Page 32 - Fables volume 1

How the Cats Took Care of Complaints

overpopulation, vivisection, cat shows, canned food and casual torture
by young boys and old ladies.”
“You may well be wondering at this point, Mr. Bertrand, how it
could be if what I say is true that your office is receiving complaints of
abuse to cats directed against me. It is a strange irony, indeed, but
some of the most democratic meetings of the cats here sound like a
pitched battle between alley cats. Felex is a tonal language, and in the
heat of argument becomes quite loud and discordant to human ears.
However, claws are never unsheathed, fangs never bared, hackles
never raised. Some of my neighbors, unable to understand what is
going on, assume the worst. And so the complaints. Your predecessor,
Mr. Sorenson, with the same concern you have shown for the safety
of my charges, came to visit me several years ago—just as you have
today.”
Hearing these words, Bertrand felt oddly relieved. Sorenson was
highly regarded at the Humane Society. He had been to see Fiedler
and the foundation. All was well. All was soft and warm and furry. He
looked into Sharlena’s eyes and thought, if I could learn Felex, what
beautiful things we would say to each other! But Fiedler continued.
“…and after explaining to him the work of the foundation and the
misunderstanding surrounding it, he was quite in agreement with me
that he should ignore any further complaints. Incidentally, during his
visit here, he and one of the cats became quite attached to each other;
and, as it is our policy to allow any cat to leave voluntarily at any time,
Lakshmi became part of Mr. Sorenson’s household. I really had no
idea that he had saved all those old papers: I’ll be glad to dispose of
them for you. It seems a shame to have to carry them all the way back
to your office. I don’t suppose it’s your habit to squirrel away
unimportant crank letters like he did?”
Bertrand, realizing that he had been posed a question, found the
answer immediately in Sharlena’s eyes. He looked up briefly at Fiedler,
who was leaning forward in his desk chair, head wreathed in smoke.
“No,” said Bertrand firmly, extending the folder to Fiedler with his
free hand. “If any more ever come to my attention, I’ll certainly put
them where they belong: in the trash.”

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