He is a great, friendly, waddling, yellow, seventeen-pound kibble-eating machine who goes through life perpetually perplexed about what just happened, a persistent hunter of catnip mice, a dedicated hairdresser to all other cats, the least mysterious cat on the planet.
Mystery, in the five months or so he’s been here, has become comfortable with the duvet on our bed, and flops there by the hour practicing competitive napping. Mr. Ferguson gets along with him fine now and shares the space or leaves it to him.
Mrs. Nickel Catmium-Ferguson (I can’t remember if I mentioned that they must have gotten married at some point when our backs were turned) is less sanguine. Unless that means “bloody appalled.” She does not scream at him, which is a mercy, because her scream is the sound of a fire siren being gang-ravished, but flies to the top of the cat tree and gazes on in spotted horror when he ambles up to police the crumbs of kibble she and Fergie have left behind. In Nickel’s view, there is only one decent cat in the world, and that is her husband; when she is not snuggling with him in a cat bed meant for one cat, she is following him around the house with her nose beneath his parabolic tail, telegraphing as if it were always a new discovery that Fergie’s ass is the Best. Thing. Ever.
This evening Mystery was enjoying a nice siesta at the foot of the bed when Nickel ambled into the room, stretched up to the level of the mattress, saw a gingery posterior and applied her nose to it, then started back in horror, crumpled her snout in regular pleats like a chef’s toque and uttered a venomous hiss and yowl of shocked detestation. Sniffed again. Hissed again. Mystery turned his head and stared blearily as she let rip a third time: “Uh… the talking bits are up here.”
She’s been stomping around ever since, if cats can stomp, complaining that she was hoodwinked. Or buttwinked. Or something.