Basil the Bookshop Cat

Basil was a bookshop cat.

And it suited him quite well.

He was small, and black, and fluffy, with large round eyes the color of seafoam.

He had recently adopted a human woman after a spate of homelessness.

Though truly, he believed, the larger issue had been the woman’s catless-ness.

But he had solved that problem for her and found himself comfortably settled in the Myth and Tome Bookshop and its attached apartment.

After some convincing (she was still learning to speak cat), the woman had given him the run of the place.

His human was named Alice. She was small, and gentle, and loved books and quiet.

Alice suited him quite well.

Alice ran her little bookshop with care. This pleased him. She planted flowers in the window boxes.

With a bit of persuasion, she had planted cat grass and catnip as well.

He was fed on time every morning.

He was properly fussed over in the evenings when she made her pot of tea, lit the fireplace, and sat down to read.

He was small, so he only took up one thigh.

There he would nestle against her warmth, basking in the toasty firelight. He would close his eyes and sleep peacefully as she read her books.

At night, he had pride of place on the pillow next to hers in bed.

As it should be.

Now, Basil was magic. Of course. All cats are.

But he saw potential in Alice.

She could become a magnificent healer. Or herbalist.

White magic, of course. He had no interest in the other kind.

So, in the way of all cats since time immemorial, Basil began to teach her.

His method was tried-and-true cat science.

He nonchalantly knocked the necessary tomes from the bookshelves onto the floor.

Then he stared at her haughtily until she picked them up.

It was the way of things.

He was a firm but loving teacher to his apprentice.

Alice would roll her eyes and attempt to scold him but he paid her no mind.

Then, naturally, the book would pique her interest.

And a new white witch was born.

People underestimated cats.

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