The stench of wet cat fur wafted between raindrops, making Uncle Bertie sneeze on the casket. Next to him, his missus had curled herself on her side to protect their little ones--four female tabbies and a pure white little tom that definitely was not Uncle Bertie's.
Parson Tiddlywinks droned from next to the gawping hole in the ground. "Our dearly departed," he'd said. The truth was, not a single soul had ever called Great Aunt Hortense "dear." The Manx had been a mean old biddy. But worst of all, she'd been an owned cat!
The soggy felines regretted the jabs and jibes now. Her solicitor had announced via whispered rumor that there was a will and a substantial inheritance--substantial enough for even Mrs. Fluffy Muffin and her fatherless litter of eleven to live on for years to come.
Tiddlywinks finally stopped speaking. He wiped rain from his spectacles and tried to get up a hymn as the casket was lowered, but rain and a dislike of the interred got him no more than a grumbled hum before he gave up.
Before the casket can thump against the dank earth at the bottom of the hole, however, a yowl sounded from behind the dripping mass of Persians. Hortense's solicitor, Mr. Nero Roundbottom, shouldered his way through the throng of onlookers. His six mouse servants ran alongside him, each with a substantial umbrella held above the vast bulk of orange tabby.
"Ah, so many managed to show up today," he said. "I must say, I am indeed surrrprrrised!" This last words was hissed through a maniacal smile worthy of the lunatic he was.
Parson Tiddlywinks to halt Mr. Roundbottom until Hortense was fully in her grave, but Mr. Roundbottom swatted him aside, and sat, curling his kinked tail around his forepaws.
Cousin Lulu, a ragdoll with a legendary tendency to vocalize, said, "At least the rest of us were willing to lay the old ball of fur to rest without making a mockery of a such a sacred ritual!"
"Sacrrred rrritual indeed!" he snarled. "You call herrr an old ball of furrr while her body lies just there beforrre you?" Then he flicked a nod from one of the mouse servants to Miss Lulu. The mouse pulled out a piece of paper, scratched a pen across it, and hid the paper away again. The mouse then bowed to Mr. Roundbottom who said, "You may leave, Lulu."
When she merely looked at him with jaw agape, Mr. Roundbottom nodded to the three brutish-looking mice. They approached Lulu. She ragdolled in their arms, and they carried her, limp and wailing, from the crowd.
Mr. Roundbottom stroked a whisker as he surveyed the other cats, who were now so wet they were in danger of becoming catfish.
"Does anyone else have anything to say about our dear Great Aunt Hortense?" he asked.
They shuffled their paws, and though a few whispered to each other, no one had a thing to say.
"Well, she was just so blasted mean!" one of the Tonkinese nephews finally said. The mouse crossed him off the list.
"She smelled funny," a three-week-old Mau kitten said, its siblings nodding in agreement. The list came out again.
One by one, each of the guests decided that no inheritance was worth saying a kind thing about Hortense, until there was only one left.
"Well," said little Mittens, "I guess . . . well, she weren't the worst old cat there ever was."
"Hmmm," Mr. Roundbottom said. "I guess that will have to do."
He ushered him under the umbrella and handed him a deed! But . . . oh, no. It was not some great inheritance! At the top of the deed were these words:
"OWNER: LITTLE MARY ANDERSON, AGE 6, OF THE FARMHOUSE"
"Mmmeowww, no!!!" Mittens shouted. "I hated Hortense! I hated her!"
But it was too late. A mouse servant wrote Mittens' name under "PROPERTY," and a small human hand scooped Mittens up and carried him away.
