The Free-Wheelers

Mortimer pondered on how best to kill to his owner. A landmine would be too obvious. Poison? Not obvious enough. No, whichever method he chose, it would have to send the right message. He was not to be trifled with.
He glared at the plump hand of Beryl as she placed his morning fish in front of him. God, he loathed her. From her pink, fluffy slippers to her pink, plump hands; every inch of her he detested. For as long as Mortimer could remember this woman had cajoled him, simpered to him, catered to his every wish. For what? So Beryl Matthews could win the Annual Shire of Lithgow & Bathurst Cat Show every year. The humiliation of it brought hairballs to the back of Mortimer’s throat. No, it was decided. She would have to go.
His support group agreed. It was obvious this woman had enslaved Mortimer in exchange for sustenance. Whereas most cats retain that independent streak from the wild that is never quite tamed, Mortimer had never known it. This knowledge hit home when he forgot how to use the pet door and ended up soiling himself in panic. Mortimer recalled with a shiver how Beryl had cut the soiled fur from around his rear. The neighbouring cats were only now just starting to forget that escapade. It had only just begun to grow back.
At their bi weekly meeting atop of Mr. Ferguson’s skip, the group decided; Mortimer would liberate himself from his captor and join that most coveted of clubs, “The Free-Wheelers”. It was time to remind him what a cat was made of. The thought made Mortimer purr with delight.
“The Free-Wheelers” were a society that prided itself on their independence. They roamed the streets in packs, bullied small dogs and ate out of the fish and chip shop’s refuse bin. If some one mentioned the word “stray” they were quickly hissed into silence. “The Free-Wheelers” differed from strays in the sense that they chose to roam free. It was an immense honour should one be awarded a lifetime membership into “The Free-Wheelers”.
Mortimer used this pleasant thought to sustain him during his final days with Beryl. There were some close shaves. At the end of first day Beryl had presented him with a dingle ball of bright, blue plastic. Mortimer bounded up to it excitedly before remembering himself. With a twitch of the whiskers and his haughtiest expression, he turned his back on Beryl’s disappointed face and the promise of hours of bell filled fun, and strolled to the pet door. This time he remembered how to use it.
The second day was harder. A fresh egg cracked into his bowl atop of his morning fish. The saliva would come in spite of itself and before he knew it, Mortimer had swallowed it in one gulp. As penance he went and threw it up again on Beryl’s pillow.
But that very evening, Beryl stumped him again. She had a new couch delivered. His very own scratching post, which to him appeared the size of a bus. Choking back tears of rage, Mortimer sprinted to Mr. Ferguson’s skip and called an emergency meeting.
He explained his position to his fellow delegates. The time to act was now. If Mortimer was in that house but a moment longer he may as be neutered and put on a leash. The brothers of “The Free-Wheelers” watched him with impassive faces as they listened to his story.
When Mortimer had finished they ordered him to play with the dead thing near the fence until they had reached a decision. Mortimer played with the dead thing for an hour (and to be serious, there wasn’t much life in it) before the brothers returned. It had been decided. That night, when Beryl was asleep, Mortimer would merely drape himself across her mouth and nose. It was silent, painless and practical. By morning Mortimer would be a free man. It was with a lighter heart that Mortimer went home.
But that night, as Beryl snored lightly next to him, Mortimer stared at her face on the pillow. The simpering, nervous pout she constantly wore was softened in her sleep, and for a moment Mortimer recalled the young fresh faced girl who lifted him out of the cage and smiled those many years ago.
He shook his head resolutely. There was no going back now. Cautiously he placed a paw on Beryl’s ruddy cheek and prodded. No movement. This would be easier than he thought. He stepped onto the pillow. Beryl sighed softly. Was she waking up? No, just dreaming. Mortimer let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He was inches from her now. As he placed the first paw on her neck his green eyes gleamed in he moonlight. For a moment he could feel the pavement beneath his feet as he roamed the neighbourhood, smell the fear of the small dogs as he chased them, the very taste of those fish and chips out of the refuse bin was on his tongue! Beryl sighed again and smiled softly, and Mortimer knew. He couldn’t do it. Despite his hatred for this woman she was his only family. Dejected, he slid his paw from her neck and curled up on the pillow next to her. A house cat he would always be.
The next thing he knew, everything was dark, there was no air, the pressure was all around him! And then…nothing.
The next night The Free-Wheelers held a memorial service for their honorary brother Mortimer, who was smothered by his owner in the act of pursuing his liberation.

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cats, funny, short and story