicar and Mrs. Jones, purring with contentment, dreaming of the days of his youth, and of the one night each Autumn when he would stand at the door and meow to be let out, and rub against Mrs. Jones' ankles, purring, until she would smile and say, "What do you want outside for, silly old Puss?" And she would give in to him and open the door, leaving the kitchen window open for his eventual return.

The kitchen window always remained open for the cats. This included the Tugger.

"Rum-Tum" Tugger belonged to violet Jones, the Vicar's daughter. His hair was not so long as Deuteronomy's, though he had a brownish-orange plume of a tail and a ruff of mane-like hair about his neck. He was tabby-striped, too, and that came from his mother. In fact, he was that rarest of cats, male calico. Deuteronomy was most likely his father, though no one knew that for certain – except possibly the Tugger's mother, but she was no longer around to tell the story. Motorcars were the bane of far too many cats. Not that it bothered the Tugger; probably not Deuteronomy either. Like his father before him, the Tugger spent his days going in and out of the house, seemingly unable to make up his mind which side of the door he wished to be on, taking his time to slowly pad up the sidewalk while Violet held the door impatiently for him. And like his father, the Tugger would reach the door, squint up at Violet with his yellow eyes, and gaze at her as if wondering why she was standing in her path. Then, sooner than she would close the door than he'd turn around and meow loudly until Violet opened the door in exasperation and cry, "Make up your mind, you horrid cat!" Then he would be off for a night under the stars in pursuit of mice and queens – and there were many of both – and on mad, excited jaunts to the fish market along the Serpentine – giving rise to the conviction that he must have been a "finicky eater" at home.

And yet for all his contrary ways, on those rare occasions when the Tugger did not ask to be let out after dark, Violet would find him curled up in her bureau drawer among the socks – a sleeping, purring ball of stripes and patches. She would scoop him up in her arms to tuck him under the blankets, and there the cat would curl behind her knees, and he would purr. And if he didn't crawl out again, he would sleep.

There was a third cat in the Vicarage. Violet had named this one, too, although he was Mrs. Jones' own favorite kitty. She called him Mr. Mistoffelees since it was the closest she could come to the name of the black-clad demon she saw in the Faust play. Of course he was hardly a demon. He was a tiny black kitten, much smaller and quieter than the other two cats, staying mostly in the garden, playing with yarn balls and padding softly on little white paws to leap into Mrs. Jones' lap or to rub amiably against the other two cats, sharing licks and purrs and cat-cuddles. He got along uncommonly well with the Tugger, who let him share his bowl. He got on well even more so with old Deuteronomy, who would lick the kitten affectionately, tucking it under his big gray paws as if it was his own kitten.

"He's such a sweet little kitty," Mrs. Jones would smile as she hugged the soft, silky ball of black fur. She never failed to be surprised and delighted by him. He would seem to disappear even when he was in plain view, he was so dark and quiet. Then a shadow would stir, and a pair of gold eyes blink out of the darkness, and she that the "magical" Mistoffeles was there after all. Even to stroke his fur was to invite magical, invisible sparks of electricity that made her withdraw quickly, and the cat would jump from her lap with a cry, and it made her laugh.

Magical Mistoffeles loved to eat, and he put on weight, possibly more than a kitten of seven or eight months should have.. "Why, whatever is the matter with you, little puss?" Mrs. Jones clucked sadly, shaking her head. But the little cat begged all the louder and more urgently for food, and no one in the family had the heart to refuse him.

Then the day came when Mistoffeles vanished into a closet, and an hour later, what looked like a black spider crawled across the wooden floor, dragging a placenta behind it. Then there was a second and a third and after a pause, a fourth. The last three were not black, but one was an orange tabby, one was a calico, and the seventh was – God help us – gray with hints of a long-haired tail and a ruff.

"A magical cat, indeed!" Vicar Jones found himself laughing heartily. "He's...she's...a mother!"

And so she was. Magical Mistoffeles added to her new feats and accomplishments both Motherhood, and a sudden change of gender identity. But then, sometimes humans are not very clever at determining such things with young cats, and did not always waste much time checking to see what kind of cat they actually had.

And then the moon turned full on a crisp autumn evening, and the brittle brown leaves fluttered along the ground. Even Mistoffeles slipped off after dusk with the Tugger , making their way through the shadows to the designated secret place that all the neighborhood cats knew to come to, as they had for their whole lives. For they were the "angellical" cats as Violet might have said, and it was a 'jellicle might with a 'jellicle moon, and old Deuteronomy, the patriarch of the Serpentine, would preside over them as they brought their kittens to be blessed, and their old to be given hope, and their young and virile to celebrate the sheer joy and freedom of just being cats.

Vivat!

This simply one of my impressions of a few of the animals featured in Andrew Lloyd-Weber's operetta "Cats".

… Daisy Brambletoes, CWD