Alex Howard - Library Cat

Library Cat is not like most cats. This is because Library Cat is a thinking cat.

I think therefore I am, thought Library Cat one autumn morning. (You see what I mean?)

Library Cat lives in Edinburgh. He has one white paw and one black paw with a white tip that makes it look like it has been dipped into a churn of fresh milk. Along his back runs fur so fine and ethereal that in the correct light it shimmers like a cornfield in a summer breeze. His eyes are green and flecked with gold more alert than a normal cats. Just right of his nose is a little white splodge, as if his mouth had got too close while lapping from the same milk churn, and from this mouth extend whiskers so unusually elegant and curled that one might suspect, on seeing them alone, that there is something magical about Library Cat.

Library Cat was born eight years ago in the Edinburgh University Chaplaincy. Despite a rather biblical sense of self-importance, he is not, however, an especially religious cat. Among the litter, he has six other brothers and sisters. Library Cat is the only thinking cat among them. His brothers and sisters had gone on to live perfectly pleasant lives, with warm firesides and good cardboard boxes to sleep in, they were well-fed and well-groomed and they had become a most serviceable set of mouse catchers.

But things had turned out a little differently for Library Cat. This is because, a mere two months following his birth, something started to kindle inside his mind. It was the spark of thought. He therefore did what all thinking cats are destined to do: seek out books. This is why you can still find him in and out of Edinburgh University Library to this day, sitting in his favourite turquoise chair in the foyer, the perfect place in which to sleep, think and observe.

Library Cat has many things he likes, and many more things he dislikes. Among his favourite things are bacon rind, tickles behind the left ear, and the stunning eloquence of The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche. Among his most disliked things are fireworks, water (except to drink), unsubstantiated claims, the Black Dog (from whom he lived in terror), noises between the frequency range of 4.5 and 16.5 hertz, Human-to-Animal condescension, the beige colour of pot-hole puddles, drug trafficking, cucumbers and exuberance.

Library Cat has a French cousin called Biblio Chat. Biblio Chat is also a thinking cat. This does not mean he and Library Cat agree on everything. Far from it. Biblio Chat detests bacon rind. It lacks, if we are to quote him accurately, Le Crunch Facteur.

Among Biblio Chats most cherished things are radiators between the temperature range of 38 and 40.5 degrees centigrade, tickles under his neck, being combed and pt. He too hates Human-to-Animal condescension as well the recent rise in political apathy. He is also more successful with girl cats than Library Cat.

Library Cat often found himself thinking negatively towards his cousin: Damn him and his showy rejection of dried food! Whats wrong with Whiskas Tuna? Its adequate nourishment, is it not? The Crunch Factor indeed!

But Biblio Chat is a thinking cat, and that counts for a lot. There are precious few thinking cats on this earth. Indeed, a thinking cat is lucky if he finds one other thinking cat with whom to share thoughts during his entire lifetime, let alone one who is also a blood relation.

Library Cat does not own much, though one might be forgiven for believing that he owns everything he ever sat on, looked at, biffed with his paw and chased through the grass. But one thing Library Cat definitely does own are his thoughts. They twist through his mind like the threads of dye in water. Some are delicious and featured succulent mice, warm beds and the crisp, colourful imagery of Sylvia Plath; others like paradoxes, quadratic equations and Human warfare are grey and dead-ended, and strike tiny sparks of discord across his little feline synapses. One thing that hes sure about, however, is that his thoughts all his thoughts are his own. And nobody knows about them, not least of all any Human.

And what a relief that is, thought Library Cat.

So the time has come, Human, to sit back and behold those tiny white pearls of thought of a cats mind. Read carefully; you never know, you might just learn something. After all, Library Cat thinks us Humans have it all wrong. And hes going to show us why

Library Cat was trying to sleep. He was counting sheep to help him:

One, and indeed, Two, and indeed Three, and indeed, Four, and indeed, Fiv hmm, would we call that one a sheep? Could be a goat? And indeed Five, and indeed Six, and indeed Seven

It was early morning. All around Library Cats bed, dust sparkled in a thin ray of sunlight. Around him, books rested in hidden corners. There were thick books, small books, old books with golden spines and bookmarks of red ribbon, boxes of books, and his favourite books with small slivers of catnip sitting on top of them.

And indeed Eight, and indeed Nine, and indeed, Ten On the floor was more ribbon, this time chewed and frayed, and scattered like confetti. To one side was a scruffy bowl of dried food and water, and beyond it, a dusty cat flap that swayed gently in the gusty autumn air.

And indeed Eleven, and indeed Twel OH ITS NO USE! Library Cat opened his eyes, a resigned expression on his face. Lazily he raised himself up on his four paws and arched his back up into an old medieval humpbacked bridge. He paused. Then, after a brief shake of the head, he yawned, revealing a whole line of pink, concertinaed ridges along the back of his mouth.

That feels most pleasing, he thought.

And now his paws. First the black one with the white tip he stretched it right out like a policemans truncheon raised in warning. Next, his white paw followed in slow succession. And then he rested (for too much sudden exercise is detrimental to a cats constitution). Some moments later, after a brief snooze, he rose fully and walked over to the window. His bedroom was in the basement, and in order to see the outside world he was forced to leap upon a low windowsill and raise himself up on his hind legs, his forepaws on the windowpane, so that his eye line was just about level with the pavement outside. Today, he gazed out blearily. Beyond the cobblestoned road that lay a short trot from the chaplaincys railings was George Square, littered with coloured leaves that spun in little vortices of wind along the pavement. It was early autumn and the light was apricot coloured, and as the little leaves spun crisply down the pavement, Library Cat sensed for the first time that summer was well and truly over.