Page 18 - Nutshell 3

How the Cats Saved the Economy

Old Grimalkin left her daughter’s—or was it her grand-
daughter’s?—litter to eat her own dinner. By the time she returned to
the back of the closet to resume kitten-sitting, two of her charges had
wandered off. Their eyes were open now, and they were close to
becoming independent. While they waited for their mother to return
and nurse them, the only way to keep them stationary was to tell
them stories.
But first the roundup: she found Leonid nearby, pouncing
repeatedly on a slipper; she picked him up by the nape and carried
him back to his siblings. But where was Meringue? Grimalkin turned
to start a lengthier search, and there she was: tailgating.
“Have you been following me?” asked the grandcat.
Meringue meekly got down on all fours and tried to look contrite.
“I wanted to see what you eat.”
“And did you?”
Old Grimalkin arranged herself in an arc, corralling the kittens
against the corner. They were still restive.
“Yes. And I want to know two things. How can you stand to eat
that horrible stuff, and will we have to eat it, too?”
“Ooh!” exclaimed Furina. “That sounds awful! What about it,
Granny?”
Old Grimalkin sighed. I guess it’s time for The Talk, she mused.
Adult life was not all catnip and comfort.
“Listen, my catkins, and you shall hear of the rules to which we
must adhere. Look at yourselves: are you not members of the order
Felidae: stealthy hunters, perfected killing machines, apex predators?”
“Yes, yes!” squeaked Kitty Boy Floyd, always the one to play
rough with his siblings.
“Well, you aren’t, really. In fact, the whole hierarchical food chain
atop which you may fancy yourselves is just another bedtime story.
The truth is that the world does not work—or cannot work
properly—in that fashion. It is not ‘eat or be eaten’: it is ‘eat and be
eaten’.”
“Oh, I don’t believe it,” cried little Chiffon. “Who would want to
eat us? Anyway, I’d like to see them try: my fangs and claws are ready,
and I’m always on high alert.”