Longer Story
Dick Whittington and his Cat
the TRUE STORY… By The Cat.

Fat Dick, I call him. It’s not a compliment.

Let me explain. Fat Dick and I have been business partners for some time now. That is to say, Fat Dick fronts up the operation, while I’m the brains in the backroom. This arrangement is both profitable and necessary for both of us.

Fat Dick, God bless him, is a genial, affable West Country lump whose capacity for incompetence is only outstripped by his capacity for ambition. Fat Dick likes to tell people that he rose from the gutter, but the truth is that he comes from a affluent wool village in the leafy Cotswolds, and his father is prosperous trader. Fat Dick’s father, having risen to prosperity, had the wits to see that it wouldn’t last a second once Fat Dick got his paws on it. He managed to get rid of Fat Dick by convincing him that if he moved to London, he’d find streets paved with gold, and a number of other unlikely fancies, all of which Dubious Dick duly swallowed. Fat Dick’s father then left his business to the second son, who by all accounts wasn’t half as gullible.

Of course, by the time he’d been in London a fortnight, Fat Dick found out a few things. There wasn’t any gold in the streets, and he’d been ripped off and robbed till he had nothing but the breeches he stood up in. Fat Dick’s one and only piece of luck was that he passed out in the street outside the house of Master Hugh, an old-fashioned East end wheeler-dealer who ran an import-export business. Master Hugh was away at the time. Master Hugh’s wife and daughter found Fat Dick lying in the street – he wasn’t fat at the time, he was more like Skinny Dick. They took pity on him, and brought him inside, where they offered him a job as a turnspit. That’s where Fat Dick stuck, turning the spit and stealing bits of crackling off the meat, without a hope in hell of advancing further – that is, until he met me.

I was working as a mouser in a cocktail bar when I met him, that much is true. But even then I knew I’d get a much better place, either with or without a human.

One day, Fat Dick came into the cocktail bar, clutching his first month’s wages, and tried to buy me. He was having a problem with mice in the garret that they’d assigned him. When I heard that he worked in the kitchen. I could see straight away the opportunities that would afford me. Plus, I was sick of people spilling margaritas on my head while I went about my work. That stuff sticks like anything - ruins your fur.

Well, I took care of the mice - always pays to ingratiate yourself - then I went down to the kitchen, where Fat Dick was carving illicit slivers off the Sunday joint. I wrapped myself round his feet, climbed up into his lap, butted his face with my nose, and hissed ‘Psst, Dickhead, slip us a pie.’

Fat Dick was about to squawk, but I stuck my claws in his neck, close to the jugular, and he carried on turning the spit, his eyes watering.

“Stick with me, Dick,” I hissed. “I’ll see you alright.”

Now, couple of months later, Master Hugh came back. Once the office was unlocked, I took the liberty of sneaking in. Nice bloke, Master Hugh, fond of cats. He used to feed me titbits from his plate. That’s how I managed to look over his shoulder and check out the balance sheet. I read everything, bills of lading, tax returns. I could see straight away that Master Hugh wasn’t making the most of his assets. He was in a good position, sure – he had contacts, product, the supply chain up and running, but there was so much more. Fact was, he wasn’t really sticking it to ‘em in the emerging markets where the profit margins are so much higher. He was staid, old school. Managerially, he was still in the dark ages - he wasn’t up with the medieval business model.

That night, up in our garret, I took Fat Dick to task. “Dick,” I hissed. “This is your chance. Persuade him to rationalise!”

But Dick just moaned and rolled over in his blanket. I knew what was on his mind. Ever since he’d been here, he’d only had eyes for one thing– Mistress Alice, the Master’s pneumatic daughter. Not a bad girl – Miss Alice – blond, blue eyes, too kind to be really smart. Frankly, that’s all he thinks about – food, sex, and whether people like him.

“Dick,” I hissed. “You’ve got to do something. Do you think she likes a man covered in grease?”

Fat Dick threw a shoe at me then, and I scratched his arm. It’s been a rocky relationship, you know – right from the start.

Well, about a month later, Master Hugh called the household into the kitchen. He had a ship about to leave dock, and he suggested we all stake something. I was worried – Fat Dick was showing the symptoms of having an idea. His face went pink, his ears blushed red, and he glanced at Mistress Alice.

“What about you, Dick, what will you send?” said the Master.

Fat Dick put up his hand. Now, I knew full well that if he went on the ship, he’d fall overboard before it left the Thames. I launched myself at him, and buried a claw in his balls. “The CAT! The CAT!” he shrieked. Soon, I was on my way to the dock.

We sailed for weeks, till I never wanted to see a fish again. Tuna catfood still makes me retch, frankly. Then it rose on the horizon: the great place, the metropolis where Master Hugh was planning to make his fortune.

Well, the next bit’s history, so to say. Sure they were rich, but they were overrun with mice. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. If it hadn’t been for me, we’d never even have made it out onto the docks – the ropes would have been chewed through. Well, there was a dodgy moment when Master Hugh’s captain was going to sell me personally to the Grand Vizier, but luckily, common sense reasserted itself. We returned to London loaded down with gold, ivory, spices and leather – all in exchange for the cheapest and commonest of goods – yes, a bona fide contract to procure one hundred of yer genuine felis domesticae.

I sailed back in the Captain’s cabin. When we docked, the whole household was waiting. Fat Dick looked surprised when he saw me. I winked, and, flexed my claws, and Fat Dick crossed his legs, hurriedly.

That night, they were having a party. Fat Dick was the guest of honour. I sat on his lap, just to keep an eye on the proceedings, and all the ladies preened and drooled over me. I had a leg of chicken, half a pork pie, three sweetmeats, and a bowl of cream, then had to nip out the back to be sick. Human food does terrible things to the feline intestine. That’s what I need Fat Dick for – you can’t run a business without someone to attend dinners. And if there’s one thing the boy is good at, it’s certainly eating.

When I came back in I heard Master Hugh saying to Dick ‘Well, lad, and how are you going to spend your fortune?”

I jumped on Dick’s shoulder. “Fat Dick,” I hissed. “The garret - now. We gotta talk turkey.”

Up in the attic, Fat Dick eyed me nervously. “What d’you want?” he said.

“Fifty percent,” I hissed, eyeballing him in the candlelight. ”You consult me on everything. You don’t move unless I tell you. Plus, I want a roast chicken every Saturday, fleacombing every Wednesday, and one of those nice leather pouffes things with the embossed leather, right by the fire.”

“I’m not giving you fifty percent,” said Dick, trying to act hard. “I’ll give you… half.”

“Done,” I said, and Fat Dick looked smug. Like I told you, he’s an oaf.

That was a couple of years ago now. Since then, business has boomed. This is largely due to the network of contacts I established in key institutions, right across the city. At first this was a one-off bribe – I’d make the contact, and Dick would drop off the payment. After a while I put our most reliable and consistent sources directly on payroll. There was Yowler, from the corn exchange, who knew exactly where there’d be a famine in three months time. There was Fluffkins, down on the docks, who knew everything that was leaving and entering the country. There was Bosscat, from the back alleys where all the dodgy deals were done, and Miss Spitzi, from Temple Bank, a lady who really understood the difference between a florin and a franc. Dick would make a weekly round, usually a nice joint of meat, apart from Bosscat, who demanded catnip. This way I knew exactly who was going up, who was going down, who was on their way to the tower.

Master Hugh was amazed at Dick’s – that is to say mine – business acumen. Business grew and grew. But I started to get frustrated - there were some contracts we just couldn’t break into. It was all tied up by the old-school boys, the old money with connections at court.

Soon, I came to an inescapable conclusion.

Later that day, Fat Dick came back from playing golf – not that I resent it, but I will mention, I’d spent the day scratching in a ledger with an ink-stained claw.

“Fat Dick,” I hissed. “You’ve got to go into politics. It’s the way forward.”

Fat Dick was surprisingly keen. He went straight out and registered as a candidate. I think it was the thought of the dinners – or maybe that big gold chain. Financially, I knew this would crack it – we’d get those lucrative public sector contracts.

Well, next, we needed a strategy. In exchange for a cartload of catnip, Bosscat arranged for the other candidate to be involved in a compromising incident with a Pekinese. We swept to victory – Fat Dick and his cheesy, nonchalant grin, it does it every time. That’s how it works – people think he’s unthreatening, they talk about his easy charm. What they don’t realise is that he is actually, genuinely clueless. Works every time.

After the election, Fat Dick proposed to Miss Alice. Master Hugh was pleased, and it turned into quite a society wedding. I had a gold collar with rubies in it, and sat in the front row.

Well, things are going well for us. Fat Dick does his stuff – grins cheesily, shakes hands, eats dinners, goes on to people about his hard-up childhood, and signs off all the contracts. I meanwhile, do all the real work. The thing is, these days, it’s starting to wear me out. My claws are worn from all the ledgers, and my fur’s falling out. I spend longer and longer in the office, more and more time skulking in back alleys, sniffing out which ways the wind is blowing. Every week I have to fend off Bosscat, who wants a stake in the operation. I can’t even get a decent day’s sleep. Sometimes I remember back when Dick and I used to share a garret. Crazy, I know. These days, he won’t even let me in the bedroom. And that’s the other thing…

Ever since he got elected for a second term, Fat Dick’s looked at me funny. Fat Dick – he’s really put on weight, what with all the official dinners – has changed. I’ve got a nasty feeling – Fat Dick thinks he can cut me out of the loop.

So I started making precautions. Miss Spitzi opened us an account in the Caymans. Slowly, slowly, I’ve been creaming off profits. One day soon I’ll be off, to live out a nice retirement somewhere warmer, with less draughts. In the meantime, I’ve still got a few deals to close. Fat Dick doesn’t realise what I’m doing. He’s too busy playing golf, attending dinners, and generally being feted. Sometimes, at night, when I’ve finished with the ledgers, I go upstairs and stand outside his room, and I can hear him humping Mistress Alice in the big feather bed that they bought.

Flump! Flump! Uh! Uh!

From time to time, I can’t help myself. I lift my leg and I pee – right in his shoes.