A savvy cat named Pride narrates a comic tale of jealous rivalry in the hairdressing world. Pride’s observations give an insight into the relationship between his owners, Russell, who is head of household, and his partner Liam.
The following story was originally published as part of the anthology ‘The Corridor and Other Stories.’
The following story was originally published as part of the anthology ‘The Corridor and Other Stories.’
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Pride Goes Before A Fall
Yeah! I posed in front of the dressing table mirror. It definitely made me look more interesting. I’d been kind of bland before. Yep, I liked it. It was funky. Goddamit I looked cool. Hey, I could pull looking like this. The ladies will be fighting over me - until they discover I have no nuts. Then they’ll lose interest. Females are like that, only interested in what you have dangling between your legs and all I have is a vacant space where my pride and joys used to be. I wouldn’t mind so much, but I’d hardly used them.
I was just getting the hang of them when the Lord and Master decreed they had to come off. There was no consultation, no let’s sit down and chat about the pros and cons. It was just a case of woof, off with his bollocks.
Liam, bondservant of the Lord and Master, argued my corner, or more accurately my cobblers, saying it was cruel and unnatural and what if I died under the knife or complications set in afterwards, none of which had occurred to me. It made me feel even more terrified. He can be a bit of a Job’s comforter at times can Liam. It was all to no avail. The Lord and Master had the final word. He always does.
On the day of the actual crime Liam managed to spring me. I was caged and awaiting my fate when he craftily slipped the lock and let me out, intending to hide me in a secret location until it was too late for the executioner to execute his dastardly business on my love-rocks.
Naturally the Lord and Master was not pleased at being thwarted. In fact he was totally pissed off because he’d taken precious time off work. Liam courageously refused to divulge my hiding place so the Lord and Master wreaked terrible vengeance. He put poor Liam under painful torture, hauling him over his knee and applying a burning torch, or hand, as the dominant one refers to it, to his bare bottom until it flamed redder than a gasworks sunset.
Liam sang like a bird. Five minutes later I’m back in the cage and on my way to keep my appointment with the ball bagger and Liam is clapped in irons for the rest of the day, or sent to bed for his own good, as the Lord and Master prefers to call the strange practice. Ah well, at least Liam tried, even if he didn’t hold up terribly well under spanking torture.
I punished the Lord and Master for his officious transgression by withdrawing my affection for several days after the terrible occurrence, refusing to believe his assertions that what had been done, had been done for my own good. As Liam pointed out he wouldn’t like it if someone robbed his jewel box of its diamonds and then said it was all for charity.
Liam also tried to withdraw his affection so we could stand united against the heartless tyrant, but he soon cracked and sold out for a kiss and cuddle in front of the telly. He is such a pushover sex-junkie slut. When they took the cuddle upstairs to the bedroom I followed and hid under the bed. When they reached the crucial moment I craftily emerged and sharpened my claws on the Lord and Master’s rhythmically bobbing bare orbs. I don’t know who screamed louder or leapt higher, him or Liam. It gave a whole new meaning to the term hitting the magic button. Liam was cross-eyed for a week.
On the whole Liam and me are very close. He looks out for me, like the other day when I hawked up clumps of deceased sparrow into the Lord and Master’s new shoes. The latter got very stony faced and demanded to know why I’d been scoffing bloody birds between meals again.
Liam came to my rescue and hastily got rid of the evidence claiming it was fur balls and it was Russell’s fault for not grooming me properly (Russell is the Lord and Master’s other name) Master Russell then apologised for coming over all dog like and barking at me. He picked me up and cuddled me instead, which was nice. He’s not all bad, and despite the gonad incident I am fond of him. After all, he did rescue me from a life of poverty and danger after I was dumped in a cardboard box on the hard shoulder of the motorway.
My poor sister wasn’t so lucky. She was crushed to death under the wheels of a wagon. It was horrible. There wasn’t enough left of her to make a fur trim for a Supermodel’s thong. Yes, I’m very lucky really. I shouldn’t quibble over small things, not that they were, small I mean.
I purred and butted my head against Liam’s hand to show I liked what he’d done for me. He scratched my head, just behind the left ear, my favourite spot.
He’s been quiet today. He hasn’t talked much at all. Usually he talks ten to the dozen rabbiting on about work and who’s shagging whom in Eastenders and Coronation Street. When he isn’t talking it’s usually because he’s eating everything he can lay hands on. He hasn’t done much of that either.
I think he might be going down with one of those human cold things, which is nice in a way, nice for me anyway. Liam isn’t keen, mainly because his Lordship will dose him with pills and potions and pack him off to bed like some helpless child. Liam hates it, but I like it because I get to cuddle up in bed with him, though I want it noted I am NOT gay. Me and Liam are just good friends. Yes I am aware that grammatically I should probably say Liam and I, but I am a cat, thus it is all me, me, me!
Now, to return to the point I was making, I am not gay or into humanality. My relationship with Liam is pure and noble. There’s no funny stuff, no hanky panky or heavy breathing. I leave all that to Liam and the Masterful one. I just watch from time to time. Well a kinky kit-less cat has to get his kicks somehow and his Lordship owes me.
Talking of the devil I wonder how he’ll like my new look? He can be a bit old fashioned in some respects and then in others surprisingly modern for a man of two hundred and seventeen (that’s about thirty one in human years) I think he’ll like it. We’ll soon find out. There’s his key in the lock now.
Like most megalomaniacs he likes his adoring servants to meet him at the door of an evening, especially when he’s been away for a few days. I’d better go and humour him - after all he is in charge of the tin opener around here.
Usually Liam makes an attempt to get downstairs ahead of me to be first to greet the Lord and Master, but not this time. I reached the bedroom door and turned round to see where he was, but he’d vanished. The Crafty bugger! He’d obviously been practising some nifty moves on the sly and was probably already halfway down the stairs on his way to breaking my unbroken record for being first to get a homecoming hug.
I bolted across the landing and down the stairs into the hall just as Master Russell shut the door and turned round with his usual warm smile of greeting. The warm smile froze and shattered and he threw himself backwards, thudding against the door as if he’d been shot, his eyes wide with shock.
“Jeee-SUS CHRIST!”
Where, where? I whirled round expecting to see the Son of God hovering on a cloud in the hall behind me, but there was no heavenly apparition in sight. In fact it suddenly registered that Liam wasn’t there either. Apart from yours truly there was only Master Russell who appeared to be suffering hallucinations of a religious nature.
I voiced my concern and wound around his ankles demanding to be noticed and stroked before he recanted all past misdeeds and left us to become a missionary in the land of the heathen, or Middlesbrough as it’s better known.
“Pride?” He reached down a trembling hand to touch me. “Is that you?”
Who the hell did he think it was? Then it dawned on me. He thought I was Jesus, hence his reaction when he saw me. It was tragic. He’d obviously had some kind of breakdown. I mean I know no one really knows what Jesus looked like, but common sense tells you that the Disciples wouldn’t have laid down their nets to follow a four-legged furry feline Messiah. They’d have been more likely to fling their nets over him, fearful lest he was sinfully lusting after their fish and plotting to purloin them.
The miracle of the five loaves and two fishes would have been something of a damp squib if Jesus had been a moggy. For a start he’d have scoffed the two fish long before he performed any miracle on them. Cats are greedy like that. Our motto is feed me now, now, now I don’t care about anybody else. It’s the nature of the beast and I should know.
It would have been the miracle of the five loaves, full stop, and afterwards, while everyone else was clearing up crumbs, the feline Messiah would have slurped all the water earmarked for wine turning, and then curled up in one of the breadbaskets and gone to sleep.
“Poor Pride, my baby, my poor little boy.”
Master Russell, nut nobbler, seemed to regain some of his sense, though him thinking he’d sired me did cause me some mild disturbance. I just couldn’t picture him and my mother together. The proportions were all wrong, not to mention the gender. I could more easily imagine him with my father, whoever he was.
Poor Master Russell. He was obviously mentally unstable, which begged the question: was he fit to be an all-powerful ruler of brats and cats?
He picked me up and stared at me, some of the colour returning to his face. In fact, I cocked my head on one side. It was flooding back. In vivid contrast to the hot red spots on each cheek his eyes turned into orbs of ice.
“LIAM! YOU UNHOLY BRAT!”
Adam-Eve-and-Moses (I’m a big fan of the Old Testament, all that begetting and smiting really turns me on) I flattened my ears as his baritone voice just about raised the roof tiles. I’ve got sensitive ears I have and the Lord and Master too often forgets it. Men of power can be so insensitive sometimes.
There was no response to his bellow. He didn’t bellow again much to my relief. Instead he put me down and bounded up the stairs three at a time. The big show off! I galloped after him, overtaking him on the landing and shooting into the bedroom.
Liam didn’t look pleased to see me. I can lip read you know and I was a bit hurt to be honest. Being mouthed to ‘fuck off’ when you’d popped your head under the bed to say a friendly hello was a bit much in my book. I withdrew with dignity. In sharp contrast Liam was forcibly withdrawn without any kind of dignity.
Master Russell pointed at me, hissing. “Be so kind as to explain that monstrosity.”
Oh, charming. He obviously wasn’t struck on the new look me. I was disappointed. After all I’m still the same cat underneath. Surely it doesn’t matter what my exterior looks like and anyway I think I look nice. I especially like my multi colour tail with the purple bit at the end. Honestly, there’s no pleasing some folk. You’d think Master Russell would be a bit more hip considering his profession.
“Don’t look at me, Russ. I didn’t do it. I came home from work to find him like that. It must be some kid’s idea of a Halloween prank.”
Ooh, the little fibber, I can’t see the Lord and Master falling for…
“Ow-Ow-OW that hurts!”
Nope. I didn’t think he would. When it comes down to it, Lord Russell can smite arse with the best of the Old Testament Prophets. My eyes are watering in sympathy.
“Don’t.”
“Ow!”
“You dare.”
“RUSSELL!”
“Lie to me! Pride wouldn’t stay still long enough for anyone but you to do something like that. I want to know what the hell possessed you to paint the cat, and don’t even think about claiming demonic possession on account of the date?”
This should be good. Liam’s excuses usually have entertainment value if no actual connection with reality. He’s taking a deep breath. He must be going for the fitting the most words into the shortest space of time approach. His theory being if he can manage to confuse Lord R enough the charges will get dropped and his backside will enjoy the discipline equivalent of diplomatic immunity. Here we go…
“I was bored and you know what they say about the idle finding work for the devil’s hands or something like that. I needed to keep busy while you were away. With it being Halloween and in the spirit of the event you were attending without me, I thought I’d demonstrate my own considerable, but unfairly overlooked, abilities at colour techniques, and give Pride a Halloween costume into the bargain. What better costume than the rainbow to go with his name. It makes a statement. Halloweeners large and small will love seeing a rainbow coloured cat.
Also think of it as a kind of reverse psychology. Our cat reveals us to be what the graffiti daubed all over our back garden fence claims us to be. It confirms that yes indeed gays live here, and what’s more they’re proud of it. The raw honesty of the gesture will melt the hearts of the little bastards responsible, and thus cause them to desist from egging our house again this year. Pride doesn’t mind. I think he likes it. He’s an icon.”
Whoa! Cool! From plain white cat to rainbow coloured icon. Though I reiterate - I may be Pride, but I am not GAY Pride, just in case there’s any lady cats out there interested in a hot straight Tom who may not have a fully equipped undercarriage, but who does have an interestingly hooked tongue and is willing to give oral. Hmm, maybe I should put out an ad on the Kinkernet?
Master Russell gave a derisive snort. “Icon my arse!”
I wonder what he conned it out of? On second thoughts I don’t even want to think about it. I once got locked in the bathroom with him. It was horrific. I was originally a black cat you know, that’s when I turned white. I’m only glad there was a gap under the door to allow in some air otherwise I’d be pushing up daisies by now.
“He’s a bloody great eyesore. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw him!”
The Lord and Master will never make the priesthood, not with that disrespectful attitude to icons. He’ll have to become a Primitive Methodist or a Quaker or something.
“What exactly have you used on him? Some of those hair colourings are toxic. You should know that. They could poison him when he cleans himself.”
OMG! I’ve been poisoned. I’m going to die. Somebody help me! I can’t breathe. Loosen my slave collar and get me to the vet. I promise not to maul him. Help! Help!
“I may be the salon dimwit, Russell, not good enough to be chosen to represent us in anything as illustrious as The L’Oreal Colour Challenge Finals, but I’m not stupid enough to put Pride’s health at risk. I didn’t use hair dye. What kind of cruel idiot do you take me for? I painted him with Euro approved organic food dyes and yes I made sure that none of them had lily as a constituent. They’re all harmless.”
Thank the Sphinx for that. Oh no, Liam has started to cry. I don’t like it when he cries. He snorts snotty stuff everywhere and his voice goes high pitched and wobbly, as if someone is twisting his testes. (Lucky him to have some to twist I say) If he doesn’t stop crying soon I’m going to have to join in. After all I can’t allow Liam to be the sole centre of attention for too long. It’ll ruin him.
Master Russell doesn’t like it when his bondservant cries either. He’s holding him and gently rubbing his thumb over the back of his neck to comfort him. Liam likes that. I do too. Maybe Master Russell will rub my neck later, when he’s finished petting Liam.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to imply you would wilfully harm Pride. Even so, Liam, you shouldn’t have done it. It’s not fair on him. Apart from anything else he’ll cause a car crash if he darts across the road in his usual daft fashion looking like that, and he’ll have every kid in the district trying to pick him up and carry him home.”
Daft fashion? What a bloody nerve! I’ll have you know Mr High and Mighty that I have road crossing down to a fine art. No one can dart out from between parked cars with the same panache I can, and it will take a clever kid to get the better of me. Though if they offer me food I’m afraid I will have to consider taking it.
The Lord and Master has stopped petting Liam now. He’s holding him at arm's length and looking stern. Well he is a Top. He’s obligated by law to fit at least one stern look into every day otherwise his pension will suffer.
“We both know this little ‘statement’ has nothing to do with Halloween or boredom, don’t we, Liam?”
I hope this isn’t going to turn into one of their infamous question and answer sagas. I’m starving. I want my dinner.
“Do we, Russell?”
“Yes, Liam, we do. You may not be the salon dimwit, but by the same token neither am I.”
“I thought you’d really like it, Russell. I thought stroking your hand over Pride’s rainbow would give you a thrill and serve as a fond reminder of your romantic little trip.”
“And what ‘romantic little trip’ would that be, Liam my love?”
“You know, over the Rainbow. Isn’t that where you’ve been, somewhere over the Rainbow, like Judy Garland, or in your case, somewhere UP the Rainbow?”
Do I detect the scent of unsubstantiated accusation or is it just a stench of pure provocation. Either way I can see Liam is heading for a fall over this.
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Do I really need to spell it out, Russell? Do I need to sing a rainbow as well as paint one? I called your hotel room last evening. There was no answer and when I called his room the phone was engaged or OFF the hook, as in not to be disturbed. Tell me, Russell, did bluebirds fly for you while you were busy over the Rainbow?”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this, Liam. I really cannot believe my ears.”
Poor Lord Russell. He’s definitely losing it. As if hallucinations and imagining he’s daddy to a cat aren’t bad enough, he’s becoming paranoid and thinks his ears are lying to him now. He’s going to have to hand in his Top’s card if this decline continues.
He’s running both hands through his hair now. It means one of two things: either his hair stylist urges have overcome him and he’s attempting the tousled bed head look that’s all the rage just now, or he’s trying to stop his hands from straying towards the Liam’s throat.
“We’ve gone over and over this subject, Liam. I’m sick to bloody death of it. In fact I believe I declared it permanently closed before I left for London, didn’t I?”
When Lord Russell says a subject is closed, he means it’s closed, but does Liam take any notice? Does he heck, not him. He insists on trying to jemmy it back open again. I might have guessed he had ulterior motives for giving me an eye-catching makeover. He used me to bring the forbidden subject back into the public arena and score a point, the swine. I feel so cheap and dirty. I could end up in therapy.
“Liam?”
It is, it is going to turn into a saga and just like Beowulf it’ll be bloody endless. I’ll never get my dinner tonight thanks to Liam and his Rainbow rebellion. He’s such a jealous little sod. No wonder the Lord and Master gets pissed off with him.
By the way, in case you’re wondering, Rainbow is a person. He’s joint number two hair stylist and expert hair colourist at the Lord and Master’s salon. His honest to God name is Rainbow Diamond. It’s rumoured that his mother, who was already tripping on LSD, inhaled enough gas and air during the birth process to inflate a zeppelin. The baby was affected and didn’t so much need an umbilical cord as an anchor to stop him floating off into the stratosphere when she finally delivered. Apparently it needed a team of Russian cosmonauts to bring Ms Diamond back to earth whereupon she named her son Rainbow, Rain to his mates.
“I told you that I didn’t want to hear one more word on this subject, didn’t I, young man?”
Oh God. I wish he’d just torture Liam and get it over with. He knows he wants to. I can see his right hand twitching. I know. I’ll give them a chorus of the Cat’s hymn, you know the one I mean - it has the same tune as Blake’s Jerusalem. Hopefully it will encourage and inspire them to feed me first, and then they can fight all night. Here goes… Bring me my bowl of Kit-E-Kat chunks; bring me those objects of desire…
“Be quiet, Pride. Stop that dreadful caterwauling. I’ll feed you when I’m good and ready. As for you, Liam my lad, I’m still waiting for an answer. I’m going to count to three.”
Dead mouse on your side of the bed tonight, pal, for talking to me like that. Caterwauling indeed! Singing at its finest it was. I could have been a Mormon Tabernacle Choir contender I could. Come on, Liam, stop being such a bottom, or should that be arse, answer the Master. You don’t start something like this and expect it to be scraped under the kitty litter. You wanted to rile him and riled he is, so get on with the game.
“ONE!”
That made Liam jump. It made me jump too. Bag of nerves I am. It’s starvation that does it. Honour and feline spite demand I vomit in Master Russell’s Nikes for that one.
“TWO!”
What’s that all about, eh, counting? I’ve never really understood it. I hope Liam actually lets him count to three this time, just to see what happens. I bet nothing does, though it being Halloween I suppose there’s an outside chance of him being turned into a pumpkin. At least I could eat a pumpkin. Oh hang on he’s looking panicky. I think he’s about to crack.
“All right, Russell, calm down. There’s no need to count at me in that tone of voice. Yes you closed the subject, but I didn’t, which means the subject was only half closed and is therefore still half open.”
I didn’t think he’d last until the magic number three was spoken. I wonder if all Tops take three as the magic number? Maybe some take a higher number: I’m going to count to sixty-five, subtract it by forty and multiply it by seven and if you haven’t answered me by then, young man, by heavens I’ll take assorted consonants and vowels and there will be trouble! Hunger always makes me sarky.
“I’ve had enough of this nonsense, Liam, more than enough. We went over all this before I left, over and over and over it in fact. I’m not going through it ad infinitum. I told you what would happen if you persisted with this tantrum and that’s all it is, a jealous tantrum. Jeans and pants, get them down.”
“Down?”
“Down!”
Oh heaven help us all they’re going to break into a Status Quo song and my air guitar is at the dry cleaners. I won’t be able to join in.
“WHY?”
Wrong lyric, Liam my pet, it should have been ‘deeper and down.’ I know because I was there, watching it on the telly, the SQ tour Ipswich 04. The crowd was raising the roof. They were trying to escape I think, and who could blame them. There were more wrinkles on stage than on a cosmetic surgeon’s cutting room floor.
However, worse than singing the wrong lyric is having the wrong attitude. One does not yell WHY at one’s pissed off Master, not unless one wants to find oneself on one’s knees scrubbing floors with a toothbrush as punishment. Actually Master Russell would never impose such a mean punishment on his bondservant. I would, but he wouldn’t, too soft by half he is - except when it comes to plating up grub for me.
“Because I said so, but no matter. I can do it for you if you insist.”
Liam has really blown it now. Master Russell is towing him across to the bed and judging by his face it isn’t to play horsey-horsey.
“Let’s bulldoze straight through the shit, Liam.”
Now there’s a pretty image. If only Van Gogh had thought of it instead of Sunflowers he’d have sold more pictures in his lifetime: Bulldozing Through Shit - manure on canvas - scratch and sniff to fully participate in the artistic experience, but wash your hands afterwards.
“I warned you if there was any more silliness over Rain I was going to tan your backside and I meant it.”
“This isn’t fair, Russell. I’m the one wronged not the one in the wrong. It’s wrong of you to wrong me by disciplining me for something you’ve done wrong.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong and you know it. You’re the one guilty of wilful wrong thinking not to mention wrongdoing by misuse of a non-consenting animal. You haven’t only done me wrong, as well as wronging Rain, but you wronged Pride and you deserve to be disciplined.”
At times like this I wish had a double barrel shotgun.
“You were the one doing wrong with Rain. I rang your room, but you weren’t there and you weren’t answering your mobile.”
“That’s because I was too busy downstairs all evening, wining, dining and mingling with the other competitors, as one does at such events.”
“Explain his engaged phone then, mere coincidence?”
“Oh, let’s see, hmm, oh yes, how about he was talking to his wife.”
“That proves nothing, everyone knows his wife is bisexual!”
“Yes, but Rain isn’t, for crying out LOUD!”
Liam might not be the official salon dimwit, but he does a good job of helping him out when he’s busy. Poor Lord Russell. He looks close to frothing and not in a good way. I can guarantee not many folk will want their hair dying the shade of purple adorning his face just now.
“Pride, that’s what this is all about, and I don’t mean the cat. It’s sinful arrogance and conceit, not to mention envy.”
He’s missed out sloth and gluttony. I knew it was a mistake for him to talk to those Jehovah’s Witnesses at the door last week. They’ve brainwashed him. He’ll be trying to beat the evil demons out of Liam by spanking his bottom with a copy of the Watchtower next.
“You don’t believe for a single second I’m having an affair with Rain, this is a case of sour grapes and pure professional jealousy.”
When it comes to jealousy Liam is no ordinary professional, he’s world class. He even goes in a huff if I purr louder for his Lordship than for him. Just look at the face on him. Talk about sullen.
“I should have been the one representing the salon in London. I’m better than he is and I’m your partner. You shouldn’t have overlooked me in favour of him.”
“I didn’t. He won his place in the Grand Finals fair and square. You’re going to have to live with the fact that on the day of the regional cut and colour heats he was better than you. He’d put in the work and he put on a good show and the judges recognised it. You’re just pissed off at losing to him and you’re pissed off at me for not allowing you to accompany us to London so you could undermine his confidence. Don’t think I don’t know it was you who arranged for him to receive an early hours alarm call. I’m sick of your attitude when it comes to Rain. He’s a nice man and a damn good stylist.
“Says you.”
“My rating him highly doesn’t mean I rate you, or love you, any the less. You’re the only boy for me and you know it. If you stop drinking from your own personal poisoned chalice for long enough you might even find you like Rain. Perhaps a good long spanking and a sore bottom will help you put and keep things in perspective.”
Master Russell is making his move now and Liam’s fall, like autumn leaves, is imminent. TIMBER! There he goes and what a graceful fall from grace it is, backside perfectly poised over his Lordship’s lap, the rest of him perfectly balanced on hands and toes, such symmetry. His Lordship’s hand is resting tenderly on his poor bondservant’s hapless bottom while he finishes having the obligatory last word.
“When we’re done here, young man, you’re going to shampoo Pride and return him to his original colour and then you’re going to call Rain and sportingly congratulate him on winning second prize in the competition. And if you so much as think about mixing peroxide solution in this trophy, as you did the last one, I promise you won’t sit down for a fortnight.”
And so the hand of retribution rises high in preparation to fall and there’s the cue for my departure, because as everyone knows, Pride goes before a fall. I simply cannot stand to see a grown man howl and cry, as he receives a much-deserved spanking. Besides, such things should not be witnessed. They’re private between a Top and his brat.
More importantly this moggy is not for shampooing. So fare ye well, sweet people. I’m off to make a move on the sexy Siamese who lives at number ten. I think she’s weakening. This new fur-do plus a breath mint might just clinch it.
The End
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