Creative Writing: Bugsy's Big Mistake

Bugsy was stomping after a moth. The moth had nothing to concern itself over - Bugsy never caught anything. Bugsy Malone was a strange cat. He had a small compact body and his jet black coat fit smartly. In my hands, Bugsy felt like a small tight football. He also had by any cats ' standards short legs. When he first arrived on my doorstep, I thought his deficiency of leg length was because he was a kitten. A full year later his legs were still stunted and, stretch as much as he liked, he still only stood six inches high, which I guess accounts for his attitude problem.

I mean, who takes a pygmy cat seriously? Nobody, I know. I can only guess, mind you, but maybe he gave the matter some in-depth consideration and came up with a solution of

I tried to shame her by saying I had the rent money riding on her keys - but to no avail Her ribbon was all kinked she insisted. It felt all scratchy and horrible. It would appear I not only had a cat with an attitude today. Bowing to the inevitable and determined to retain whatever sanity Bugsy Malone had left me, I stood at the window and watched him chase the moth.

Bugsy was, by nature, a solitary cat. He never sought the company of other cats, regarding me as the pivot of his world. I alone acted as his food supplier, playmate and anything else he considered necessary to keep him comfortable. So the arrival of Weedeater marked something of a milestone.

Sunday morning I lay listening to the church bells as they called the faithful to worship. I was enjoying the stolen pleasure of lying there dozing, when I heard Bugsy Malone. The noise he was making was not his usual old-man cough, but a more strident sound. Not exactly anger, nor pain but a combination of the two. Flinging the bedclothes to one side I hastily pushed my arms into the sleeves of my chenille dressing gown and, shuffling my feet into sandals, I ran for the back

You want to go for a walk? Well my friend, you can wait 'till I 've had a coffee." I snapped at him, more relieved than angry. He ignored me, continuing his strange behavior. He carried his harness to the edge of the verandah and dropped it over, then recommenced his nervous striding but now, as well as the pacing and the sound, he included a glance over the edge of the stairs to where his harness lay on the ground below. By now I was convinced my pet was in the grip of an attack of cat nerves and it seemed obvious to me he needed the Vet. Within seconds I 'd dragged a pair of jeans and a jumper on over my night clothes and, carrying his travel box, was back out side. The porch was empty.

Taking the stairs two at a time I reached the bottom and stopped. I could see no sign of Bugsy Malone, though I could still hear him. This time the sound was muffled. I looked around for the most likely place for Bugsy to be. The sound seemed to be coming from under the house. Calling his name softly, I walked the length of one wall looking for the opening I knew had to be there. Again came the sound, muffled and indistinct as if from somewhere deep. And then I found the