Debenham (A L-O-N-G Short Story About A Very Intelligent Cat)

THIS STORY IS DEDICATED TO ALL WHO FEEL CLOSE TO THEIR CAT

A Story By Edna Sweetlove
(the world's greatest short story writer, in her own opinion)


CHAPTER ONE

My name is Mary and I'm a children's short story writer. It sounds good but, even though I have my stories published regularly, it doesn't pay very well. My husband, Bob, is a freelance computer technician. That sounds very boring and menial, but he makes a lot of money. One of the disadvantages (or advantages, depending how you look at it) is that he gets called out at all hours to repair computers which have inexplicably crashed. Also he's away on site visits for days on end, which can be a bit lonely for me, but not necessarily, if you get my drift. We've been married for five years now.

  I used to have a cat called Debenham, Debi for short. He was very beautiful and I loved him very much.  I bought him before I met Bob, and Debi was about eight years old when he went away. Debenham was a rather large cat, a pure-bred brown Burmese with a short, silky coat and huge, piercing green eyes which glowed orange at night or in artificial light. He was very affectionate and he was, without doubt, the most intelligent cat I have ever known.

  Debenham was usually quite stand-offish with my boy friends, sometimes even going so far as to spit at them. He was a very jealous cat and was very possessive about me; he clearly resented being ejected from his traditional position lying on my bed when I had overnight company. From the very start, Bob was different. On first meeting Debi, Bob just picked him up and told him how beautiful he was, just like his mistress. Debenham seemed quite shocked at this affront to his dignity but he immediately took to Bob in a big way. Within minutes of that initial picking up he was purring and rubbing his head against Bob's chin. When Bob said he didn't mind Debenham staying in the bedroom when we got down to a bit of hanky-panky (as long as he sat on the chair and looked the other way, Bob added), Debenham said 'miaow' twice very loudly and seemed to become even more fond of him.

  When Bob and I got married, I moved out of my little flat and we bought a house together. Naturally, Debenham came with us and he soon settled into his revised life as a cat with twenty-four hour access to a garden, instead of just being an indoors flat-dweller. Debenham really enjoyed exploring neighbouring gardens and soon became a moderately proficient bird and mouse catcher.

  However, Debenham's main joy in life was to sit on my lap and purr loudly, gazing up at me for minutes on end before dozing off happily. When I settled into my typist's chair, he would squawk persistently until I allowed him to sit on me again in front of my computer. He would divide his time between watching me type and looking at the screen of my laptop. He was fascinated by the clicking of the keys and the flashing cursor on the screen. I worried about possible radiation effects, but Bob reassured me that it was perfectly safe for Debenham.

  As I wrote my stories, I would often say the words out loud as I wrote them and Debenham would sit and watch captivated for hour after hour. After a good day's work, I would switch the computer off, pick Debenham up, give him a cuddle and sometimes a little kiss on the end of his soft brown nose, and say, 'Another story finished, Debi, I wonder whether anyone will want it?' And Debenham would usually say, 'miaow'. Occasionally he'd add a second 'miaow' for emphasis.

  One day, after three years of marriage, I met Jamie. Jamie was a new editor at my publishers and he was the most attractive man I had ever met. This is not say I didn't love Bob. It's just that Jamie was utterly gorgeous: six foot something, slim, blond hair, blue eyes, muscular. Jamie was beautiful. He seemed to be instantly attracted to me, although why he should have bothered I never really knew; with his looks he could have had any woman he wanted. Unfortunately, I was married and so was he. To other people. But this proved to be a surmountable barrier.

  That particular meeting was an especially fraught one and Jamie tried to be as sympathetic as possible. Afterwards, he invited me for a drink and I accepted. What harm could it do? Bob wasn't due home until late that evening and I had a few hours to kill. I soon found out that Jamie was not particularly happily married, and he was surprised to find out I was married to a computer technician. 'A computer repair man?' he said incredulously.' Seeing my offended expression, he hastily added, 'I'm sure he's a very nice chap, I'm not being snobbish, but it just seems an odd combination, a writer and a computer repair man. Anyway, he's a lucky chap to have you.'

  You know how these things go, one thing led to another and Jamie and I ended up having a passionate snog and drunken grope in the street on the way to the Underground station. We exchanged email addresses and mobile numbers. I rationalised that there was little point in my refusing to give him the details as, if he really wanted them, they were all in my file at the publishers.

  And so I was drawn into an affair with Jamie. It was so easy, with Bob being away so much. Fond though I was of Bob, Jamie was more handsome, a better kisser and (I soon found out) a fabulous lover. And (if I may be allowed a slight vulgarity) hung like a wild stallion. The first couple of times we went to a hotel in the afternoon, but I knew Jamie's salary couldn't really take that sort of expenditure long-term. So I told him he could come to the house the next time Bob was away on a trip. But he couldn't stay overnight in case the neighbours saw him leaving in the morning. He said (less than tactfully I thought) it was difficult for him to stay overnight anyway.

  When Debenham first saw Jamie it was extraordinary. 'Jamie, this is Debenham, my cat,' I said, pointing to Debenham, 'and I think he's gorgeous.' It was plain to see that Jamie was not a huge cat fan, but he had enough intelligence and grace to know he should agree that Debenham was indeed a beautiful animal. He unwisely put out his hand to stroke Debenham, who was sitting on the dining room table at the time. Debenham took one look at the invader and sunk his teeth into Jamie's hand, drawing blood. I smacked Debenham for the very first time in our years together. He let go and leaped off the table and ran upstairs.

  After apologising and disinfecting Jamie's wounded thumb, we went to bed. The sex was less satisfactory than usual. Whether this was more because of my guilt at being unfaithful in my own marital bed or because of Debenham's demented howls in the room next door, I'm not sure. When Jamie and I left the bedroom, Debenham was sitting outside the door; he stared at Jamie in the dim evening light and looked as though he might well go on the offensive again. I shouted at him to go away. Debi miaowed angrily and slunk off.

  Debenham refused to have anything to do with me after I had seen Jamie out. He declined his supper, even though it was his great favourite, tinned pilchards. He exited into the back garden via the cat flap and, when I woke up in the morning, there was no sign of him. His food had been left untouched. I tried to settle down to work, but I couldn't get a sentence right. Where was Debenham? When Bob returned that evening I told him Debenham had disappeared and we searched the streets for him. We put notes into all of the neighbours' doors, asking them to check their garden sheds for him, but Debi didn't return the next night either. I was frantic.


CHAPTER TWO

The following morning I had another meeting at the publishers and I went there with a sense of foreboding. Jamie tried to be as sympathetic as he could manage about Debenham, but I sensed his insincerity. I said I felt uncomfortable about his coming to the house again.

  Whilst I was out, Debenham returned to the house, attached himself to Bob, who was off work for a couple of days, and demolished enough cat food to feed a feline army. When I got home later in the day, Debenham was unhappy about being touched at all, let alone being picked up and cuddled. After three days, when Bob had left on his next job, Debenham grudgingly accepted food from me. Although he went so far as to sit at the far end of the table to watch me working, he still moved his sleeping quarters downstairs.

  It was only on the fourth day after Jamie's visit that Debenham finally relented and again jumped on my lap to watch me work. It took another three or four days before full relations were restored and his jealousy forgotten. I was touched at his apparent renewed devotion to me and I was amazed that he had been so jealous, although I had heard of how envious cats could be of new babies in a house.

  My next few meetings with Jamie over the following weeks were confined to hotels. Eventually, after my suggestion to go Dutch on the expenses had been indignantly refused, I agreed we could try again at the house, when Bob was off on another of his business trips. 'Lock that cat up somewhere,' Jamie insisted, and I agreed it would only be sensible.

  Half an hour before Jamie was due, I closed the lounge door on Debenham as he dozed peacefully on the sofa. However, Debenham was not to be fooled in such a simple way and he howled like a deranged banshee, from the time Jamie arrived until shortly after he had left. Debenham's wails did little for my orgasmic responses to my handsome lover, and it would be no exaggeration to say that Jamie's visit that day was less than satisfactory, thanks to the cat.

  When I finally opened the lounge door, Debenham rushed out and headed for the cat flap in the kitchen. Exasperated, I yelled after him, 'Go and fuck yourself, Debenham!' A few hours later I hear him yowling piteously in the garden and my heart softened. But he refused all my entreaties to come in and scorned the saucerful of food I left outside for him.

  The next day I was trying to work in the study on my latest story (incidentally featuring a family of cuddly cats and their even cuddlier kittens). Debenham was missing again, but I hoped and believed he would be back when he got really hungry. Unless, of course, he found another food source to keep him going for a while. The telephone rang and I went downstairs to submit to a long and exasperating call from my mother who wanted to know (yet again) when Bob and I were going to start a family and make her a grandmother. When I finally got rid of her, I decided I needed something to revive me and I went to the kitchen to brew a really strong cup of coffee.

  So it was about twenty or twenty-five minutes before I returned to the study, and, to my surprise, Debenham dashed out of the room just as I entered. I called to him but he had vanished through the cat flap again. I sat down and tried to bring my thoughts back to my happy cats and kittens story; I checked back on the screen to refresh my memory. This was what I read:

        'debi not lov mary
        'debi hate big man
        'debi tell bob big man in bed with mary
        'debi lov bob best.'

  I could not credit what I was reading. I shut my eyes, shook my head and read it again. It was real. Debenham could write. He could understand English. And he had irrevocably damaged the plasma screen of my laptop with a series of deep claw marks. I looked down at the keyboard to see the scratches where he had painstakingly typed out his message. I sat very still for a few moments, trying to take in the fact that I had a cat who had mastered human language on my hands. And what is more, a cat who seemed intent on telling my husband that his wife had been unfaithful to him. I went downstairs to find Debenham. He was skulking nervously under one corner of the kitchen table, ready to run to the cat flap if necessary.

  'Debi, Debi, Come on, Debi,' I said softly. 'I shan't hurt you. I love you, Debi. You can trust me.' Debenham looked at me suspiciously and said 'miaow'. I held out my hand to him and he came out from under the table slowly and cautiously. He allowed me to stroke his back.
  'Can you really understand me?' I asked nervously.
  'Miaow,' said Debenham.
  'Do you really know what I'm talking about, Debi?'
  'Miaow,' he repeated.

  I looked him in the eyes. Even if Debenham could understand me, even if he could type, he obviously couldn't speak. 'Let me pick you up, Debi, and I'll carry you upstairs and you can talk to me on the computer.' By way of answer, Debenham rushed out of the kitchen, ran up the stairs and went to the study to wait for me. I could not believe what was happening; I was seriously contemplating having a computer-assisted conversation with a cat. When I reached the study, Debenham was sitting waiting by the keyboard. I sat down and he climbed onto my lap.

  'Can you understand what I am saying, Debi?' I asked him and, slowly and very deliberately, Debenham typed out ' y-e-s '. I stared at the letters on the screen.
  'How long have you been able to understand humans, Debi?'I enquired of him.
  'l-o-n-g  t-i-m-e ,' typed Debenham.
  'How did you learn, Debi?'
  'd-e-b-i  s-e-e  m-a-r-y  r-i-t-e  o-n  c-o-m-p-u-t-e-r ,' answered Debenham, careful letter after careful letter.

  I sat and stroked the cat for a few minutes in silence until he started to struggle to get his right, typing, paw free. With what I suppose I must describe as a look of intense concentration on his face, he slowly and painstakingly composed his longest message to date, before running out of the room.

  ' debi still love mary but mary dont love debi or bob no mor,' was the disturbing message on my computer screen.



CHAPTER THREE

I could tell no one about Debenham's linguistic ability. I couldn't tell Bob, Jamie, anyone. Who would believe me? And if I demonstrated Debenham to Bob, God alone knew what hideous message the cat would give my husband. Debenham remained distant with me, and fawned on Bob instead. I could not help think this was deliberate: the cat was trying to hurt me. I felt obliged to tell Jamie he definitely couldn't come back to the house; he said I was obsessive about my stupid cat and I retorted that Debenham was anything but stupid, Debenham was highly intelligent and sensitive. Jamie was less than sympathetic and I was not certain if I really wanted to see him any more; I was becoming more and more guilty about the affair. So we agreed not to meet for a couple of weeks. I knew that I didn't really want to give him up, but I needed some time to think what I should do about Debenham. I couldn't let my life be based upon the jealous whims of an animal.

  After a few days, relations got back to something near to normal between me and the cat. I intentionally avoided having any more electronic conversations with Debenham, but I spoke to him several times and he miaowed in what I took to be agreement; I tried to reassure him by being extra affectionate to Bob whenever the cat was in the room to observe. I realised with something approaching horror that I was putting on an act for the benefit of my English-speaking cat. I sometimes thought I was going mad, but I only had to go upstairs and re-read the copy of Debenham's messages I had saved on a password-protected file to reassure myself that the threat was real.

  Soon, Bob went away on a much longer trip than usual, and Jamie and I arranged to meet in a hotel. Jamie would be able to get away overnight and I was eagerly looking forward to a whole night of uninterrupted passion with my lover. I left sufficient food and water out for Debenham to see him through until the following lunchtime.

  When I returned from the assignation, Debenham was waiting in the hall. He looked distressed and, squawking very insistently, led me up to the study and sat expectantly on the typist's chair, staring meaningfully at the closed laptop. I realised with a sinking feeling in my stomach he wanted to talk to me, so I switched it on for him. Again the look of deep concentration came over him as he carefully selected the keys he required. Letter by letter, the message appeared on the screen. When he made what he saw as a mistake, he would hit the "delete" key in what seemed to be frustration and correct himself. After each sentence he hit "carriage return" quite deliberately. Debenham's spelling was phonetic rather than formal and he could even punctuate after a fashion, but I was strangely relieved to see he had not mastered the question mark. That really would have been too much to live with. I watched the message take shape.

  ' w-a-i-r  m-a-r-y  l-a-s-t  n-i-t-e
  ' d-e-b-i  s-a-d  a-n-d  l-o-n-l-y
  ' d-e-b-i  t-h-i-n-k  m-a-r-y  w-i-t-h  b-i-g  b-a-d  m-a-n .'

  Relations remained strained for the next few days. When Bob got back, Debenham followed him around like a pet dog and I watched them nervously. I was all too conscious that the cat was waiting for an opportunity to tell Bob about my lover, the "big bad man" whom the cat hated because he had come between Debenham and his family. It was then that I decided Debenham had to go.

  I waited until Bob's next away trip, captured Debenham, put him into his carrying box and took him to the vet. Debenham was frightened and made a lot of noise, so I quietened him down by telling him it was time for his injection. Didn't he remember he had them regularly? They were to keep him healthy. Did he want to get cat flu? Debenham fell silent as he recalled previous trips in the wicker box, previous jabs and then a safe return home to consoling cuddles and pats.

  At the veterinary surgery, I left Debenham in the reception area whilst I spoke to the nurse. I didn't want the cat to overhear what I had to say. I kissed Debi goodbye through the wire door and told him I would pick him up in a couple of hours. But I knew I wouldn't. I had asked the vet to put him to sleep. I went home, feeling guilty and horribly ashamed about what I had done.

  When I reached the house, there was a message on the answerphone. The vet was unwilling to put down a perfectly healthy cat. She understood I no longer wanted him and disapproved of my treating animals as objects to be discarded like unwanted toys. She would find Debenham a new home. I phoned the surgery back and said I agreed. I even apologised for my behaviour. The vet was frosty; but she would let me know when Debenham had been rehoused. I said I would rather not know where he went in case I regretted getting rid of him. I felt relieved that the cat did not have to die just because he was too clever and too loving.

  I told Bob that poor Debenham had been involved in a road accident and the vet had said it would be kinder to put him to sleep rather than to try and treat his injuries. Bob was very upset; I hadn't realised just how attached he had become to the cat over the years. I felt terrible: I had betrayed my husband and I had lost my beloved cat. In a fit of guilt and shame, I told Jamie we were finished. He was probably grateful to escape from an unbalanced woman. I decided he was a bit of a bastard anyway.

  A month or two passed and I started to get over the loss of Debenham. As compensation, whenever I passed a friendly-looking cat sitting on a fence in the street, I would stroke it and talk to it. One day a curiously worrying thought occurred to me: could other cats understand humans or was Debenham unique? Either option was utterly mad, of course, but I decided I would try and find out. Obviously cats couldn't speak to me, but maybe they could give me a sign? I evolved a short interview and a set of unequivocal responses, responses which could not be random or accidental.

  'Hello pussy. Can you understand me? If you can understand what people say, give a big miaow and then wag your tail twice,' was my final text. If the cat miaowed and wagged its tail twice, I would ask it a second question, and the sign for "yes" would change: the cat would need to start purring (if it was not purring already) or to stop purring (if it was purring at the time). Not only that: it would also need to stand up (if sitting) or to sit down (if standing). The sign for "no" would be to miaow "four" times. This surely ruled out, I reasoned, all possibilities of my misinterpreting the feline interviewee’s responses.

  The first two cats I interrogated ignored me totally. The third one miaowed twice and started purring; his tail swished dramatically at least a dozen times; I was a little disconcerted by this: maybe cat number three had misunderstood me? But he ran off before I could investigate further. I felt anxious for my sanity. The fourth cat head-butted me affectionately and the fifth one tried to bite my thumb.

  When I questioned the sixth cat (a large black Persian female), it said 'miaow' very loudly and slowly wagged its tail twice before staring intently at me with interested yellow eyes. I knelt down and stroked the animal's glossy fur as it began purring and rubbing its head and sides against me. I asked question number two: 'Can all cats understand what people say, pussy?' I asked, not believing what was happening. Slowly and deliberately, the cat sat down and stopped purring before turning to stare at me again in total silence. I stroked it for a few minutes, my heart pounding against my ribs in shock. I said goodbye and received a friendly 'miaow' by way of reply. I walked down the street in a daze: either the brute was lying or all cats understood English (but approximately five in six refused to communicate with humans on purpose, as a matter of obstinate principle). Or maybe they were foreign. Or maybe their owners were foreign. Or maybe I had misinterpreted that look in the Persian's eyes. When I got home, I poured myself a double whisky. I needed a holiday.


CHAPTER FOUR     

Six months passed. During that time, taking care no one overheard me, I occasionally repeated the experiment. Most cats ignored me, although I felt that several gave me a very strange look. Maybe one in five responded correctly to my questions and they always gave the same answers. I varied the codes for the responses, but I still received the same information. There could be no mistake. All cats could understand human speech, but a majority either refused to discuss the matter or feigned ignorance, which amounted to the same thing. I told no one.

  One evening, when he couldn't find a parking place in front of the house, Bob came in and told me he had seen a cat who looked incredibly like Debenham hanging about round the corner. He told me he had picked the cat up and tried to carry it home to show me the striking resemblance to our dead pet. But the lookalike had taken fright when it realised it was being carried away and had wriggled free and ran off. I felt a shiver run down my spine. Debenham was trying to get back to us. He had found out what I had tried to do to him and he wanted his revenge. I felt hysterical.

  Another few months and I gradually put the incident to the back of my mind. In the meantime I had searched the neighbourhood repeatedly for any sighting of Debenham. Maybe Bob had been wrong about the resemblance.

  Then: a new development. It was a beautiful summer evening and I had been working in the study all day. I went out to the back garden to take a break and have a chat with Bob, who was reluctantly doing some gardening. After maybe twenty minutes, Bob persuaded me I had done enough writing for one day and said he'd switch off my computer whilst I opened a bottle of wine and fetched a couple of glasses. I was in the kitchen as I heard him calling for me.

  When I got to the study he was standing pointing at my open laptop. After the damage done by Debenham the previous year, I had replaced the plasma screen. To my horror, the new screen was badly scratched, covered in angry criss-cross claw marks. I forced myself to read the message on the screen.

  'mary sleep with nasty men
  'mary not love bob
  'only debi love bob.'

  I felt sick. I could feel my heart pumping erratically. I knew Bob was waiting for some explanation, but what was I supposed to say?  A computer virus? A malicious prankster? My own sick, masochistic lunacy? A practical joke on the part of a supposedly dead cat? I sat down to try and think for a moment, but realised that the seat of the typist's chair was soaking wet. The cloth covering had been ripped to shreds and it was soaked in feline urine and soft faeces, now flattened into a mulch by my own weight. And I knew Debenham must be hiding somewhere in the house. Waiting and watching.

THE END
 

COPYRIGHT EDNA SWEETLOVE & DEBENHAM 2005