Prologue 00 - What the Mog said to the Miller

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WHAT THE MOG SAID TO THE MILLER

“[I’ll do] ANYTHING FOR DINNER”

 

"I once saw a cat with massive eyes and a crescent moon shaped face. It was creeping down an alleyway along the shadows, sniffing the ground as it went...until it realized it was no longer alone and then it froze staring right back at me. Its eyes glowed out from the darkness almost as bright as car headlights. Looking me up and down it hissed defensively, sinking deeper into the shadow…and then the light of its eyes switched off and the thing completely vanished!" 

“That’s not a Cat, that’s a Mog!"

"What’s a Mog?"

"Really? You never heard of a Mog before?       

A Mog is a slinky, creepy, mangy little creature, nothing but trouble; always up to mischief. Never looked after its whiskers."

"Whiskers?"

“Exactly, have you never heard the Tale of 'The Miller's Moggie'?

   There was once a cat whose job it was to catch the mice in an old Mill. He was a 'Moggie-Catcher'. Many years ago ‘Moggie’ was a nickname for mouse and so he was simply called 'Mog'. But Mog was so naughty he never wanted to catch the mice in the mill, he just wanted to play all the time. He was such a menace always running about, scaring young children and pouncing on the Miller's Wife's cooking. Mog loved his food and one time managed to pounce on a plate of just baked Jam Tarts. The Miller's Wife was so angry that later that day she snipped off one side of Mogs whiskers causing him to lose his balance and topple off the stool he had been sleeping on. On his way down to the floor he bent the whiskers on the other side of his face as well. Whiskers are very important to a cat because not only do they help them keep balance, but they also help them to see in the dark where their eyes cannot. Very similar to insect feelers, whiskers sense the subtle blow of air that floats passed a cat's face, helping them to tell what objects surround them without needing to see with the use of their eyes. In the daylight cats are relatively short sighted and although they can detect the slightest of movement and have a remarkable ability to measure depth and distance, their vision is blurry. In low light their vision is excellent until it's pitch black and then they need their whiskers. Cats are natural night prowlers. However Mog had lost one side of his whiskers and had managed to bend the others as well, now he had only sound and his eyesight to rely on. He could no longer hunt at night and he liked to be lazy in the daytime. Mog didn’t want to work harder in the day now he had lost his whiskers, so he didn’t. Very soon the mice he was supposed to catch multiplied and he was told by the Miller that he wouldn't get his plate of dinner until he did his job as a 'Moggie-Catcher' properly. Dinner is an important thing to any feline but it was most important to Mog. Mog blinked his eyes in shock and then hissed at the Miller, but it was no good. The Miller picked up Mog and carted him outside and down the garden, where he locked Mog in the Mill saying he could come back out when he had caught all the mice. Placing a dish of water just inside the doorway the Miller then left Mog to his punishment.

Sitting in the entrance way Mog was left to watch a dark blur of furry fuzzy-shapes scattering away. The Old Mill was almost pitch black except for a high up little window that let in a narrow beam of sunlight during the day time. Mog stared up at the light. The window was too small and it left too many shadows for the Mice to hide away where he could no longer see. Mog pounced about franticly trying to blindly catch as many of the mice as he could. He had a hard job ahead of him and he had been told that it would serve him right for being naughty in the first place. Mog didn’t believe he had done anything wrong 'in the first place' and didn’t agree with his ‘telling off’ from the Miller at all.

   But Mog stayed inside the Old Mill for only four days because the Miller grew worried and came to check on him. When he opened the door the Old Mill was silent and the shadow hung deep. In the corner was a large stack of Mice ready for eating but Mog was nowhere to be seen. The Miller looked about himself worriedly, until he saw two extremely large glowing eyes staring silently down at him from the top of the rafters. The Miller stared at the strange eyes, and unblinkingly the eyes stared right back at him...and then switched out to nothing but darkness. With a few creaks high above the Miller’s head along a wooden beam, followed by a soft thud on the stone floor, the Miller then heard a patter of feet, and out from the darkness slunk out a strange creature. It looked very much like Mog, but yet, he was different somehow.

  He was still cat-like but his eyes had grown large and they took up the majority of his face.

"What happened to your eyes?" the Miller asked Mog.

'The small ray of window-light grew them so as I could adapt to see in the dark without my whiskers' Mog replied in his mind to himself. The Miller couldn't hear him.

"Your face looks like the shape of a fallen crescent moon!" the Miller exclaimed.

'In the swirling rafter wind my ears grew sharper and pointier so as I could hear better in the dark because I’m no longer able to rely on my whiskers' Mog replied to himself, and then hissed at the Miller for good measure. Mog didn't like the Miller's Wife for chopping off half of his whiskers and believed the incident was just as much the Miller's fault for marrying her 'in the first place'. Mog was very jealous when she stole his evening rocking chair by the fire and took it for herself. Ever since then he had slept in a box among the hallway brooms sulkily hissing to himself.

"You’re all slinky and your tail is crooked!” the Miller told Mog.

'Because I’ve lost my balance since I lost the use of my whiskers. I’ve had to work harder to chase the mice.' Mog licked a front paw casually as he sat just outside his shadowy corner, a good few feet away from the Miller.

"Why does your fur stick out like a shoe polish brush?" the Miller asked Mog.

'So as I can still feel the wind as best I can and walk on narrow spaces without toppling over so easily, since I no longer have my whiskers!'

The Miller was worried about Mog and felt slightly uneasy from the spiteful glances that Mog kept throwing at him.

"Well you've done a great job with the mice, Mog" the Miller said comfortingly, "there seems to be none left!"

It was true, not one mouse had run across the floor of the Mill since the Miller had unlocked the door.

Mog hissed at the Miller, 'because I want my dinner!' he replied venomously. And then he went and craftily slunk his body around the Miller's legs feigning affection. Mog didn't want to have to catch his own dinner forever; he would rather be lazy and have it bought to him on a plate at the stone kitchen floor like before.

The wind howled around the top of the Old Mill and the shadows seemed to deepen around the two of them, almost threatening to swallow them into the darkness, and the Miller shivered from a chill that stroked itself down the back of his spine.

"Well, let’s go then Mog. Back inside for some dinner, shall we?" the Miller said stepping aside to let Mog out, and Mog sulkily slunk himself out into the morning sunlight.

When Mog came out of the Old Mill he was pleasantly surprised. Mog could see almost perfect. Better than he could before in fact. Mog was happy and he purred. When Mog purred his whole body vibrated. Mog galloped to the house with his crooked tail and the tips of his pointy ears barely visible above the due soaked grass; his polish-brush fur rippling in the soft breeze and splashing the fresh rain water on his way. Jumping up the steps to his house door he just about kept his balance and Mog snickered gleefully. When Mog laughed his whole body vibrated just like when he purred. Mog found this funny, so he laughed more and vibrated longer.

The Miller opened the door and Mog trotted into the kitchen. His dinner was already laid down for him on a plate just like it normally was. The sight was heavenly and Mog began to dribble.

But Mog also had a very good sense of smell and he quickly perked up his ears picking up on the scent of new Jam Tarts baking, lovely and hot in the oven. Mog smiled craftily to himself. Gifted with his new senses, he no longer had any need for his remaining bent whiskers if he were to be caught stealing Jam Tarts again; though Mog decided that nobody would ever catch him again anyway. He didn’t want to go back into the Old Mill. He decided that from now on he would forever be a cunning rascal and keep his dinner too. Mog hadn't learnt his lesson at all, though he liked to believe it was about 'never giving up' and so he stayed a crafty rascal for the rest of all his days.

 The end."

 

 The Puppy looked to the Bird, "Is that a true story?" he asked skeptically.

"Well you saw one down the alley didn't you?", the Bird replied.

It was true the Puppy had seen a Mog in the alleyway. So he now knew of their existence.

"Did it really only take four days for the Miller's Mog to evolve? ...wouldn't it have taken longer?", the Puppy asked cleverly.

The Bird gave an indignant hop on top of the fence in which he was stood and swapped the leg he was standing on looking back down at the runaway Puppy pompously.

"Anything was possible in the olden days" the Bird retorted to the Puppy’s question, "Mog was the first of his kind, a new feline breed unto himself, respectively. But that was many, many years ago. Told to my grandmother, from hers, and to her from hers, and her grandfather and his great, great grandmother before that...and she sat in the Old Mill you know. Mogs are nothing but trouble. Sat in the dark when they close their eyes they are as good as invisible. You'll be hard pushed to catch one," the Bird said to the Puppy, "but they'll sure as hell catch you if you don't keep your wits about you."

"Are there many of them?", the Puppy asked the Bird sounding slightly worried.

"Oh yes, there are loads of them now. Live mainly in the countrysides and a few in the towns. You'll be lucky to see one...or unlucky perhaps. They call themselves 'Mogs' proudly, and nowadays even pedigree Cats get the nickname 'Mog' sometimes.

"That’s confusing", said the Puppy, ”but aren't Cats and Mogs all the same anyway?"

The Bird shrugged, "Perhaps, but a Cat is smart and independent, a real hunter, whereas a Mog is clumsy, tricksy and sly, always scheming and ever dependent on its 'Plate of Dinner' because it’s too lazy to chase anything. Smart Cats were never stupid enough to bend their whiskers in the first place" the Bird chortled, “only a mangy mongrel without wit or smarts could manage to do that.”

“So the Miller’s Mog wasn’t very clever then?” the Puppy asked, “Even though he caught all those mice in just four days?”

“Well, mogs are very proud of Mog and consider him to be brave and always cunning. They worship him as their ‘first’ and tell many of his stories. I heard he once fought a Tarantula and tricked a Dog from his beloved cushion to take home for his Broom-Box. Swiped the Dog's eyes for his dinner soon after. Mogs would call him clever but I call them all spiteful little fiends.”

"I'm not scared of any Mog" said the Puppy bravely.

"Well I wouldn't cross one" the Bird replied with a chuckle, "or you may get seven years bad luck, and times it by nine at that. Let’s hope the myth of having 'nine lives' is a cat thing and not a Mog thing, eh?”

The Puppy looked thoughtful and the Bird laughed, flapping its wings and taking to the sky.

"But if it was all said in his head, then how do you know what the Mog said to the Miller?" the Puppy asked too late.

The Bird was gone and the Puppy sighed to himself continuing on his way through one of the lonely parks of Didderkit Town. 'It was a good story' the Puppy thought...but everyone knew that Birds were nothing but tattletales.