Catfantastic II

with pots and pans. And then came the indignant tramp of feet along the deckway. Shephard backed inside again, clearing room for the red-faced, indignant cook, who held out a large, meaty fist clenched about the scruff of a very wet, oil-stained, and generally bedraggled cat.

'If this animal is yours, keep it out of the galley or Oi'll complain to the captain, Oi will,' the cook bellowed, brandishing a ladle over his captive's head. 'Oi don't know 'ow 'e got in, but 'e's made a perfect shambles.'

'I think we can cope with him,' said Shepherd, smoothly taking the cat from the cook and gently escorting the indignant individual out before pushing the cabin door closed behind him.

Feathers had risen from his bunk, his eyes wide. 'Bomber!' He took the cat from Shepherd, held him up and looked at him in disbelief and delight. 'It really is him, Jack!' Quickly he sat down with the cat on his lap and gently felt along the little body. 'I think he may have a few bruised ribs from the smash against the wall, but he seems pretty fit otherwise. Wait till I dry him off a bit.'

'Wonder what he was doing in the galley?' Shepherd asked.

'I imagine he was making for my cabin and missed. Must have been in a bit of a hurry. And that's why he fell in the sea instead of the Ark Royal. He must have had to pop off the Hood pretty fast, too.' Carefully Feathers cleaned and dried the cat. He grinned as he scratched Bomber's head between the ears. 'He certainly got his revenge.'

'The Nazis should know better than to get a British ship's cat… ah, a bit niggled at them.'

Feathers broke into chuckles, then laughed until he had to hold his sides. 'I wonder if they have any idea what happened?'

'I suggest we have the presentation ceremony right here and now,' said Shepherd. 'Uh, what title were you planning to give him?'

'Why, there can only be one. To Bomber, ship's cat of the late H.M.S. Hood, I proudly bestow this Victoria Cross and name you mascot of Swordfish Sub-flight Two and,' Feathers drew breath and presented the cufflink box with its tin medallion, 'Bombardier, First Class!'

A Puma and a Panther by Wilanne Schneider Belden

Christine was allowed to choose one kitten, Ian the other. Mother was surprised when Christine insisted that the scrawny all-black kitten with the gold eyes was the one and only cat for her. 'He was waiting for me,' she explained. So he appeared to have been, for he ran to the door and squalled to be picked up the moment she came in. Ian, not yet three, clutched the rotund, yellow-orange kitty who slept in the nest-box. It yawned with all the animation of a damp towel and showed a mouthful of sharp baby teeth. Mother smiled, shrugged, and agreed. The five of them went home to introduce the newest members of the family to Daddy. Daddy took one look at the kittens and pronounced them Punkin and Bat.

The names stuck, and the kittens answered to them from the first. Christine changed the black kitten's name on an average of three times a month, totally without success. Ian, a late talker, probably had a different name for his. But Punkin lolled through life, lovable, loving, and barely animate. Bat lacked only leathery wings and a penchant for sleeping while hanging head downward by his back feet. Outdoors, he spent most of his time in trees, on high walls, or roofs. Indoors, he could be found on the top of the fridge, the top of the draperies, and the top shelf of the bookcase.

Punkin could have been anybody's cat. Fortunately, Ian was unaware of this lack of discrimination. Thus, when the little boy's attention was riveted to Bert and Ernie and Mr. Rogers, someone else could take care of 'his' cat. Bat was Christine's cat, and he allowed no one to forget it. He accepted the children's parents with the regal indifference normal to cats, invariably ignored or eluded Ian, and rarely bestowed favors on visitors.

Bat knew Christine to be his human. He and Punkin had, after all, experienced incarnations in three alternate realities while searching for her and waiting until she showed up. Only Bat's genuine affection for her countered his previous annoyance at her tardiness. Punkin was unaffected: all nine lives had to be lived somewhere/somewhen.

Had the family lived in these other times and places, Christine's instant claim of so unprepossessing a kitten would have confirmed a reasonable conclusion. She was, after all, left-handed, red-haired, and green-eyed. She couldn't be called pretty, but her appearance left little doubt that she would be strikingly beautiful as an adult. Her personality, in common with a special category of people, combined independence and sensitivity, intelligence and empathy. In her own world, a description might include that most unfortunate phrase- the child who doesn't quite fit in. Part of this stemmed from her unfettered imagination. She believed things nobody else would-or could-and insisted, to the point of crying herself ill if anyone attempted to convince her otherwise, that her imaginings were fact. Her parents hoped that having a kitten would help to tie her to reality, but Bat's arrival seemed to stimulate her fantasy life. Each evening, Christine regaled the parent who put her to bed with a tale she said Bat had told her about a former life. However, as the family lived in the here and now and were churchgoing Christians, the term witch never came up.

Bat knew. Or, it is fairer to say, he knew what she would have been if she had not, unfortunately, been born into this world, one essentially inimical to magic. If she had not come for him in kittenhood, he would have, when a bit older, dragged Punkin by an ear and set out to find her. Denied his rightful place as her familiar, he took up the position of her pet.

Punkin knew, too. (Cats do.) But his involvement was with Ian, with whom he shared all kinds of preferences: love and affection, lots of good things to eat and drink, a warm, soft place to sleep, and semi-continuous attention.

As the two cats grew-and they did grow, prodigiously-Bat turned into a large, strong, shiny-sleek beast who reminded one of a black panther. Punkin loomed even larger than Bat, and the red-gold of his coat rivaled new pennies. Were he asleep on one of the children's pillows, one could not tell where their hair stopped and his began.

When Bat was about a year old, Christine insisted that he told her to get him a leash and harness so they could go on walks together. Mother, who usually enjoyed her daughter's vivid imagination, smiled to herself and bought the inexpensive equipment. She did not expect it to be used. She was mistaken. Bat required no training. His leash-manners were impeccable.

Circumstances in the modern world being as they are, neither of the children was ever without adult supervision for a moment. But Christine insisted that as long as Bat was with her, she was always safe and well cared for. Being informed, however, that Bat would be given to the Humane Society if she ever, ever went off with only a cat for company, she accepted the restriction. She never entirely accepted the necessity. However, she decided that her most intensely-defended disagreement with her parents-that she had, once, been left alone in the house for a period of perhaps hours-had, as they always maintained, been a dream. Bat, she admitted to her mother, told her straight out that the incident had been only a very clear nightmare, and Bat was always right. He had also told her that she must apologize to her parents for doubting their word.

Wishing herself believed to be as infallible as the cat, Mother accepted the apology without further comment. She wished, as a matter of fact, that Bat would tell Christine to forget all about the dream. Her own worst nightmare was that Christine might repeat the story to someone who'd believe it.

Punkin did not like to walk on a leash. He did not enjoy riding in automobiles, either. Bat loved cars. Originally, he was a problem because he preferred to sit on the dashboard directly in front of the driver. Only with difficulty was he persuaded that the back window, on the old shag rug, was the proper carseat for a cat. The children's mother permitted Bat to come along on short drives provided he did not have to stay alone in a car. He learned early that if he wanted to take the daily trips to preschool, then to kindergarden, he must not try to get out of the car or behave badly on the way home. Mother even let him accompany her on short errands without the children. She did not mention it to anyone, but if Bat was along, it seemed as if the most demented of the dangerous drivers stayed home. She required his presence if she chauffeured one of the school field trips.

Christine asked Mother please to drive when her class went to the Pumpkin Farm so the children could choose Halloween pumpkins. 'Be sure Bat comes,' she instructed. 'He'll help me pick the right ones.' Mother had been