Chapter One:

England: perhaps the most boring place on Earth- for a cat, that is. Either you’re stuck in a house far too small for your liking, with a few blades of grass outside for you to roll about in (and in my case, no catmint!), surrounded by other houses that look practically identical to the one you live in, or you’re stuck in a large house far too big for your liking, in the middle of nowhere, with no females to mate with for miles around. If I had had the choice, I would probably have chosen the latter, but of course, my people wouldn’t dream of giving me that kind of freedom.

I sit on the windowsill of my people’s house, staring longingly out into the rain. It patters on the glass; I lick my lips, desperately trying to lap up the water droplets that slide down the window. I would give anything to taste fresh water again, instead of that stagnant smelling stuff they put in my water bowl. It’s only been two days since they took me in and I’m already bored to hell!

I sigh, and jump down from the ledge- that I was so precariously balanced on a few seconds earlier- and onto the living room floor. Since I am still new to this household, I don’t know where everything is yet, but I have, however, located the armchair. I leap up onto the chair and settle down, where immediately, I begin to purr. As Man has so inaccurately presumed, this does not mean I am content- who could be in a place like this- it simply means I am inoffensive. Perhaps they should take note of this before trying to touch me; if they did, they would know that when I’m not purring I’m more likely to scratch them.

I curl up into a ball and relax. My tail thuds on the leather arm. Almost self-consciously, I begin to wash, not only because it’s cold and washing helps to insulate my fur but also because I find it brings back fond memories… of my mother.

Instantly, the thought of her washes over me: the feel of her soft tongue as it rasped over my back; the sound of her soft meow as I suckled at her breast, but most of all, her stories. Oh yes, her stories! How could I ever forget them? She used to tell me and my littermates great tales of the felidae family’s past; about how the cat had started off in the land of Egypt, where all the men and women around them fell in love with their beauty. Her stories told of how our ancestors became gods to the pharaohs and citizens of the ancient land because of their ability to hunt and kill pests. All cats had originated there, and all cats had been born from the one breed that inhabited that land- The Egyptian Mau. As the cat spread across the world, other ancient breeds began to proliferate. The Abyssinian, the Turkish Van, the Russian Blue, but one breed in particular was also noticed… the Siamese cat. They were known to be as beautiful as the Angora, as distinctive as the Abyssinian, and as elegant as the Blue. They had but one problem. They were more arrogant than all of the ancient breeds put together. They were obsessed with idea of keeping their Thai blood line “pure”. Any cat whose tail was not quite so straight, and whose eyes were not quite so lustrous, was cast off and banished from the Siamese kingdom. But one cat believed different. She mated with a common, black, domesticated cat as a sign of rebellion, and for this act the toms of the Siamese ruthlessly murdered her. But not before she had managed to give birth to her son, and sent him away with a group of ship cats sailing to Britain. This tom, however, was not a Siamese. Nor was he a common black cat. He was somewhere in the middle. The kitten had dark brown fur and amber eyes like the rising sun… and so, from this cat, a new breed was born: it was named the Havana Brown. 

I yawn, remembering the tale with a smile. I have always like the fact that my own pelt and eyes fit the description of the original Havana Brown cat, and that my mother looks somewhat like a Siamese.

Suddenly, there was a loud, cooing noise, and I leapt up, startled. Instinctively, I unsheathed my claws and my hackles rose- only to realise it was just my people’s kitten.

She cries out in joy and runs over to me, hands out-stretched- unfortunately, by the time I realise what she is intending to do, it is far too late. The kit scoops me up in her arms, squealing with joy, and despite my desperate meows of protest, begins to stroke me. Knowing there is no way that she’s going to let me go any time soon, I slump useless and submit to her. My eyes contract down to slits as she presses her face against my muzzle, but I bear it, but as soon as she draws away I shake my head vigorously and spit at her. This did anything but make her stop… and after a few more seconds it no longer. Snarling in frustration, I leap out of her reach and pad out of the living room, with my head held high. I ignore her disappointed calls, and as I move into the kitchen, I find the cat flap that I found my people had installed before they bought me; my ears twitch in anticipation. I imagine the feel of grass beneath my paws once more and in my excitement, I almost hit my head against the flap as I shoot like a blur into the yard. It’s still raining, but this doesn’t alter my positive mood at all. Usually, a cat would try to avoid getting wet, (having ones fur soaked is never luxurious) but I’m so overjoyed with the prospect of being outside that I hardly notice. My whiskers and ears twitch and I jump up and down like a kitten, as all the wonderful scents of the outside world waft into my nostrils-

‘Well hello there!’ A male voice echoes. ‘New to the neighbourhood, are we?’

I spin around. ‘Who’s there?’

I look around the garden, and though I can detect the scent of cat, I can’t see anyone.

When all I hear as an answer is an amused chuckle, my voice becomes hostile. ‘Answer me!’

‘Now now!’ The voice says. ‘No need to get your tail in a knot: I’m up here!’

I narrow my eyes and crane my head upwards to see a tomcat sitting on the wall that separates my garden from the one opposite. He is an elderly cat, clad in blue gray fur that seems surprisingly firm and stiff to the touch for a feline; his eyes are a deep shade of orange, which from a distance, almost seem crimson. I find myself instantly disliking him: perhaps it is something in the way he sits nonchalantly upon the wall, as if he believes the whole world revolves around him.

Annoyed at the way he caught me acting like a kitten, I sit down on my haunches and stare up at him crossly. Thunder cracks the sky above. ‘Who are you?’ I snap.

‘I’m not sure that’s of importance at the moment,’ the tomcat says. He begins to comb his whiskers.

‘Then what is of importance at the moment?’ I retort, through the gritted teeth.

He grins at me. ‘What breed you are.’

I tilt my head to one side, puzzled as to what he means. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Your owners and my owners are quite the cat enthusiasts, you know,’ he explains. ‘They only ever buy a cat if they think if it’s of some kind of exotic breed.’ He stops for a few seconds. ‘So,’ he continues, ‘what breed do they believe that you are?’

I eye him warily. ‘Are you sure you’re talking about the right people?’ Somehow, I couldn’t really imagine my owners as cat enthusiasts.

The tomcat frowns. ‘Is your person a tall man with glasses?’

‘No.’

‘Then you’re right. I’m not talking about the right people.’

My tail begins to thud on the ground angrily. ‘Look here, you git,’ I hiss. ‘Did you just start this conversation to annoy me or something?’

At that moment, however, I didn’t seem to be captivating the old cat’s attention. He seemed to be thinking about something else.

‘I’m sure that your owner is the cat enthusiast,’ he said, with a faraway look in his eye. ‘I’m sure of it… oh wait, did he move house?’

I roll my eyes. The rain is just getting heavier, and I’m just about to leave the tom when suddenly I hear another voice.

‘Hey Lestat!’ The voice says. A female cat jumps up onto the wall beside the elderly tom. She has a thick pelt of long and silky fur: with tinges of white, brown and grey with short black stripes running down her flank. Her eyes were emerald, like that of the leaves upon a tree. ‘Whom are you talking to?’

The tom that the female had called Lestat turns around and looks at her. ‘Oh, just a young cat who just moved in.’

She looks down from her vantage point upon the wall; when her eyes meet my own, her ears prick. She smiles and calls down cheerily. ‘Hey there!’

I’m almost taken by surprise at how friendly she. ‘Hi,’ I reply.

‘Don’t worry about Lestat here,’ she says. ‘He’s getting a bit-‘ she glances back at him for a second, and then says the next word slightly quieter, ‘old.’

‘Clearly.’ I mutter under my breath.

I brace myself and then leap up onto the wall so that I’m sitting beside the female. She still smells stray and wild, and there is only a faint smell of human on her pelt, meaning that she, like me, is a new arrival in the town.

Lestat, however, ranks of people. He no longer smells stray and wild, like she does… I realise why. He’s been neutered. I shudder. It hadn’t happened to me yet, and all I hoped was that when it did, it happened quickly.

To take my idea of the subject, I turn back to the female. ‘Do you live with him?’ I gesture towards the tom.

She opens her mouth to reply, but Lestat cuts in. ‘She’s only been here for about three days or so, like you, I presume?’

I nod. ‘Two days.’

She glares at Lestat disapprovingly, as if his interruptions happened often, before turning back to me. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Heath.’ I say. ‘And you are?’

‘Kerria.’ She states. ‘I’m a Turkish Angora.’

I stare at her. ‘Turkish what?’

‘A Turkish Angora!’ She exclaims. ‘It’s a breed of cat- like Lestat. He’s a British Shorthair.’

I shuffle my paws awkwardly. I found myself more aware that my coat, a ruddy brown colour, and at the moment soaked by the rain pouring above, looks slightly pathetic in comparison to Kerria’s. ‘I’ve heard of the Turkish Van…’

She sighed and shook her head. ‘Not many cats have heard of the Turkish Angora these days. But, since we’re more rare than the Turkish Van, I like to think we’re more impressive.’

I eye her warily. The cat I see before me is clearly proud of her heritage; I’ve never particularly liked cats like that. They tend to be arrogant, and they usually look down on normal tabbies and other cats. An example of this is Lestat. He clearly thinks that, because he is of a pedigree breed, that the world belongs to him. The smirk on his face only proves my point. I can’t help but like Kerria though- so far, I’ve been given no reason to dislike her.

It is only when I feel Kerria’s tail touch my face that I am awoken from my daydream. She is staring at me expectantly. ‘Um, sorry?’ I say, sheepishly.

She rolls her eyes impatiently. ‘I said, are you of a breed?’

I snort. ‘Only if you count common brown domesticated cat as a breed.’

Kerria throws her head back in laughter. I feel myself smiling as well: even though I’m exactly not sure why what I said was so funny.

I shiver unceremoniously. Now, a strong wind is blowing along with the rain; it is turning into a storm. I turn back to Kerria. ‘Sorry, but I should really be getting back-‘

‘Yes.’ Lestat speaks for the first time in awhile. ‘Me and Kerria should be getting back too.’ He turns tail on me and jumps down from the wall, his tail held high in the air. Kerria sends me an apologetic look before following the tom back towards her house.

I frown slightly, wondering what made him so eager to end the conversation, but as I jump off the wall and back into my garden, I hear him say something along the lines of, ‘You know we shouldn’t be talking to dirty normal cats like him. I only started that conversation because I thought he might have belonged to the last owner of that house.’