At the cat show there were cats such as you would never see in any ordinary kitchen — cats on velvet cushions who looked far too grand ever to have curled beneath a warm stove. Their fur was silk-soft and combed to perfection. They wore bright ribbons. Their cushions matched. They drank real cream.
Two of them were talking. One was named Royalty; the other, Nobility.
“What do you think of the show?” asked Royalty.
“Much the same as the others,” said Nobility, with a yawn.
A passing admirer stopped. “Did you see that cat snarl?” she said to her companion. “Such breeding.”
“That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard,” said Royalty, when the woman had moved on. “As if snarling were an accomplishment. I’m cross because of the fuss they make over me — all this petting and exclaiming — while my sisters and brothers are left to starve in the city every summer when these same people shut up their houses and go to the country.”
Nobility’s back rose in surprise. “Surely you don’t have sisters and brothers in kitchens.”
“I have sisters and brothers in alleys,” said Royalty. “And I am proud of it. Where do you suppose our family came from originally? Egypt? Malta? Wherever they claim. But my family — your family — came from the back streets, hunting for scraps. Somewhere along the way we got ambitious, and we became kitchen cats, and we got milk and decent meals.”
“And how did you end up here?”
“My little master wanted to buy a bicycle. He fed me up, tied a ribbon around my neck, and entered me in a small show on a guess. I won. I’ve been winning ever since. I’ve made a great deal of money for various people.” Royalty settled back on the velvet cushion. “None of which means anything to me. All I want — if only I could speak so the people here could understand — is to ask them: remember my sisters and brothers when summer comes. Don’t leave them behind.”
