Scraps woke up hungry. With a stretch, he scampered over to his breakfast bowl. Yesterday they had chicken, the day before fish. Today, however, the bowl was empty.

 

Hearing Duchess Tea Cakes and Lucius making their way into the kitchen, Scraps hid. The smallest of the three, the little tabby cat had to get up early for his fair share.

 

Duchess Tea Cakes was a fat, vain and vicious calico who played with her food if an unsuspecting mouse dared to enter the house. Lucius was a British shorthair with an alarming habit of disappearing and appearing like smoke. When Scraps was a kitten, Lucius apparated out of nowhere and swiped at him leaving two perfectly parallel scratches across his muzzle. Mr. Eliot intervened saving Scraps from a worse fate and kept a careful eye on him ever since.

 

Where was Mr. Eliot? Scraps padded silently into the den. He jumped from shelf-to-shelf winding through musty books and travel trinkets eventually curling up in a sunny patch by the window behind the typewriter. Cozy, safe, and hidden from his predatorial housemates, he dozed.

 

Rudely awoken by cold sliming his cheek, Scraps fell off the desk landing on his feet in the gravity-defying way that only cats can. The offending wet leaf fluttered down beside him. The den was cold. The window had been left unlatched and autumn blew into the room. The house was still quiet—no clacking or muttering or puttering about.

 

Scraps peeked around the door. Duchess Tea Cakes flounced silently down the hallway, her long white belly hair swishing the floor. Scraps followed.

 

Mr. Eliot's bedroom door was ajar; Duchess Tea Cakes wriggled through clawing her way up the velvet comforter onto the bed. Scraps snuck in behind her diving beneath the chaise lounge before she could spot him. Lucius was already on the bed and so was Mr. Eliot.

 

 

Duchess Tea Cakes purred as she cleaned Mr. Eliot. Lucius' head swiveled towards the chair, every short hair standing straight up like a soldier. His muzzle was pink and in his mouth was Mr. Eliot's thumb.

 

Scraps fled.

 

He ran to the den and jumped out the open window. He let out a yowl as he dropped into a cold wet puddle and ran to the nearest cover he could find, a huge old oak tree. He scurried up the trunk and sat shivering on a branch. He spent the night under the gaze of merciless stars.

 

By morning the sharp claws of hunger scraped at his insides. He climbed down and returned to the house. It was no longer quiet. Chirrups, hisses, and growls echoed from the bedroom and down the hallway. Too hungry to hide, Scraps continued to the bedroom. A pair of eyes glowed from under the bed, and then another, and then another. None of them belonged to Duchess or Lucius. Scraps looked up. The room was full of cats. Barn cats. Farm cats. Feral cats. Mean cats. Cats that could kill their dinner.

 

Scraps sprang onto the bed. A skeletel black cat hissed. Scraps flattened his ears, extended his claws, and swiped. The cat swiped back, and Scraps sunk his canines into the black cat's neck and shook him. The black cat lay limp. Scraps dropped him. He lowered his head to what was left of Mr. Eliot's hand and claimed his breakfast.