text: ...........”It’s war. Making this proclamation was Fenrir the magnificent, undisputed king of the cat cabal. Born of noble lineage, rarest of chinchilla Persian cats. With a silky luxuriously thick white fur, finely etched streaks of black on paws and around the neck, he was spectacular. Fenrir resided in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. His owner, Lord Garvagh, was descended from the errant son of a noble English family, banished to cool his aristocratic heels in the colonies. Links to the famous Courtauld's silversmiths kept the family in financially good shape. Fenrir loved his home. The finest example of Victorian elegance in the smartest section .of the neighborhood, That scent of old money. Hard to describe, a bit of bergamot, faint lemon scented beeswax, a superb mix of deep comfort and warmth. Daily feedings from Waterford crystal dishes of minced sirloin and cartons of full cream, Fenrir knew only the best. ..........” If you keep him permanently indoors, he’ll be a lovable, loyal companion. If you let him roam outside, he’ll be the same but a much happier cat” instructed his veterinarian, Dr. Feelgood. ### As daylight faded into dusky mysterious late evenings, lights appeared all over the City illuminating the mix of tall offices, apartment buildings, and stately old Victorian red brick mansions, the architecture of Bay Ridge. That was the time, each evening, when Fenrir strode confidently into the throng. A delightfully raucous bunch his best friends were two sisters, mangey striped tabbies, who lived in a nearby apartment building. A couple of battle-scarred tomcats who thought their names were Shoo and Scram. They were subsisting in a cruel world . Food was restaurant leftovers, which they fought over with cat gangs, and anywhere they could lick moisture, usually from drains. Then there was Sheba! An alley girl, of doubtful origin, she had great natural elegance. Demurely flirting with sidelong glances in his direction, he trembled in ecstasy. To revel in the most sensual delights regardless of status was every cat’s right. There are no exceptions. Twirling his whiskers contemplating nightly trysts, he could have jumped over the moon. Interrupting his reverie, was the sight of a rodent’s rump. The signal for a full-scale attack. Every cat was expected to do its bit to save the neighborhood being slowly nibbled away. Tally ho! missile-like the chase was on, round the corner, over a mound of garbage, Fenrir would have made the kill except for a newspaper, slapped by the breeze into his face, swatting it with a paw, it rebounded wrapping itself around his noble head. #### He couldn’t have imagined how awful things could go so wrong so fast. Opening the kitchen window, placing an apple pie on the sill to cool was mistake number one, by Aggie the cook-housekeeper. Straight from the oven, bubbling rivulets of amber liquid cascaded oozing and caramelizing over the golden brown pastry. A favorite of Lord Garvagh and his luminaries at their weekly Bridge game, it was served room temperature with Devonshire cream. ### Newly arrived and settling into the relative safety of urban life, a family of crows was attracted by the aroma of the pie invitingly placed within their reach. Seizing the opportunity with a “come and get it” excitement several more arrived. Highly intelligent, they carved up that pie in seconds. Classified by some obscure woman in the 18th century the murder of crows, nomen est omen, was spot on in this case. Dastardly intelligent those birds swooped down, sliced the pie into several pieces, and up and away to their nests. A feast for all and spare in the larder. ## After clearing the first course, Aggie returned to the kitchen looking at an empty pie dish on the open window, not a crumb left. Angrily, she had to blame ...who? and looked with suspicion at the only possible explanation. Fenrir who loved the companionship and tasty titbits always fed to him, when Aggie was working, stared up at her pleading innocence with his incredibly ice-blue eyes. Witnessing the crime, knowing birds were off limits, he was stunned by their audacity, but helpless to intervene. Fenrir must have scarfed the whole thing, Aggie concluded. She couldn’t produce another pie. Biscuits and cheese and a profound apology sufficed. Banished from the kitchen and scolded by Lord Garvagh, Fenrir was In hot water. Relating the incident later to his friends, they commiserated but were doubtful of his chances. ..........” they’ll send you away, Fenrir,” said the tabbies. ..........” or drop you off at the undertaker as permanent mouser,” said Sheba, mournfully. ...........” heh heh hee.....It’s kibbles ‘n bits, ooh, and 2%. Heh heh sniggered the Toms displaying misplaced but not malicious humor. A fault of the lower classes . ...........” with a name like mine, I’m going to fight this” Fenrir exclaimed with much eclat. Sheba smiled. ...........”I’m with you, who else is up to defend our leader” A combined murmur of assent, with one paw raised, was the answer. ### It was a wonderful show of bravado, but nothing more. The nights were growing chilly, and so was the temperature inside for Fenrir. Banished to the basement, he commuted through the rusty bars of a busted window. Acutely aware of rejection, he began to molt. His once glossy coat turned dull and lifeless ### His nightly sojourn was now merely a reminder of loss of status. Dejected and humiliated, like Napoleon after Waterloo, defeat was intolerable. Although valiantly supporting their leader, there was little the cats could do. What a farce to talk of retaliation. ### Salvation is always a miracle and rewarding in every sense of the word. It came as a direct result of greed by the crows. Emboldened and fearless they circled in ever-widening flocks and on impulse rushed and struck the kitchen window with sharp impatient beats. What a commotion! Even Lord Garvagh in his study on the top floor heard it. Aggie, immediately realizing the cause and effect of the situation, ran for the broom. Flogging the daylight out of those rascals they scattered as autumn leaves disturbed by a blower. Peace and tranquility returned to the household. With an outpouring of love and affection, Fenrir was showered, primped, and cosseted like Marie Antoinette during her good days. Triumphantly restored to prominence, Fenrir glowed and Sheba wore the mantle of First Lady once more. All’s well that ends well........not quite. During his banishment the cats would often come by for a little cat nap, chew the fat and tell a few yarns. They liked Fenrir. Noticing the absence of greedy crows and no more demanding window bashing, Lord Garvagh and Aggie were cautiously optimistic. One fine evening Lord Garvagh strolling around his beautiful garden saw the two tomcats resting in a bed of golden marigolds. Aha, that’s the reason, he thought. They keep the crows away. Bending down intending to pat the head he could only see one ear, and the other cat a socket where an eye should rest. .............”Poor little buggahs” he said to himself. At his express instruction Aggie would put out each evening Tupperware containing hamburger and milk. Shoo and Scram were on easy street at last.