The Witch's Familiar

In these times of everyone having a video camera, the Internet is awash with clips of pets doing remarkable things. Yet I defy anyone to tell a tale more uncanny than that I am about to relate.

The protagonist in the story is Bebe, the slinky black cat that has tolerated my wife Annie and me these past two years. We got her as a kitten, and as the nervous beast explored her new home, Annie and I set about coming up with a name for her.

“We should call her Black Beauty,” Annie said, being a fan of the Anna Sewell novel.

“We can’t do that,” I said, “she isn’t a horse.”

“Well, what about BB for short?”

“That might have worked if our surname was Gunn,” I said. Annie ignored the quip.

“I’ve got it,” she said, brightening, “we’ll call her Bebe.”

“Bebe?” I said.

“Yes. Bebe, aka, BB, aka, Black Beauty. Oh, it’s perfect.” She held her clasped hands to her breast and beamed. Her joy was such I didn’t wish to dampen it by chiming in with my name suggestion, so Licorice Legs was consigned to the dustbin without having been run up the flagpole.

And so, Annie and I had a fur baby to care for, or if you’ll allow, a fur Bebe. Two years later, we have a fully grown cat, a well-clawed settee, and one chilling memory of when Bebe demonstrated a level of perception that creeped me out thoroughly.

The incident occurred on a Saturday afternoon amid a scene of perfect domestic contentment. The house was warm, the dishwasher was dealing with the lunch apparatus, and I was on the settee reading the local free newspaper. Annie sat at the dining table, tackling a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle while sipping coffee, and Bebe sat at the corner of the table, dividing her time between grooming and swiping at Annie’s fingers as they scrabbled among the jigsaw pieces.

“Should we get a puppy?” I said. Bebe turned her head and glared at me.

“Random,” Annie said, “what’s brought this on?”

“There’s an ad here. A woman has five puppies she needs to find homes for. She’s giving them away on a first-come-first-served basis. There’s a picture, look.” Annie came over to view the photo.

“Aw, they’re so cute,” she said. At that moment, Bebe slid Annie’s coffee cup off the end of the table.

“Oh, hello. Someone’s jealous,” I said, and we laughed.

I rang the number on the ad, and the owner told me there were only two puppies remaining. I asked if she would hold one for me, but she insisted on sticking to her first-come-first-served rule. I scribbled down her address and told her I’d be right over.

I was tying the lace of my left shoe when Bebe jumped onto the arm of the settee and stepped onto my lap. I scratched her head playfully. “Come on, dear thing,” I said, “you’re in the way.” As I cradled Bebe to lift her off my lap, I felt a mild burning on my thigh, which I immediately identified. The wretched cat was pissing on me.

“Bebe!” I said, “What the hell?” I tried to lift the micturating monster off my lap, but she dug her claws into my trousers, and the hot gush continued. Finally, she retracted her claws, and I placed her on the floor. Alerted by my exclamation, Annie hurried into the room as I stepped out of my wet trousers. “Bloody thing wazzed on me,” I said, and hurried upstairs to the bathroom.

I came back down after showering my lower half and putting on clean trousers. I laced up my shoes while Bebe was safely out of harm’s way at her litter tray. “Right, car keys,” I said, picking up the piece of paper on which I’d scribbled the puppy owner’s address. “Where are those wet trousers?” Annie put her hand to her mouth in a gesture of alarm.

“I put them straight into the wash,” she said, “I didn’t want the place to smell.”

"So my car keys are sealed inside the washing machine in mid cycle," I said. I shook my fist at Bebe, who had entered the room. “This is all your doing, you... you witch’s familiar.” She flicked her tail as though in defiance.

“Isn’t there a spare?” Annie said. There was, but when I opened the door of the small wooden cupboard inside which the spare key had hung from a hook for months, the key was missing.

“Your bike,” I said. Annie has a bicycle with a basket on the front, which would serve as a puppy transporter. “The address is only a mile away.”

I went into the garage to catch Bebe in the act of going at the back tyre of Annie’s bike as she claws at the settee. I could hear the hissing of escaping air. “You utter fiend!” I said as the vandal flashed past me

I had to call a taxi, which took twenty minutes to arrive. When I got to the address, the last puppy had gone.

Later that day, while replenishing Bebe’s litter tray, I found the spare car key among the grit. I put the waste into a bag, which I disposed of in the bin, and as usual, I lined the clean tray with old newspaper. As I opened a bag of cat litter, Bebe stepped into the tray and defecated.

“Can’t you wait?” I said. As I went to pour fresh litter into the tray, I was astonished to see that Bebe had taken a dump directly onto the photo of the puppies in the ad.

Stunned, I watched the cat strut past and step up into the kitchen, where she glanced back at me, and I swear she winked.

And that is the story of Bebe, aka BB, aka Black Beauty.

And now, aka Beelzebub.