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Summary
Bertie brings home a cat. Not. Cool. Inspired by zekkass's prompt here.
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I was not completely without pity for the animal, but I did not relish the thought of a filthy, possibly disease-carrying beast invading my perfectly kept household. The shedding of bright yellow fur on the chesterfield was, in my mind, grounds enough for a quick eviction. So I went as far as Covent Garden, where I poured the cat out of the basket and onto the pavement. The thing took a few careful steps, then turned and looked over its shoulder at me with a questioning air. This was folly to think, of course. Cats can no more question their circumstances than a beetle can philosophise on its existence. The look in its clear blue eyes merely reminded me of something else, I told myself.
I gave the cat a firm nod and turned on my heel."I say, Jeeves, tonight's your evening off. Why don't you leave a bit early? Go to your club, have a cigar, unwind and whatnot. I can handle the moggy and everything."
"Thank you, sir. That is very kind." And, as I was still wearing my overcoat, having not moved an inch since stepping into the foyer, I merely turned, took my hat from its peg, and let myself out the front door. Mr Wooster was correct: this new addition to our household has disturbed me. I could almost be said to be in a daze. And yet it seemed I was doomed to share living space with the filthy, destructive cat. Because Mr Wooster loved it, and I couldn't tear away something that brought him joy."Now Mittens, you must be good for Jeeves. I have a feeling he doesn't enjoy you one bit, and we must keep Jeeves happy, what?"
He sounded almost sad. I was puzzled. I slowly took a step away from the bedroom door and stood in the hall, listening to his every word.
"It's not easy, Mittens," he continued, "to keep Jeeves happy. I don't think I'll ever do it properly." He sighed. "All it takes is a bad tie or the wrong hat, you know. When he first came here, I told him I would never be a slave to a valet." A small, bitter laugh. "Now I'm a slave in all sorts of ways. What did the poet johnnie say? I'm a slave of the heart, or some thingummy like that."The realisation was sudden. These were not the convictions of a mere valet. I had been a superb valet to many masters, and only Mr Wooster inspired these kinds of feelings in me. I wanted to serve him the perfect cup of tea and cook him the perfect fillet of trout and dress him in the best clothes, yes. But I also wanted him to laugh and smile when he was at my side, and that was a wholly different kind of service.
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