Catopolis

There had been too few kills in recent days, and the scent of snow was in the air. One did not have the strength to recover from this blow, and it made little difference. Eyes closed, this one waited for the pain to end. The scent of Death was in the air.

Soft paws padded close. Death came quietly to this one’s side, sleek and silent.

It was time. One was grateful for surcease to come.

“There is a task that needs to be done.”

Not quite what this one expected Death to say. Forcing pain-dulled eyes to focus, one saw a sleek brown tabby sitting close beside.

Golden eyes gleamed in the night. “Do this task, and receive aid.”

“Or die?” One hissed, and then regretted it as the ribs grated, causing more pain.

“Or die.” The other confirmed with a flick of an ear pierced with gold.

That One was not Death. A twitch of whiskers and a breath through one’s open mouth brought the scent of burning sands, bright suns, and the weight of a thousand lives. Her name was not to be spoken lightly. “Lady Guardian, death is not feared.”

“Regardless,” She purred. “The task needs doing.”

One closed one’s eyes. This life or the next, it mattered little. “Lady, I will do it.”

Voices then. Human voices and hands. Lifting this one, with warm cloths that smelled of calm. Pain flared at the movement, but one endured and did not lash out. One caught a glimpse of the Lady, still seated, poised and calm, her tail wrapped around her paws. “Rest,” came her purr.

This one obeyed.

The damp expanse became a warm room with many humans. Things were done to this one that one does not choose to recall. All indignities were suffered patiently. One had a task to fulfill, after all.

Strength returned, but not freedom. One has seen others through windows, who spoke of warm laps and sweet feedings, but one had wondered at the price. One now knew the cost, but it was just as well. There had been many long, empty hunts and cold nights. The cage was metal, but the cloths were clean and warm. Food appeared, waste disappeared. Scratches of the head and neck were frequent, and many kind voices.

Time passed, and the cage opened to allow one to roam within. Thanks were expressed in the traditional ways, with swipes and purrs and nose kisses. One found the price of comfort to be bearable, as one watched the snow fall outside.

Words were used, such as “good kitty” and “gentle soul.” Names were called, for it seems that humans are obsessed with names. One sensed that decisions were being made, but one was untroubled. The Lady held one’s life now, and She would do Her will in Her own time.

One waited, patient.

The time came when one was lifted, collared, and taken to a new place. A warm place that smelled of waiting. One twitched one’s whiskers and peered out of the moving cage, uncertain. There were smells of resignation, sorrow, and illness, and the faintest scent of Death.

A brown-ski

“Bastet.”

This one turned, ears perked, eyes wide, surprised to hear a version of the Lady’s name on the lips of a human. The brown-ski

The humans obeyed their alpha, and called this one by one of Her sacred names in the days that passed. One was uncomfortable at first, and waited to be punished for this audacity. But punishment never came. So this, too, must be part of the Lady’s will.

As She wished.

The patterns of the place were learned quickly and accepted. Humans came and went, tending other humans that lay in large expanses of softness, each in its own room. One wandered the halls, careful of those that traveled in small rolling deaths. They did not smell, but one watched one’s tail closely and took great care nonetheless.

Many feeble hands stroked and scratched, with words of praise. One twined carefully between legs and purred, proud to be a source of consolation. The rhythms of the days were pleasant and unchanging.

One also enjoyed the quiet times in the place of the alpha. The brown-ski

Until one night, when the Death stalked within and claimed a human that lay in softness.

Noise and confusion filled the place. Tears and disarray resulted. Disorder in this one’s ordered world. It was unpleasant. One was not fed on time, and the waste did not disappear. Even the alpha was perturbed.

It took time for the patterns to settle only to have it happen again, and again. Each time, the scent of Death was in the air well before the human was taken. Each time the humans reacted in surprise.

Was it possible that they did not know?

One almost fell off one of the high counters at the very idea. To have no warning? To not scent Death on the air? To fear it? Even prey knows.

This was a jest, a bad one. Such a thing could not-

“They do not know.”

One was not so proud as to believe that She would speak so, within the depths of one’s mind. So this one pulled within oneself and contemplated the humans as they went to and fro. Curled and silent, one watched the rhythms of the place of waiting, the comings and the goings, and the deaths of the ones that lay in softness. Each time, there was the scent within the halls. Each time Death stalked. Each time, the humans were taken by surprise.

They did not know.

Poor creatures. Was not life hard enough?

One hid beneath the alpha’s place of sticks, on the warm box. One contemplated, eyes half closed and paws curled in. One finally concluded that the humans did not scent Death’s approach and therefore could not prepare, could not anticipate. One wondered at their deficiencies.

“Bastet, you okay?”

One blinked to see the alpha leaning down, staring beneath into one’s place of concealment. One was warmed by her concern and emerged with a long stretch and a loud purr, to offer reassurance.

For the Lady is a Guardian, and She had placed one here to serve. Disruption was not to be tolerated. One now knew one’s task and was prepared.

So it was that the next time the scent of Death was on the air, one perched on the corner of the softness, where the human in question lay. One waited, patiently.

In walked one of the humans, with their things, and expressed surprise at this one’s presence.

One howled. Loudly. Not the soft greeting, not the cry of anger, no this was the yowl of attention, the lower note that carried a warning.

“Lord in heaven, what’s wrong?”

“Sophie, what was the noise?” In walked the alpha, as one had hoped.

“I have no idea. I walked in to get Ms. Martin’s temperature, and Bastet howled to wake the dead.”

“Then why isn’t Ms. Martin awake?”

Their attention focused on the human in the softness. It was but a moment before the alpha spoke. “Call the Doctor, Sophie. I think Ms. Martin is starting to slip away from us.”

Satisfied, one jumped down and padded from the room.

In this regard one served for some time, but eventually the mere fact that one was perched on the edge of the softness was enough to let those who also served know that Death stalked. Once in a great while, they fought back. But for the most part, death was welcomed and the warning gratefully received. With time to prepare, all was orderly. There was still sorrow, to be sure. But life is sorrow, even for a human.

So, one served, and served well.