Life on Mars — Cat Style

Sam Tomcat was hit by a car while chasing another cat. He wakes up in 1973. Has he really gone back in time or is this a dream while he is lying on the vet’s operating table having his jaw wired and his leg pinned?

“So, is it headfirst in the welly for this one?” said a mean looking ginger alley cat, puffing on a catnip roll-up.

“Looks like he’s been done, guv. Neat job of it, must’ve been a sharp penknife,” said a scruffy tabby, ” …aah, back in the land of the living are we sunshine?”

“Where am I?” asked Sam.

“‘Ere, have a slug of this, put fur on your chest it will,” said the ginger, proffering a hip-flask. “No? You don’t mind if I have some do you?”

“Must’ve been some knock you took,” said the tabby, “Knocked you clear into next week.”

Sam Tomcat looked around him. The buildings were vaguely familiar, but everything smelled wrong. It was too dirty and sooty. He stood up and started to wash himself.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he said, “But I could murder a bowl of Pearl Ocean Delicacies.”

“Oooh,” said the ginger, affecting a limp paw, “Pearl Ocean Delicacies. We don’t have any of that here. Got some Whiskas Beef and Kidney back at the yard though. We only opened the tin this morning.”

“No chance of some Sheba Terrine, I suppose,” said Sam hopefully.

“Ooh, Sheba Terrine,” laughed the tabby, mincing in an affected manner, “You been overseas? Just out of quarantine? We might have some boiled coley at the back of the fridge, but that’s as posh as it gets.”

“I don’t need quarantine,” said Sam, “I’ve had all my vaccinations, I’m microchipped and I’ve got a Pet Passport. Last year I went to the South of France.”

“Get you and your vaksee-nay-shuns,” chortled the ginger, “And what the blummin’ ‘eck’s a microchip when it’s at home? Some fancy bleedin’ stuff to go with your Sheba Terrine? Come on, can’t waste time when there’s things to stick our noses into. You coming back to the yard Sam or do we have to drag you by the scruff of the neck.”

“How d’you know my name?” asked Sam, perplexed.

“Cos you were transferred to our yard and we were told to keep an eye for you. ‘A habit of getting into trouble’ said the transfer report. I’m Ginge Hunt, your new guv’nor. So look lively – that’s an order!”

Later, Sam pondered his predicament. He was in a world where no-one seemed aware of the dangers of FeLV or FIV and where his only food choices seemed to be Whiskas Supermeat, Kattomeat or Kit-E-Kat – all requiring the application of an antique can-opener – and primitive dried foods called Go-Cat and Munchies, supposedly linked to urinary blockage. Kittens were so routinely drowned they didn’t even warrant further investigations and neutering rates were a disgrace. Even Annie, the sympathetic tortoiseshell, had been forced to have one litter (whose paternity and fate were unknown) “for her own good” before being spayed. Sam was appalled to learn that Ginge had knocked off every unspayed female in the district, some of whom were rumoured to be his own daughters.

What sort of place have I ended up in? Sam asked himself that night as he bedded down on a spare blanket at the yard. What sort of nightmare did cats endure in 1973?

(Source: messybeast.com)