TEASING CRUMPET

Crumpet had never slept on my pillow before. Indeed, she spent most of her time out of my view, so I had no idea where she was or what she was up to. That didn’t bother me. I’m not sure whether she left the TARDIS when I did and returned to it likewise, or how she would have managed that without my knowing, but it’s not impossible. She was a private sort of kitten, if putting it that way isn’t too redundant.

Then one night there she was, curled up on my pillow, waiting for me to retire, and when I did, she snuggled close, turned and stuck her butt in my face. I understand that this is a gesture of love, trust and legal identification among cats. Fortunately, I speak feline, so I was able to assure her I accepted less intimate I.D. Unfortunately, she insisted that offering the most secure and unfalsifiable version was her standard method and she had no intention of discontinuing it.

Hyperphantasia and I had parted ways when our Grand Tour concluded on Xent, one of the populated moons of Taspiria. The other band members agreed they wanted to take a year-long sabbatical and I, for whom touring with the band was a dream and a half come true, and who hate goodbyes, had nonetheless lingered too long to avoid the wrap party, where I had imbibed too much ginger beer and rendered myself much more entertaining than I had planned to be. I can decide whether or not to let alcohol affect me; against simple, fizzy ginger beer I am defenseless. Obviously, I can sing -- you may have paid to hear me sing -- but don’t let me start doing impressions. First of all, I just don’t know when to stop. Second of all, apparently my selection of subjects tends to be somewhat obscure to the interuniversal crowd. Everyone recognizes my Winston Churchill, my Oko Lavorzinet and my Jerry Lewis, but no one gets my Raimbaut de Vaqueiras (and it’s an apt impression, too -- I spent half a year with him in the Fourth Crusade and learned a lot of songs but I didn’t stick around to watch him and his patron, Boniface of Montferrat, get themselves slaughtered) and I have been asked, sometimes less politely than other times, to leave my Josephine Baker at home.

I woke up with a carbonated hangover and no memory whatsoever of exactly how entertaining I’d been; Nirk and Turlough filled me in, and laughed at me as I groaned.

Then they were gone, off to do their thing. Xent is a great transportation hub; wherever they meant to go, they could get there from Xent. They’d been traveling in the TARDIS, of course, and I loved touring with them, but there are other parts of the universe to see and always something that needs doing, whether it’s fixing a tiny error that could destroy the known universes or soothing a hangnail that otherwise might inadvertently start whichever world- or universal war was imminent. (It’s so difficult to keep track of those!) I was ready for new adventures and Turlough was decidedly restless.

Crumpet’s idea of an adventure was to trust me enough to begin sleeping with her butt in my face.

I suppose I could have asked her about her sudden change of heart, perhaps confirmed what I suspected -- that the band had been too rowdy for her -- and now that the TARDIS’ humanoid population was down to just me and Turlough (neither of whom is human) she felt more at ease. I chose not to ask.

“So where to, now, Doctor?” In the morning I found Turlough already in the control room, not messing around with the controls or surfing the universewide web but just staring at the scanner, which, since we were moseying along on a random course away from Xent, showed nothing but diverse stars staring back at him from the apparent emptiness of space. That “emptiness” was in fact just buzzing with gases, dark matter and dust but I am sure all Turlough saw was the darkness and the stellar array that pierced it.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “What’s your pleasure?”

“I’d like to go home,” said Turlough, “but maybe not quite yet.

“All right. By the way, have you seen Crumpet lately?”

“The kitten? No. Is she still here? She wouldn’t be a kitten anymore, would she?”

“No, she’s a young cat. I saw her for the first time in a very long time, last night. She slept on my pillow. It was rather nice.”

“I’m not terribly fond of cats, but she doesn’t bother me.”

“She hasn’t bothered anyone as far as I know. She keeps to herself. That might change, though, now that the crowd has dispersed. Will you be all right?”

“Yes, of course. I don’t hate cats. I just don’t especially like them.”

“You might like Crumpet,” I told him. “She’s very sweet.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Be warned, though. If she takes a fancy to you, she will stick her butt in your face.”