By Michael Erasmus
Oh, humbug, humbug, humbug!
Down the street Scrooge sprinted, leaving a trail of paw prints across the thin blanket of snow. Windows aglow blurred by as he passed apartments and houses.
Bah, Fred! Why do you reside so far!?
He veered onto Fern Street. That was where his pesky nephew dwelt, yes?
Yes. Up ahead squatted Fred’s modest home, inferior to Scrooge’s own.
He skidded onto Fred’s porch and peered up at the towering front door. Now to find a way in.
He checked the nearest window. Shut against the cold. Curtains had been drawn, but gentle light told him that his nephew hadn’t retired for Christmas Eve. Glimpsing his reflection in the glass, he turned back to the door.
He could, of course, ask to be let in, but what a grin that would put on Fred’s face. Scrooge was not a man who asked for help.
An icy wind howled, whipping snowflakes against his ears and biting through his thick coat.
Blast! He’d do it. Squaring his shoulders, taking a breath, Scrooge called out. The intended words, “Frederick Scrooge, I demand your assistance!” never came. Instead, a loud, drawling “Yowl!” escaped his throat.
The sound of his new voice sickened him. Of all damnations, the ghosts had turned him into a cat! A fluffy, feeble, four-footed feline.
No answer came.
Scrooge’s gaze drifted back to his reflection. Fur the color of snow. Triangle ears, bewhiskered nose, and pleading eyes.
Weak and helpless. How would he fend for himself? How would he make and manage wealth?
His heartbeat quickened. “Fred, please!” He tried to call out but succeeded with only another meow.
He launched himself against the door, fuzzy paws clawing at the wood. “Meow… meeeeoow!”
The door swung open and bathed little Scrooge in light and warmth. Fred towered over him, face jovial and annoying as always.
This is my chance.
Scrooge sat on his haunches, lifted his chin, and stared into his nephew’s eyes. “Now, Frederick, I understand my appearance has somewhat altered, yet I am your uncle, Ebenezer,” he thought he began. “I am surely a man you deem never to require any sort of help, given my success and superiority. However, even the mighty may need a tidbit of assistance on rare occasion. You see, I fear I’ve been transformed into—”
Of course, all of that came out as a series of meows, chirps, and trills. And before Scrooge could complete his oration, Fred swooped him up, shut the door, and carried him to a small living area lit by gas lamps and a crackling hearth. Fred’s wife lounged on a chair, pen in hand as she worked on Christmas letters.
She glanced up. A smile lit her face. “A cat?” She giggled. “Fred, that’s not my Christmas gift, is it?”
“Ha! Ha ha!” Fred scratched between the soft ears of his appalled uncle. “Heavens, no! That you’ll receive tomorrow, my dear. This poor fellow was pawing at our door. Must be desperate from the cold.”
Poor? Desperate? A low growl escaped Scrooge’s throat. He began struggling in his nephew’s arms.
“Aw, grumpy one, isn’t he?” Fred’s wife set a letter and pen aside, then stood and reached for the cat.
Scrooge’s dignity could stand no further insult. Writhing, claws out, he took a swipe at Fred. A yelp, then a moment of weightlessness as he fell.
Cats, if anything, have softer landings than old men. Scrooge landed on all fours, dodged the woman, and pounced for the paper and pen.
Blast their simple minds for not understanding me! I shall prove it is I by the written word.
His floundering paw swatted the pen away. He dove after it, eliciting laughter from the couple, Fred loudest of all.
“Ha, ha, ha! He’s toying with the pen like it’s a mouse!”
Carefully this time, Scrooge wrapped his claws around the pen, then lifted. It slipped from his grasp.
Humbug.
The young woman knelt beside him. “He’s adorable!”
At that moment, he noticed their rickety dining table. Plates and trays had already been laid in preparation for the Christmas morning party. A jar of jam caught his attention.
Scrooge hissed at the woman’s outstretched hands, dashed for the table, and mustered courage for a leap. He pushed against the ground with all his might, soared higher than last year’s profits, and thumped on the table, knocking off an empty plate with a crash!
He knocked the jam over, scooped a paw full of the sweet-scented stickiness, and began spelling his name. E-B-E—
“By Jove! He must be hungry.” Fred ducked into the pantry while his wife stole away the jam.
“Bad cat!” she scolded.
Scrooge’s whiskers drooped, and his bow frowned. “Listen, woman,” he meowed in words she could never comprehend, “I’ll do anything if you help me out of this curse! I’ll—I’ll even make you the sole inheritor of my wealth! Please!”
Just then, a heavenly aroma struck his olfactory sense with a sledgehammer of pure bliss. His mouth watered, and all thoughts of work and money and not being a cat vanished.
“I know you were saving this for tomorrow, dear wife.” Fred returned with a freshly opened can of sardines. “But he does look hungry.”
Minutes later, Scrooge sat between them on the couch, happily licking his lips. His entire being vibrated with a contented purr as fingers ran through his coat.
Wealth was nice. But if he were to remain a cat, he could do nothing for it. And wealth, it was beginning to seem, was destitute without good food, loving company, and a can full of undeserved kindness.
Undeserved kindness, he pondered. How many times has Fred invited me over? To share all this even before I became a feline.
***
Three spirits drifted into the room. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come gestured a bony hand. “You were right, Present. This taught him.”
The giant, green-clad Ghost of Christmas Present grinned. “Shall we finally wake him, then?”
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Brilliant!
I loved it
A cute story that reminds us that love and kindness and family are precious.
Anybody looking at a Marauder’s Map of Fred’s house would be terribly confused to see him sitting with a cat.