The End

By Rajah Patpaw Purr

The clan was running for their lives; twelve kitties, paws outstretched towards the safety of downtown, fleeing a group of their own. One would think such days of civil war had ended, especially among cats. Of course, you probably never would have met these cats. You see, during the darkest of dark nights, clans of cats roam the streets. These two particular clans were lead by arch enemies. Arch enemies with two things in common: 1) A queen 2) Felinity

This is the story of how civil war divided a clan of cats, how men become fools when exposed to the hearts of women, and how a woman might just be the only cure for a gaping wound in the heart of feline brotherhood that's killing our community.

The whole war had begun because two cats in one clan had found their hearts trapped by the city’s tramp-kitty. A beautiful lass she was, if not a tad dense for her age. The brothers, being the royal princes of this clan, had agreed to have a fight over who would claim the beautiful woman as their own. Of course, this civil act of agreeing on a time and place happened to occur exactly at that time and place, so the fight didn’t have any set rules except to the victor goes the spoils, and to the loser goes death.

Both manly specimens started a-hissin’ and a-growlin’, roused up the whole clan, inspired a group fight, which resulted in a few deaths and the birth of revenge in the hearts of many. After regaining a somewhat calm state, the group carefully looked over the battlefield and turned to their royal leaders for guidance. The royal leaders turned to each other with pointed paws, each insisting that if the other had valued peace above stealing the town’s tramp kitty (who belonged to the speaker at the time, by his own opinion), there would have been no war, so it must obviously be HIS fault.

And, though the stories were glaringly alike, some kitties chose one side and some kitties chose the other. They promptly refused to look at each other. Instead, each party packed camp and took off to the opposite side of town, their noses stuck high in the air and their tails thrashing in fury.

Being cats, with a pride twenty miles high and climbing, the two males refused to give up their personal battle. They began instructing their subjects to swarm down upon the enemy’s camp and kill the leader. "After all, if that pesky, long nosed, crooked tailed, rat wasn’t trying to get my girl," each Tomcat reckoned, "our group could reunite, and I WOULD HAVE HER ALL TO MY VERY OWN!!!". They repeated this time and time again during rousing speeches that kept morale high among the otherwise heartbroken clan.

This particular she-cat, by the way, had no idea of what she had done. She was quite an innocent creature with the heart of a songbird. Her love encompassed all cats, which is the unfortunate reason she had become a tramp kitty and provided the "inspiration" needed to divide a nation of feline power. Ever since she could remember, the brothers had come to her for a loving paw and a soothing purr. She was the one who knew about each of their darkest fears and lightest moments. She, of all cats, was the one who would never want to hurt a living soul. She loved one and all.

During the following year, the brothers began leading battles instead of sending small parties out to do the job for them. They established an army for each clan, began planning when and where battles were to occur, and molded the whole future of their town’s cat population around military life. It soon became a situation where either brother never saw the other unless both were hissing it out on the battlefield, the blood of their kin staining the street.

And so it became that twelve kitties, the remainder of an entire clan, was running for the safety of downtown. The opposing clan lived in the suburbs and would never venture into the city’s darkest alleys for fear of stepping far into hostile territory full of dangers they dared not imagine. As these twelve kitties ran, screaming at the top of their lungs, the one belle who had begun this whole stupid war stepped out of her human’s house and saw her own worst nightmare: suffering.

Her shocked eyes grabbed hold of the clan’s remaining kitten, stopped short by the sudden death of his long-since weakened mother. His tears mingled with her cold blood, drawing up the pity and sorrow of our beauty’s heart in mass. She quickly trotted over to his shaking form, scooped him up in her jaw, and ran behind her human’s flower garden to clean the blood of war from his traumatized face. After he was securely snuggled up against the long, soft fur of her tummy, the kitten began explaining why the war had started. He was so innocent as to who anyone was anymore, that he had no idea exactly who he was talking to.

Perhaps it is a good thing he did not know. Such a non-fiction story isn’t one easily narrated to the unwitting creator.

But, you see -- I know. I am that girl. I didn’t know that Alabaster and Tango would want to claim me as their own; I didn’t know I would start such a battle. I didn’t know, and now I’m not sure how to go about ending it. My eyes sweep over blood stained streets, wondering how two men could see such a bloodshed as an honorable sacrifice to the temple of femininity. How could two men hate each other, looking beyond their brotherhood to see nothing but red anger and black lust?

I only saw one battle in a war waged far too long. I can’t bear to see another. Tonight, I take my life and beg that this blood purge your poisoned souls of such hot hate borne out of pure love. Please -- no more fighting. No more, no more, no more, NO MORE.

This is the story of how civil war divided a clan of cats, how men become fools when exposed to the hearts of women, and how a woman’s death -- my death -- might just be the only cure for a gaping wound in the heart of feline brotherhood that's killing our community.