The Scrapheap Challenge

Dribbler was dozing in the shed.

It was cool and dark, save for the muted sunlight seeping through the cobwebbed windows, the only movement the occasional lazy flick of a striped tail.

The shed was home to a collection of aged furniture: Tallboys and lowboys, tables and chairs, armchairs and divans and settles. The variously striped or patterned upholstery was bloated and sagging; the ancient, wooden structures beneath were pock-marked and eaten away by worms. An old bedstead stood on end, its springs rusted, its quilted headboard seething with microscopic life. Mildewed mattresses vied with rolls of decomposing carpet, and all sent up clouds of dust at the slightest provocation. Even the swish of a tail could create a dust-haze that lasted for days.

A cat could get a decent nap in such a place. A cat could sleep uninterrupted for hours at a stretch, curled up on a pile of old curtains, or on top of a cupboard, the only sounds being the tap-tap-tap of branches against the roof and the occasional scritch-scratching of mice.

On rainy days, one could come in out of the rain, fur streaming, and dry off at one's leisure. One could emerge, reeking, several hours later, the combination of rainwater and the natural oils in one's fur having done their work. It was a grand life if you didn't weaken.

Dribbler had found a particularly smelly patch of old axminster on which to lay. It was a muddy brown in colour, with a busy, swirly pattern on which a cat with the right markings could lose himself. Undetectable to outside eyes, Dribbler lay deep in the land of Mog, one paw draped over his eyes, the other jerking spasmodically. Every so often, his whiskers would twitch as another dream rabbit crossed his path, and his dream self prepared to give chase. Funnily enough, his dream self always remained rooted to the spot and the dream rabbit always got away. It was as if some malicious dream imp who didn't like cats had glued the soles of his feet to the floor.

Twenty two rabbits later, he opened his eyes, yawned, stood up, turned round one and three quarters, and settled himself into a more comfortable position. One rabbit, two rabbit, three rabbit, four….where was i?…. two rabbit, three rabbit, one rabbit...

Just as the next rabbit hove into view, Dribbler woke with a start. For a moment he did not know what had woken him. But then it came again - a distant ululating. Dribbler jumped down from his perch and trotted outside.

There was a junkyard that backed onto the shed, and it was here that the Straggly Tabby, a.k.a. the Straggler had taken a stand. He was stood on a pile of breeze-blocks, and was engaged in what is commonly termed "shouting the odds" before an indifferent audience of broken bicycles and empty beer bottles. A gangly, rangy looking animal, with ragged stripes, he was too wild to belong to anyone and, consequently, his dangly bits remained intact.

It was the dangly bits that generally caused Dribbler the most angst. He was jealous and he didn't know why. And his jealousy fuelled his righteous anger. How dare the Straggler stand there speechifying?

"Excuse me?" said Dribbler, with all the politeness he could muster. He was a very well-bred cat.

The Straggler's head whirled round. "Yesssss?"

"I wonder if you'd mind keeping the noise down?" said Dribbler. "Some of us are trying to sleep, you know."

"I 'aven't finished!" spat the Straggler, his stripes beginning to undulate and shift.

"There's no need to adopt that tone, old chap. It's just that these gardens and the shed and whatnot belong to me. I was asleep back there, and you woke me up with your blessed shouting. Have a care, there's a good chap."

"You ent in charge!" hissed the Straggler.

Dribbler pointed out that, on the contrary, he was very much in charge.

The Straggler showed his teeth and yowled out a long manifesto. From now on, he was going to be in charge. He was going to patrol the borders every hour, on the hour. He was going to appoint a panel of overseers. He was going to keep the garden and its environs free of trespassers. He was going to introduce corporal punishment. He was going to introduce capital punishment. He was going to -

Dribbler stifled a yawn.

It was all propaganda, of course. Nothing would ever come of it. The Straggler simply wanted his chance. And already he had his eye firmly fixed on the seat of Government, the sheds of Parliament.

Dribbler thought for a moment.

"Let us put it to the vote", he said, rubbing his nose. "Rocks or leaves?"

"Bzuh?" said the Straggler, giving Dribbler a suspicious look.

Dribbler had a quick rummage through his fur, found something unidentifiable and ate it. "Rocks or leaves. You must choose."

"Bzuh?" said the Straggler.

"I will explain everything", said Dribbler. "But first, you must choose. Which is it to be?"

"Rocksssss", replied the Straggler.

"Very well", said Dribbler, licking a paw. "It is decided. Let all who come here lay down either a stone for you, or a leaf for me.

Tomorrow, before breakfast, we shall count the leaves; we shall tot up the number of stones. Whoever has the most stones, or the most leaves, wins. Nnnngow?"

"Ssssssay it again."

Dribbler cleared his throat. "Ahem. A stone is a vote for you; a leaf is a vote for me. Agreed?"

The Straggler grinned. Privately, he thought that Dribbler was behaving like a pompous ass. But he could not deny that it seemed a democratic way of going about things. And he was going to win. He was sure of it.

"Well, goodnight." said Dribbler. He wondered if he should perhaps spend the night in the shed amongst the cobwebs and disintegrating carpets. He did not quite trust the Straggler not to cheat. Then again, he reasoned, the shed was awfully drafty at night., and he needed his sleep. No. He would trust to the democratic process.

That night, as Dribbler lay dreaming of bottomless bowls and the everlasting rabbits, the Straggler made numerous trips to the junkyard. In his mouth, he carried stones and pebbles of various sizes. On his trips back, he carried mouthfuls of damp leaves.

When he ran out of stones, he visited the neighbouring gardens, and brought stones back from there. He even tried levering one or two out of the fishpond, but stopped when his paws got wet. Then, he found a large stone as big as his own bony head, and rolled it forwards with his nose. Pleased with himself, he lined it up with the others. The big stone would count for ten smaller stones, at least. Practically a whole feline constituency!

By the time the last desultory stars were fading from the sky, he had an impressive pile of stones, and there were no leaves to be seen anywhere.

And still, Dribbler slept on.

Next, the Straggler visited the shed. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have ventured inside, but things were changing. In a few hours, the usurper would be cast out on his ear and the rightful owner would sally forth. It was only right that he should get a feel for the place, first.

Without further deliberation, he slunk inside the hallowed space.

His eyes glowed yellow in the dim light and everything they fixed upon pleased him.

"Yesssss... yessssss", he lisped, the syllables dripping from between widely spaced fangs. "Thissss issss mossssst ssssssatissssfactory."

Discovering a worm-eaten chest of drawers just inside the door, he determined that he would run his new empire from the second drawer down. To test its suitability, he scrabbled his way inside and, curling himself round, settled down for a quick nap. During the ensuing forty winks, he gave himself full legislative and judicial powers over the garden, the junkyard, the top field and the garages. He also made several executive decisions and drew up a new tax on mice.

When he woke up, he was hungry, so he caught one of the taxable items and, after toying with it for a few minutes, killed it.

"Habeaus corpus", he said, and promptly ate it.

Leaving the mess of entrails on the floor, he scrambled up onto a weathered sideboard and felt it wobble beneath him. Before it could tilt him onto the floor, he launched himself at a nearby armchair, wads of stuffing spewing out of its misshapen cushions. Purring with satisfaction, he clawed his way up the back of it, slashing the frail upholstery as he went. With his next leap, he landed on an elderly wardrobe, and, when the door clattered open, the Straggler went with it, hanging by the doorframe, his scrawny belly momentarily reflected in the mottled surface of the full length mirror, attached. He was deposited onto a rickety table, marked with the brown, circular stains of coffee cups and, as he raked his claws across its treacherous surface, he saw that he was before the window that gave onto the junkyard. He peered through the crusted glass, and saw...

Kitty country.

It was his. As far as the eye could see, it was all his. He had only to wait until the votes should be tallied up. He knew that Dribbler was a cat of his word and he was fully prepared to take advantage of that fact. Hadn't he left no stone unturned? He gave himself a quick tongue-bath and settled down to wait.

* * * * *

One rabbit, two rabbit, three rabbit, four...

Dribbler's whiskers twitched. The dream rabbit went hurtling past him, and disappeared through a gap in the hedge.

When Dribbler woke up, it was to the sound of wind soughing through the trees. He went outside and sniffed the air. The chilly wind pushed and pulled at him, flattening his ears against his scalp and pressing his fur close, so that he resembled something sleek and streamlined and full of purpose. He pointed himself towards the junkyard and let the wind carry him.

The ground was thick with leaves, and they rustled and crunched beneath his pads. Outside the shed, lay huge drifts of them, red and yellow and gold. They jostled one another as if trying to get inside, and some of the more persistent clung to Dribbler's back, and legs, and did not let go. These, he took into the shed with him, and many more blew in, besides. They carpeted the shed floor and, in their stead, the dust and the cobwebs and the musty, fusty air blew out.

In the scrap-yard stood a small, forlorn heap of stones. There was no sign of the Straggler. He had, it seemed, been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and had been blown away.

Dribbler entered the shed and took up his rightful position. He would, he decided, begin his term in office by taking a little nap. But he would not be dreaming about rabbits. It was October, and not the season for rabbits. That had been the problem, all along. It was, however, a most auspicious month for an election.

Outside, a few more leaves drifted down.

~ End ~

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