Amidala speaking. Munchkin wrote a story last week, so this week is my turn. I don’t understand why MaMA’s late cat, Katya, refused to write MaMA’s Caturday StoryADayMay stories; it’s fun! I’m following in the footsteps of aristocrats of the past and writing a fairy tale.
The Ninth Life
by Amidala Allen
When he was a kitten, he pushed his brothers and sisters aside and took as much milk as he could hold. By this, he grew to be twice their size, and continued to take the greater share of whatever food was on offer. When he tried to help himself from the bowl of Tiger, the neighbor’s dog, the other cats were pleased to be rid of him.
“Oh, well,” said Johnny. “One life down. There’s plenty more where that came from.”
In his second life, he lived in the alleys and on the rooftops. He retained his large size, and reveled in picking fights, leaving his mark on the ears, noses, and rumps of strays and housecats alike. Tuxie of Apartment F was one too many for him, though, and he turned tail and ran – off the roof and into another life.
“I’ve still plenty,” said Johnny.
His third and fourth lives went very quickly when he robbed a bird’s nest that overhung a river and discovered, on his way down to the turbulent stream, that he was allergic to bee stings.
“Time for some caution,” Johnny admitted.
For his fifth life, a mature Johnny settled down in a feral community looked after by a generous woman. He made himself king of the clowder, bullied the toms and queens and kittens, and wouldn’t let anyone else eat until he’d taken the best and the most. When feline leukemia took him, the woman mourned but was thankful he was the only one she lost.
“This is getting serious,” said Johnny.
His sixth life was a good, long one. He lived in a barn, feasting on mice, rats, rabbits, and other toms’ kittens. He was still strong in his old age, though a lack of dental hygiene cost him most of his teeth. One day, he got too close to the rear end of the milk cow, and that was life number six, gone.
[Rasheed Hooda told MaMA that I left out two of Johnny’s lives, so I went back to the laptop and added the words in blue.]
Thinking the suburbs might be safer, he skulked through back yards and undeveloped lots, preying on baby rabbits. One day, he had a disagreement with a snake over whose rabbit was whose, and there went life number seven.
“I’ll have to watch my step,” said Johnny.
His eighth life was as a cafe cat, beloved of the patrons of Gino’s Pastaria. Alas, he did not watch his step; in chasing a runaway meatball, he stepped out into traffic, and that was the end of life eight.
He woke between lives, with The Blue Fairy gazing sternly at him.
“This is your last life, Johnny Macadoo,” she said. “Considering what you’ve made of the last eight, I wonder you want to bother with another one.”
“I do, though,” he said. “I want my last one. I want it to be peaceful and serene, uneventful and calm.”
“After all the grief you’ve spread, do you really think you deserve it?”
“Oh, yes,” said Johnny. “I do.”
“Well,” said The Blue Fairy, “maybe you do. So be it.”
In his old age, Johnny went to live with a dear little old lady who doted on him. She took him to the doctor every time he sneezed, kept him in the best possible health, and fed him a balanced diet of food from her own table based on recipes she got from the internet.
And she was vegetarian.
The Blue Fairy was nothing if not fair.
A WRITING PROMPT FOR ANIMALS: If you could choose how to spend your nine lives, how might you choose to spend each one?