The Long Walk

It is a bright, sparkly, early spring day, with an unfamiliar tang in the air. Dribbler pokes his head out his cat-door and sniffs. Yes, it is undoubtedly the promise of adventure that causes the air to feel so keen and fresh against his whiskers.

He pushes his way through, and is just in time to see Tall and Tallest heading off down the street. Normally, this wouldn't interest him. He's used to Tall and Tallest shuffling around on their clumsy old stilts and, if they don't at first notice him from up there, he has only to cough politely for one, or both, to bend down and attend to his needs. It's an arrangement that suits everyone. Or, at any rate, it suits Dribbler which is all that really matters. Or, to put it another way, Dribbler is the world and Tall and Tallest his graceless satellites.

It is unprecedented but, on this particular morning, Dribbler's needs have not been met. His stomach's having words with his brain and they ain't polite. In the interests of his belly, Dribbler determines to follow Tall and Tallest as they make their blameless way along the sunniest side of the street.

After a few steps,Tall stops and waits for him to catch up. But Dribbler is nothing if not his own cat. He chooses instead to sit himself down on the pavement. How pleasant and cool it feels against his bottom! He decides he would like to prolong the sensation. Dribbler believes in exercising his freedom of choice at all times, else what's the point in having it?

And besides, something more interesting has caught his attention. Why, yes! An interesting scent is coiling its way towards him from under that car, over there. Dribbler follows its progress with his nose. Ah. There it is: The pungent smell of urine. Dribbler wanders over to the source, as if drawn by an invisible thread. Taking his time, he sniffs around the hub-caps of a scruffy Ford Capri parked lopsidedly at the curb. Three or four good inhalations later, and Dribbler has acquired all the information he needs. Not only does he know who is responsible; he now knows where they live, who they live with and what they had for breakfast this morning. He makes a mental note: That blue-brown cat from over the road is due another little visit.

Just as Tall and Tallest are turning away, Dribbler lifts his tail, aims his bottom at the Capri's bumper and fires off a jet of urine. Tallest gives a round of applause, as Dribbler covers the ground between them in a series of ecstatic leaps and bounds.

The three of them stroll on, Dribbler struggling a little to keep up. It isn't long before he starts to lag behind.

A gateway yawns invitingly. Dribbler sniffs around the gatepost and, having examined it in detail, trots up the garden path. Outside one of the bay windows looking out onto the front, he throws back his head for a quick chorus. Job done, he jumps onto the low garden wall, across next door's lawn and out through the wrought iron gate. Behind him, a curtain twitches. Spying Tall and Tallest dawdling a little way off, he streaks after them and doesn't stop until he has well and truly overtaken them.

When they catch up, he sits down, lifts a leg and commences a detailed investigation of his under-carriage. They try to persuade him to accompany them, but in vain. He can make his own decisions, thank you very much. And right now, this pavement is lovely and cool against his bottom. Tall can make all the high pitched kissy noises in the world; it won't make a jot of difference. He will make her wait. He will make them all wait. He is Dribbler.

He straggles behind, tail held high. A faint jingling penetrates the happy fog of his brain and he pauses, senses quickening. He has heard that sound before. A strong smell assails his sensitive nostrils and his nose twitches. He knows that scent. Unseen by Tall and Tallest, Dribbler stands motionless, his tail swelling up like a dwarf fir. The look in his eyes is terrible to behold. Dribbler continues to stare as the dog passes by on the opposite side of the road, and he doesn't stop staring until Jingles is little more than a faint dot at the far end of the street. I showed him, thinks Dribbler, licking his paw. I really showed him what for.

Typically, Tall and Tallest have missed his great triumph. And, to add insult to perceived injury, Tall is speaking in a soft voice to another cat: A small, slightly dubious-looking feline with fur the same hue that clouds wear when in need of a jolly good wash.

Today, the clouds are fluffy and white. And still there is that unfamiliar tang in the air.

Dribbler glares at the small, slightly dubious-looking cat. Disgusted, he plumps himself down on the pavement with his nose between his paws. Mmmmm. This pavement feels lovely and cool against his bottom... He closes his eyes. He opens them. He blinks. Time passes.

When he opens his eyes again, Tall and Tallest have disappeared. Dribbler is disorientated, confused. He has no recollection of how he came here. And why is he so far from his usual stomping ground? He never comes out this far! Mrowr. It is quite extraordinary.

Dribbler attempts to gather his thoughts. Unfortunately, they are strewn around his skull like so many pieces of chaff blown by the wind.

But wait a minute! There's Tallest. Dribbler is just in time to see his back disappear through a doorway on the other side of the street. It is a door much like any other except that, unlike most doors of Dribbler's acquaintance, it is invitingly ajar. Within the dim interior, Dribbler discerns a clutter of boxes and crates; shelves piled high with all manner of tins and packets. The sign above the entrance reads: Armit's Corner Shop and Cat Food Emporium.

Dribbler approaches cautiously. He sits down carefully and discovers to his intense surprise that the pavement this side of the street is lovely and cool against his bottom. He waits for a moment or two, enjoying the sensation. Then, without further ado, he makes his move.

Keeping one ear trained on the street outside, Dribbler slinks inside the cool interior of Armit's Corner Shop and Cat Food Emporium. His delicate sense of smell is immediately swamped by a multitude of interesting smells. The earthiness of root vegetables slightly past their prime mingles with the heady aroma of Indian spices. Dribbler suppresses a sneeze and makes his way, unseen, to the end of the aisle. He is brought up short by a solid wall of tins and a faint smell, suggestive of meaty chunks. Remembering he hasn't yet eaten, he determines to get at the source of the tantalising aroma and searches around for a point of entry. Looking up, he sees that the ceiling is very high and shrouded in mist. A shaft of light enters via an obscure skylight and dust motes dance in it. Looking back the way he has come, he can see the produce aisle rolling away into the distance. There are no customers save himself, and no footprints to mark the thick layer of dust on the floor; not even his own. Here and there, poking up through the dust, are the bones of small animals: Squirrels, mice, foolish, unwary creatures with pea-sized brains. Dribbler shakes his own head briskly and his identity disc rattles. Tiny gobs of clear dribble spatter the floor, like rain.

And still the wall of tins stands immovable, stretching away on either side in a seemingly endless vista of Choice Chunks and Meaty Eats. Dribbler cranes his neck and wonders if he dare attempt the climb. Scrabble as he might, his feet can find no purchase. In a shady recess of his brain, a warning bell tinkles. With a derisive flick of his tail, Dribbler consigns it to the dustbin of things to be ignored. He decides that he will burrow his way through.

He noses around the bottom row of cans and tries to find a weak spot. The wall of tins looms on either side, and away into the shadows. He presses his nose against the towering stacks and smells cat-food faintly through the cheap tin. Pricking an ear, he listens for a moment, before prodding a likely looking tin with his paw. "Mighty, meaty morsels" says the blurb on the label. Unconvinced, he prods another. This one reads, "Braised mouse thighs in jelly". Aha! This is more like it!

Dribbler lowers his head and pushes. When nothing happens, he backs up and tries again, this time putting his back and shoulders into it. He peeps over his shoulder to make sure no-one's looking and licks a paw. He can handle the knock-backs, it's the losing one's dignity he can't stand.

The shop stretches out behind him, the doorway little more than a pale smudge in the distance. Dribbler again addresses himself to the business at hand. He turns himself sideways on and shoves. Nothing.

But wait - yes! - his cat senses detect a barely perceptible shifting. It is so minuscule, so slight, that Dribbler at first mistrusts his senses, But there it is again, a little stronger this time: A definite sense of movement. Curiously, it's coming from somewhere behind him. That can't be right. Dribbler turns round slowly, his fur bristling. And is dismayed to find that the wall of cans has curved in on itself. The effect is not dissimilar to finding oneself inside a vast tin cylinder.

Arooooooooooo, howls Dribbler, his voice echoing around the hollow space. Aroooooooooooooo!

Silence.

Slowly, Dribbler opens an eye...

Blinks.

And stretches.

The pavement feels lovely and cool against his bottom. And, if he's not mistaken, there's Tallest coming out of the shop with a can of... Oh no!!

Dribbler has quite lost his appetite.

The three of them walk home, Dribbler a little way ahead. Every so often, he turns round to make sure they're following.

~ End ~

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