The Lives of Kitty Jones

When we were wetters, my mates and I had watched Slinkers from windows in our home. My Kindler made it clear that they were both pitiable and detestable ... now here I was, on the street -- a Slinker myself. An unwelcome addition to the territory, where pickings were already slim. And I got immediate trouble for my name. The tom-yows and pussinas could live with "Kitty," but "Jones" -- ? "What kinda Slaver name is that, puss?" they'd sneer.

You see, Slavers (the Slinker name for domesticated cats) had short names -- the names their handlers gave them. I had decided to keep my name short, and so of course they assumed I was an unhomed Slaver (and I was). But Tiny Jones had saved my life, and I had chained his name to mine. And that was enough for me.

Name chaining was the custom amongst the Slinkers, and some of them had enormously long names. Every time something notable happened to a Slinker, she would incorporate it into her name. So an old tom-yow might call himself Joseph Half-Tail One-Eye 58-Lover Night Singer Tabby Scatterer. And an old pussina might be Catalina Tattered Ear Fish Eater Sex Goddess Kindler of 38. It's quite a pastime for cats to sing these names at gatherings under the moon. And in competition, the names can grow by several elements in one night. There's quite a bit of one-upmanship involved.

I was a bit of an anomaly. Golden Blossom had been a Slaver, and proud of it. But my unknown progenitor was a Slinker. Golden Blossom had been allowed to escape from the house when the Urge was upon her; the poor dumb Talls she lived with didn't recognize the signs of the Heat, as they were first-time cat "owners." When the Urge rules, all the scorn and hatred between the two cat tribes dissolves, and they become simply Cats to each other.

So Golden Blossom, who was a really beautiful Himalayan Siamese cat, had her choice. And she mated enthusiastically with many. Of course her Talls were mortified when she bore her Kindle. "Ordinary alley cats," was their verdict. But they were too soft-hearted to have us killed, and wise enough to allow us out of the house for our Nature training. They were lining up homes for all of us when the Dog tragedy occurred.

My first of many fights was over my name, and it made me all the more determined to keep it Kitty Jones. A young Slinker about my own age cornered me in a place where two brick apartment buildings butted up against one another. She began insulting me in a raucus, sneering voice.

"Shortname!" she yowled (for even Slinker youngsters have long titles). "Ugly, pushy wetter. How dare you come into our sector to eat our food?" She crept up close until we were nose to nose. Then she pounced.

I was completely unprepared for what followed, but I chased my instincts, biting her neck fiercely and clawing furiously with my back feet. She worked her teeth into my shoulder, and we began to roll wildly, but I finally kicked with all my might and sent her flying against a dumpster. Then I shot beneath another one to lick my wounds and contemplate.

Great stars, but this is a dangerous, hungry, competitive world!

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