Crabby (Notevember 2022, #10)

Under a bridge in a port town in Maine, three street cats huddled together, sheltering from the torrential rain.

The elder of the trio, Grey, had earned his name both in years and color. He had lost various parts of his body: an eye, the tip of his tail, part of his left ear. Despite this, he was still going strong (albeit a bit slower than he used to).

The youngest member, a Maine Coon by the name of Clawrence (he had rejected his human name, Fluffy), had only recently joined the unofficial brotherhood. And while he had quickly become a protegé of sorts, his former status as a house cat meant that he faced an awful struggle to gain the respect of his newfound companions.

On this particular afternoon, the two were listening to a story being told by their last member, Scuttle. He was a tabby, still young, but by no means a kitten, and an alley cat through and through – at least if you asked him.

“So there I was, as always, on my corner by the bait shop,” recounted Scuttle.

“It’s a good corner,” noted Grey. “Some days very good.”

“So it is,” Scuttle nodded, “so it is. Anyway, I’m begging for fish, as one does, and what comes crawling towards me if not a crab.”

“What kind of crab?” asked Clawrence. “There are all sorts around here.”

“There are only two kinds, really,” claimed Grey as if he was handing out sage advice. “The nervous, cowardly kind – and the nasty, cantankerous bastards that are more territorial than a mother with newborns.”

“Oh, this one wasn’t a scaredy cat, I can tell you that. No, he was the other kind,” Scuttle said, tilting his head for emphasis.

“So he was in a foul mood,” Clawrence concluded.

“Was he ever! He comes up, right, waving a piece of corn at me as if it were the worst kind of insult. So I says, ‘Hey, buddy, not my fault. Humans do what humans do, and right now they do corn for bait’.”

“Which is true,” added Grey, “now more than ever before.”

“It’s the lack of small fry and the like, due to overfishing,” Clawrence informed them. He was a treasure trove of knowledge which was rarely of interest to the other two.

“Whoever is at fault, it sure isn’t me – which is what I told him,” Scuttle told them. “But he wouldn’t have it, would he? He just got more pushy. I goes ‘Look, crusty, this is my corner, and I’m not fighting in yours, so get lost.’ But did he move?” Scuttle paused for effect.

“I’m guessing, considering the story, that he did not,” Clawrence filled in.

“It was rhetorical, Fluffy! I’m getting there, be patient,” Scuttle admonished him. “No, the crab did not, in fact, move. So I tell him to shake a leg or ten, and he drops the corn kernel and starts clicking his pincer at me.”

“He did not!” exclaimed Clawrence, wide-eyed. His surprise proved beyond a doubt that he had not had many encounters of the cancerian kind.

“Rude, but expectedly so,” Grey sighed.

“Now, you know me, normally I would deck a pod, if you get my meaning,” bragged Scuttle. “But this bottom-feeder, now hear this, he pulls a gun on me!”

Upon hearing this, the other two cats went quiet. Then Grey started laughing, a half-cough, half-chuckle sound. “Now, Scuttle, you’ve had some far-out-there stories in your time, and I’ve humoured you, mostly. But a gun? What do you take us for, kittiots?”

“Yeah,” Clawrence chimed in. “I may be young, but I wouldn’t believe that even if my eyes were still closed.”

“Oh go cough up an urchin, won’t you, Fluffy?” Scuttle hissed. “Grey, buddy, I’m serious. A handgun.”

“A crab with a gun? Did someone smuggle catnip into your lunch?” scoffed Grey.

Scuttle held his right front paw up, pad facing his companions. “I swear to Bastet, Mewtwo, the Great-Mother of Nine Whiskers and even Pantera. It’s true.”

“Actually, Pantera isn’t a god,” Clawrence pointed out.

“Shut up, Fluffy!” the others shouted in chorus. “They are to me,” added Scuttle. “Okay guys,” he continued, “here it is: Swear to God, and if I lie, cross my heart and hope to die.”

“That doesn’t have much meaning when you still have eight lives left, you know,” Grey muttered.

“Okay, so: Swear to God, and if I lie, may I ever sleepless lie.”

“Still not much of an oath.”

“FINE!” Scuttle’s tail was swishing back and forth in irritation now. “Swear to God and if I lie, may I be cast in a T.S. Eliot-inspired musical film with poor CGI.”

From Clawrence and Grey came a sharp intake of breath, then silence. Then, Grey encouraged him:

“So, a gun you said?”

“That’s right.” Scuttle seemed vindicated.

“Were you scared?” mewed Clawrence quietly.

“Terrified. Second most scared I’ve ever been.”

“What was the most?” the youngster queried.

“Got caught once, and sent to a shelter. They nearly had me neutered, but I managed to escape. The only balls I want to rid myself of are hairballs, thanks.”

“So what did you do, with the crab I mean?” Grey asked. He was leaning in now, entirely engrossed in the tale.

“What could I do? I let him take the only bait fish the humans had donated. Then he just scampered.”

Grey shrugged his shoulders, as if saying “that’s just how it goes sometimes”. But Clawrence looked as if he was immersed in deep thought.

“Hold on,” he said. “Did the crab have opposable thumbs?”

The other two turn to him. Their stares said “are you stupid?”, but their mouths said: “Huh?”

“Did it have thumbs?” Clawrence repeated.

“No, of course not,” answered Scuttle.

“Fingers?” tried Clawrence.

“No, Fluffy, the crab did not have fingers. What are you on about?”

“Forgive me if I’m just being a young and ignorant kitten,” Clawrence began, “but aren’t fingers and opposable thumbs a requirement in order to operate a firearm?”

The three cats once again descended into a moment of silence. Then Grey started laughing again, this time an uninhibited, loud, rasping roar of mirth.

“SHUT UP, FLUFFY!” shouted Scuttle, before turning to skulk away into the wet night.