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  For

  THE ENGLISH CATS

  (are the best in Europe)

  A CAT MAY LOOK ON A KING.

  —John Heywood (c. 1497–c. 1580), as quoted by a kitchen maid in some TV show

  Table Setting

  1. Mouse Fork

  7. Stoat Knife

  13. Hair Knife

  2. Vole Fork

  8. Vole Knife

  14. Milk Glass

  3. Stoat Fork

  9. Mouse Knife

  15. Milk Glass

  4. Plate

  10. Bug Spoon

  16. Milk Glass

  5. Napkin

  11. Shrew Fork

  17. Milk Glass

  6. Place Card

  12. Hair Plate

  18. Milk Goblet

  Foreword

  DOWNTON TABBY. THE STATELY YORKSHIRE home of the Earl and Catness of Grimalkin, their three kittens—the pretty one, the prettier one, and the other one—their kittens’ kittens, their servants, and, of course, the Dowager Catness, Vibrissa.

  Their evil footcat; their handsome chau-fur; the blind cook; the dopey maid; and Boots, the saintly, longsuffering valet who keeps getting framed for gnawing on things. I mean, over and over.

  Their lives, loves, births, deaths, marriages, affairs, prides, prejudices, senses, sensibilities, mills, flosses, cakes, ales, high teas and funfairs, car accidents, scandals, bouts of Spanish influenza, and war with Germany.

  Their blithe spirits, private lives, and easy virtues . . . the whole kitten caboodle.

  Edward VII between feedings

  Introduction

  ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD VII. A time of romance and leisure, grace and elegance. The cats of this enchanted era never imagined that it could all come to an end. How could they? They were cats.

  Here in this pretty world, gallantry took its last bow . . .

  Here was the last ever to be seen of knights and their ladies fair, of master and of servant . . .

  Look for it only in coffee-table books, for it is no more than a dream remembered.

  A civilization gone to the dogs.

  A roast field-mouse—not a housemouse—is a splendid bonne bouche for a hungry boy; it eats like a lark.

  —CHARLES DICKENS, QUOTING BRITISH NATURALIST FRANK BUCKLAND

  Cats and Englishmen

  IN THE EARLY YEARS OF the last century, the courtly cats of England’s stately manors lived life in much the way the owners of England’s stately manors did: someone fed them, then they spent the day grooming and sleeping and kind of ambling around, then someone fed them again.

  It never occurred to either group—cats or gentry—that they should do what you might consider “any work.”

  Cats were—and are—the gentry of the animal kingdom.

  Their place in society, their role, was to provide work for others.

  To be admired.

  To set an example.

  And the ultimate demonstration of their affection was to fall asleep on you.

  Those Who Have Things Done for Them

  A CODE OF CONDUCT FOR CATS AND GENTLEFOLK

  IN HIS MAGISTERIAL, UNFINISHED WORK, Vom Kriege, Carl von Clausewitz wrote that in war everything is simple, but even the simplest thing is difficult. (And there are people who say Germans aren’t funny!)

  In British high society, this rule—the simplest thing is difficult—was also true about getting dressed, taking a walk, or asking someone to pass the breadsticks.

  In the morning of the twentieth century, the rules of etiquette for the manor born—dictating the subtle nuance of gesture and drawing the thin line between what was done and what was not—were more byzantine than a software contract with a leprechaun.

  But the basics, for cat and man, were simple, and the same:

  Never do anything for yourself that someone else can do for you.

  Communicate disapproval with a withering glare.

  Communicate affection with a withering glare.

  Get fed.

  Groom.

  Sleep.

  Groom.

  Loaf in a decorative and highly charming manner.

  Get fed.

  Sleep.

  Repeat.

  If you absolutely must go outside, kill birds.

  It was their world. We just lint-rolled it.

  Hungry, Sleepy, Clean

  The Cats of Downton Tabby

  THE UPSTAIRS CATS

  VIBRISSA CLOWDER

  The Dowager Catness of Grimalkin

  KORAT CLOWDER

  The Chât-elaine, his American wife

  ROBERT “BOBCAT” CLOWDER

  The Earl of Grimalkin

  LADY MINXY CLOWDER

  The pretty daughter

  LADY SERVAL CLOWDER

  The prettier daughter

  MATTHMEW CLOWDER

  The heir presumptive. The cat who can drive a car . . . just not very well

  LADY ETCETERA CLOWDER

  The other daughter

  LADY REPLACEY MACCARACAL

  The cousin who is totally different from Lady Serval

  Those Who Do Things for Those Who Have Things Done for Them

  A LIFE IN SERVICE

  BELOW STAIRS IN A GREAT cathouse . . . I mean a great cats’ house . . . I mean a great house for cats . . . you know what I mean . . . below stairs, life was conducted in a different temper.

  From early morning until early death, the work never seemed to end, because it didn’t, until it ultimately did. It was hard and exacting. Service was a dreary, onerous cycle of backbreaking, soul-crushing, day-in and day-out drudgery.

  And they loved it.

  Which is hard to believe, about cats, but remember: during this period, the English class system was rigidly enforced.

  And the British Isles were isles . . . precious stones set in a silver sea . . . so leaving would have meant getting wet.

  Did they like being maids and butlers? Before you answer, consider everything you’ve ever read about English history after Robin Hood and before the Who. Your choices were:

  Serving

  Being served

  Being killed by Jack the Ripper

  So the employee class made the best of it and got with the program. It was indoor work, after all. And as a wise man once observed, “You’re gonna hafta serve somebody” (Bob Dylan, c. 1497–c. 1580).

  And it beat mining.

  At Downton Tabby, the downstairs cats bowed and scraped, went where they were told, and came when they were called, and their greatest pleasures were a general sense of exhaustion and the slightest sign of approval from their masters.

  In other words, they worked like dogs.

  The Cats of Downton Tabby

  THE DOWNSTAIRS CATS

  CATSON

  The Butler

  BOOTS

  Lord Grimalkin’s Valet So noble and good that everyone hates him

  MRS. MUGHES

  The Housecreeper

  MRS. O’CELOT

  Lady Grimalkin’s bitter and conniving Lady’s Maid

  THOMAS FAREL

  The handsome but evil First Footcat

  MRS. CATMORE

  The Cook

  TOM “CAT” BLARNEY

  The Chau-fur

  LAISY

  The Kitchen Maid

  The Cats of Downton Tabby

  THE DOWNSTAIRS CATS

  EMMA

  EMMA

  E
MMA

  DUMB WILLIAM

  EMMA

  RED-HAIRED EMMA

  EMMA

  EMMA

  EMMA

  EMMA

  USELESS MOLESLEY

  EMMA

  EMMA

  EMMA

  EMMA

  EMMA

  EMMA

  FLIRTY JANE

  EMMA

  AMBIGUOUS JIMMY

  EMMA

  EMMA

  EMMA

  EMMA

  KNOCKED-UP ETHEL

  EMMA

  EMMA

  EMMA

  TALL ALFRED

  EMMA

  EMMA

  EMMA

  And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.

  —T. S. ELIOT, “THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK”

  1910

  KING EDWARD VII DIED AT Buckingham Palace on May 6, 1910, but everyone was too polite to talk about it, so the Edwardian era continued for at least another four years, until the unpleasant parts of the Great War.

  Edward had been known to eat five meals a day, and his dinner often ran to ten courses. He had six children and countless mistresses, and his hobbies included hunting birds and watching horses and boats. When he died, the cats of Great Britain lost not just a sovereign but a soul mate.

  His last words, “I shall not give in, I shall work to the end,” are now commonly understood to be a reference to a leg of lamb he was eating with both hands, which inspired the tradition, followed to this day, of waiters asking, “Are you still working on that?”

  For the well-bred cats of England, life went on much as it always had. Upstairs, meals were taken, yawns were exchanged, and upholstery was shredded, languidly. Warm, sunny spots were found in which to lie, or perhaps lay, one or the other. Eventually it was time to eat again.

  The young humored the old, who took various firm stands on things and then backed down.

  At Downton Tabby, for example, Papa—the Earl—was much admired, and much beloved, for this singular aspect of his character: a spotless record of doing the right thing eventually.

  In the basement, since it was filled with cats, the tiniest slight could become a feud that lasted forever. When a new cat was brought into the home—like Boots, the Earl’s new valet—the older cats never let him forget that he was entering marked territory. And when a cat marks his territory, you can get used to the smell, or you can move . . . because it stays marked.

  UNINVITED BUT NECESSARY WORDS FROM

  The Dowager

  Never eat your own fur in a month without an r in it.

  Don’t make a fuss about breaking things like vases. Darting from the room as if shot from a gun is apology enough.

  If you didn’t want me to leap on your head and cling to your face with my claws, you should not have invited me to a place where there’s thunder and lightning!

  I’m a cat, Minxy. I can be as contrary as I choose.

  There’s more than one way to kill a stoat.

  Stop licking yourself there, dear, it’s terribly middle class.

  Of course cats can speak. We’re just not speaking to you!

  1912

  IF YOU’VE EVER LIVED WITH a cat in heat, you know that ignoring it is like pretending you don’t live near the airport. In spring 1912, it was obvious to any animal with ears that Minxy, the firstborn of the Clowder litter, was ready for breeding.

  This was simple and difficult, because for cats and Englishmen, sex was an earthy and unpleasant obligation, like death, or when Australians come to visit and stay. For moneyed English cats, mating was even more onerous and unsavory, because it involved real estate. So, to protect the territory, inheritance was governed by three ancient precepts: agnatic primogeniture, Salic law, and entail. As any child can tell you, agnatic primogeniture means kinship is defined patrilineally, Salic law means only males can inherit, and entail means cats have tails.

  Unfortunately, cats, like royalty, are also snobs, so when Catrick heard the crème de la crème purring about the Mewsitania, the largest and most luxurious vessel in the world, he booked himself for its maiden transatlantic crossing, first class. Because what cat doesn’t love crème?

  Catrick had also heard that the ship was practically unsinkable, which appealed to him, as a cat, but that claim turned out to be an exaggeration.*

  Minxy’s caterwauling was starting to frighten the tenant farmers, so the Clowders resolved to move on to Plan B. Cousin Purrcey.

  The Lord and Lady Grimalkin

  request the pleasure of the company of

  Mr. Purrcey Clowder

  on Saturday, the eleventh of May at twelve o’clock

  P.M.R.S.V.P.

  P. S. You’ll find Minxy in the yard.

  Unfortunately for the lovers, the twentieth century held horrors no cat could foresee. In this case, it was the vacuum cleaner, first patented in 1901 by Hubert Cecil Booth. Someone turned one on, just when Minxy and Purrcey were seriously getting to know each other, and Purrcey fled, headfirst into a bust of Lord Kitchener.

  Cats may not be loyal like dogs. They can’t mimic speech like parrots or indicate that their owners are bad credit risks, like shoulder-borne lizards. But cats are resourceful. Minxy and Korat buried him in the yard.

  * * *

  *Years later, the tragedy would be exploited as a crude plot device in a popular British television show about a family and their servants. It was called, of course, Upstairs, Downstairs. And if it wasn’t already campy enough that the writers used the disaster to drown one character, Lady Majorie, it also somehow gave another character amnesia, which was really unforgivable.

  If this was love, love had been overrated.

  —HENRY JAMES

  How to Keep a Secret at Downton Tabby

  THERE IS NOTHING MORE SACRED than trust. When you learn a secret, especially one that will break Papa’s heart, the first thing to do is find someone to tell.

  UNINVITED BUT NECESSARY WORDS FROM

  The Dowager

  I’m not blushing. I have demodectic mange.

  Sometimes I feel as if I were chewing the spine off an H.G. Wells novel.

  I have nothing against stage people. My great-aunt was the strings of a cello!

  Why are male calicos generally sterile? Shame, I suppose.

  People who say I’m cold and unemotional have never seen me unravel a roll of toilet paper.

  I’m not “judging” you. That’s far too active a word for it.

  1913

  SERBIA, BULGARIA, AND GREECE FELL upon Turkey, already weakened by her war with Italy, and swept her of all her European possessions save the territory between Adrianople and Constantinople, while at Downton Tabby, an inventory of the board games revealed the rope from Clue had been chewed on, a crime for which Boots, being the newest cat, was of course framed.

  Lord Grimalkin inquired after Cousin Purrcey, and was told he had gone to live on a farm.

  Time being a problem that never goes away, the Clowder girls continued to grow in grace and comeliness, and to go into heat. The prettier sister, Lady Serval, was pursued by a local tom who didn’t have two cents to his name, which was Tom. He also lacked a pedigree, which was like forbidden catnip to Lady Serval. At first it looked like Lord Grimalkin would never forgive her, but then he did.

  Lady Korat consulted a cattery for a suitable new suitor for Minxy, and they came up with Matthmew Clowder, a cousin she didn’t know from a vole in the ground. But Minxy was in heat again, and it was time to set aside formalities before someone got hurt.

  The Lord and Lady Grimalkin

  request the pleasure of the company of

  Mr. Matthmew Clowder

  on Sunday, the eleventh of June at twelve o’clock

  P.M.R.S.V.P.

  P.S. Minxy’s in the shed.

  Just listen and you’ll know which one.

  Matthmew arrived and immediately fell head over haunches for Minxy because
pheromones. Minxy wanted to marry Matthmew, and then she didn’t, and then she did again. If you’ve ever let a cat out, and back in, and back out again, you’ll know this makes perfect sense.

  This was before the invention of the balled-up sheet of printer paper, so cats had time on their paws, and love/hate courtships dragged on and on.

  Not everyone was pleased to see another new cat at Downton Tabby. As the Dowager Catness once said, “Visitors bring fleas.”

  Which was, unfortunately, both cruel and true. Lady Korat asked Mrs. O’Celot to run her a flea bath.

  And you know how a cat can be sitting there, and sitting there, and sitting there, and then suddenly tear out of the room like ball lightning? Well, after a lifetime in fawning worship of her mistress Lady Korat, the evil maid Mrs. O’Celot suddenly decided she hated her.

  When I take a bath, I put everything neatly back in place. You wouldn’t even know I’d been in the bathroom.