Beaumont, a wee bowtie-wearing black house cat, came into the kitchen that morning, stomach growling and rumbling about in his small body like a great sea in a storm. But when he came into the room, he knew something was not right. Then, he saw it. Open on the floor was the last can of Beaumont’s favorite breakfast food. Beaumont loudly gasped, running over to examine the empty container, pried open by what looked like little teeth. Sigmund, his best friend, a house spider, swung down from the rafters just as Beaumont came running into the room.
“My friend, whats a mess this is, so it is indeed!” Sigmund exclaimed.
“Someone stole my food! Those rats must have gotten in here again and helped themselves,” Beaumont meowed lamentingly. He sat down, frustrated. In his time living with his human, Miss Sally, those darned rats that lived in the garden had found a way to slink in and out of the kitchen and had stolen his favorite canned food at least four other times. “I don’t like rats, especially when they take food that isn’t theirs!”
“You know, me friend-o, though? I be overhearin’ that Miss Sally’s gettin’ a crate of fresh fishies from those family members of hers,” Sigmund said.
Beaumont’s stomach rumbled again. He licked his lips at the thought of fresh Finnock, that is Sea Trout. You see, every so often, Miss Sally’s youngest brother, who lived by the sea with his son and three granddaughters, would send the surplus catch of Sea Trout. Beaumont flicked his tail in excitement.
“I’ll make do with the other kitty food for now, I suppose,” said Beaumont. “The idea of those delicious Finnocks makes the wait worth it.”
Surely enough, that very evening, Beaumont’s nose twitched. He could smell it. He could smell that heavenly smell of fresh fish filling his nostrils. He got up and tiptoed toward the kitchen. He couldn’t wait to get a taste of one of those fish. Mr. Thomas, Miss Sally’s kindly neighbor and close companion, plopped the crate onto the preparation table in the kitchen, then proceeded to take a crowbar to it, prying it open. Beaumont slunk into the shadows behind a storage cupboard, waiting for the coast to be clear for just a moment.
Then, Mr. Thomas and Miss Sally left the room. That was it; that was his chance. He darted from his hiding place and raised himself on his hind legs so as to reach over the table. He licked his lips again. Sigmund dangled from an overhead rafter, keeping an eye out for Miss Sally or Mr. Thomas’s return. Beaumont reached his paw, claws out, into the open crate of fish and pulled a juicy Finnock out. He was about to sink his teeth into it when with the sound of Miss Sally’s boots clacking against the dark oak floorboards, Sigmund turned to his friend.
“Yous best be a hidin’! Miss Sally’s a comin’,” Sigmund informed, quickly retreating up his strand of silk and back into the rafters. Beaumont ran, pressing himself against the wall. Miss Sally stood in the doorway, crossing her arms when she saw the fish, claw marks puncturing through it and simply shook her head. Beaumont was caught; he knew it. His stomach twisted at the thought of having upset Miss Sally. But she turned, seeing him up against the wall by the doorway. She laughed, then bent down and scooped the wee kitty into her arms. She carried him over to the table and picked up the fish, handing it to him. Mr. Thomas returned and laughed too, seeing Miss Sally giving Beaumont the fish. She shook her head in amusement once again as she put him down so he could enjoy his fish.
Beaumont glanced up at Sigmund, still watching from the rafters. He wiped his brow, as if he had one that could sweat – or had a brow at all – in relief that his pal hadn’t gotten in trouble for trying to steal a fish. Miss Sally knew about the rats in the kitchen, stealing food that wasn’t theirs, and was planning to put them in their place. Beaumont chomped down on his fish, savoring every morsel. And the Finnocks never tasted so good, knowing those rats would get their comeuppance.
