A Party Animal (first 300 words or so)

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The following is an extract from a themed story. It was my submission to Writing Magazine, July 2012, to mark HM Queen's Diamond Jubilee.

The narrative is first person; the narrator, a cat.

A PARTY ANIMAL

By

Ralph Cutting

I walk into the kitchen for lunch and I suddenly stop. Dog is standing there, staring vacantly at me, as usual. This time, though, he seems perturbed. He is wearing a Union Jack coat. Did Dog suddenly wake up this morning and decide he fancied wearing it on a whim? I doubt it. He’s a dog.

More likely Family, or Matriarch, has cornered him and put it on him, as easily as rubbing his belly or throwing a stick for him to fetch. Family knows they can’t put a coat on me. We -cats - are not as pliant as dogs. If Family- Matriarch, Patriarch, Dauphin or Dauphine - tried, they would get a good scratch. Right across the face. They know that.

The kitchen is unusually busy today. I can smell chicken curry. Not madras, not korma. Something milder. I thought the English liked their curry hot. Family is dressed in red, white and blue. What’s happening? It’s not my birthday. It isn’t Dog’s either. It isn’t the World Cup. I remember Patriarch and his brother, Fat Uncle (or even fatter, as a matter of fact) and their vuvuzelas. I ran away for two weeks because the noise was driving me nuts. And they sang about a country called “Ing-ger-land” even though we live in England.

Well, today, I don’t hear “Ing-ger-land” or vuvuzelas, but Patriarch is wearing that same red shirt, stretched over his belly, which is larger than last year. Dauphin is wearing one too. I shouldn’t be so critical, as Family is the one that feeds me, gives me a nice basket in the sitting room. I can also sit on their furniture. Dog isn’t allowed to.

“You look stupid,” I tell Dog. He blinks, still looking at me blankly. He doesn’t understand me, of course. Lunch is served. Same as usual, despite the occasion. I get a nice stroke. Dog sees this, and jealous, he rolls on his back for a belly rub, but is told off as he would ruin his coat. One-Nil.

The chicken smells good. They are also making cakes. Red, white and blue. I wonder if there is anything else? Later I will be able to eat something without them looking, as this seems to be a Special Occasion where they get drunk, belligerent and stupid, and while they sprawl about the sitting room in a state of near oblivion, I can leap onto a table, or a worktop, and help myself.

They’ve been talking about a Diamond Jubilee. She’s travelling all over the country. So the Queen is coming here? Hence all the food? I thought venison, or wild boar would be more appropriate for a Royal visit, surely? ...........