The Absolutely Fantabulous Affair of the Broken Mason Jar

By Stefan Joy

Michou is a ginger tabby cat with big dreams and even bigger paws who finds himself on an epic adventure in pursuit of fame and destiny.

When Alfonso, a bullying macaw who shares the same space and owner with our hero, plays yet another dirty trick on him, Michou decides he's had enough of his nemesis. Enlisting the aid of a motley crew of animal friends, including a spunky spider named Spinke who doubles as his manager, Michou dives headfirst into his rock n' roll dreams of fame and glory. But nefarious forces seem intent on sabotaging the tabby’s musical debut, from the ruthless animal kingpins Java the Rat and Toad the Horrible to a mysterious syndicate pulling the strings from the shadows. Yet Michou remains undeterred, holding fast to his motto, “I’m a cat, not a can’t”, as he braves the winding road to stardom.

Whisking readers into the Technicolor world of Vera City’s bustling streets, decrepit sewers, and glitzy performance halls through Michou’s imaginative feline eyes, this quirky middle grade animal fantasy is a treat for readers both young and young at heart. Michou’s journey is both a riotous romp and a heartfelt exploration of themes like friendship, courage, believing in yourself, and staying true to your dreams even when faced with daunting adversity.

Brimming with humor, thrilling twists and turns, and no shortage of music, magic, and mayhem, this unlikely tale of an aspiring feline rocker will strike a chord with mischief-loving kids and adults who love furry heroes. Buckle up for an unforgettable ride alongside Michou and his ragtag gang of lovable misfits! Root for brave Michou as he tunes his way to stardom in this epic cat tale!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Editura Metro
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9786069340349

Book preview

0

(PEEP HERE FIRST)

The bird, a magnificent male scarlet macaw, soars through the spacious, brightly lit room, a pouch of cat food firmly clenched in his beak. Underneath , the elegant cream-colored parquet flooring becomes a canvas, splattered with expanding patches of brown. When there is nothing left to extract from the pouch, the bird nonchalantly lets it drop in a corner. He then embarks on a triumphant victory lap to admire his masterpiece.

The floor now resembles the aftermath of a relentless bird dropping attack.

The macaw returns to his domain, a massive cage suspended near the window by a sturdy steel chain. After meticulously cleaning his beak, he dozes off, claws firmly gripping the horizontal bar.

A mere ten minutes later, the bird is lost in peaceful slumber. The entrance of an elderly woman, her white hair styled in a high pompadour and thick, red plastic-rimmed glasses resting on her nose, doesn't disturb him. Cradling a wicker basket filled with balls of wool, a half-knitted jacket, and a pair of knitting needles, the woman freezes upon seeing the spectacle. But then she vanishes from the room in a jiffy.

Her departure is followed by an outcry of outraged meows, which rouse the macaw from his sleep. Hearing them, he lets out a series of satisfied groans.

The old lady reappears, a ginger tabby cat with unusually large paws gripped by the scruff of the neck in one hand. In her other hand, she carries a red bucket. She sets the bucket down, takes out four small sponges from her pocket, and fastens them to the cat's paws. After thoroughly soaking the sponges in the bucket, she releases the feline onto the floor.

You have half an hour to make this parquet sparkle, she commands, her voice ringing through the room.

The old lady storms out.

The macaw cackles maniacally from his perch.

The cat sighs.

1

(LAST STRAW)

"M ICHOU !"

I'm not in the mood to meow back. It's been raining us and dogs all morning - the perfect weather to groom my whiskers. I strive to keep them stretched, straight, and stiff, just as kittens fancy.

MICHOU!

That's my name, all right. In case you didn’t notice, it’s as Frenchy as a croissant. That’s why it is pronounced like me-shoe and not like my-chow. I got it from my second Mistress. The voice echoing around the room belongs to her.

What's going on with that cat, I wonder? You, MICHOU!

Mee-ee Chou-chou-chou-ou-ou!

Sweet Tail of Mine! If Alfonso worms his way into this, I'm done for. He’s my Mistress's scarlet macaw. I loathe his squeaky voice. I loathe his bright plumage. I loathe his long tail. I loathe his curved beak. And that's just his exterior. For I also hate his guts.

Not that I don't like birds - I do, I do, believe you me. In fact, I'm an avid bird watcher myself. But, between you and me, I prefer them well-roasted.

You-u-u MICHOU-OU-OU!

Uh-oh! This is bad. Super bad. Not good at all. When Mistress starts to sound like a bird, I mean. She may have a heart of gold, no doubt about it. But she also has principles written in stone. One of them being that you must report to her no-matter-what after being called three times.

Shoot, it looks like I'll have to come out from under the closet. I got myself a very nice pad in here. No living creature has survived long enough to tell others about it. Ask Mr. Mouse. Or Mrs. Beastie.

Mistress stands with her back to me. She hasn't noticed me yet, but that goddamn bird has. From his hanging cage, he opens his beak and starts squawking:

Michou! Michou! Michou!

Mistress whirls around to face me. She has that vertical furrow between her eyebrows, signaling bad weather. And the glasses perched on the tip of her nose don't help at all to sweeten the deal.

Shut up, Alfonso! she snaps. I’ll do the talking here. And it’s none of your business, anyway.

Hm! Have I been busy making mischief lately? I attempt a flanking maneuver, aiming to rub my fur against her left leg. But I manage only two and a half steps. I find myself with her finger pointing at me:

Stop right there, mister!

I'm up the creek without a paddle. Or a canoe. When Mistress calls me mister, I know I'm in hot water. But I must try. I'm a cat, not a can't.

Meow! I plea, with the biggest eyes, the wettest look, and the sweetest mew I can muster.

No dice. The pointed finger becomes a wagging finger.

Don’t give me that pussyesque behavior!

Did she just refer to me as ’Pussy Esq.’? And if so, should I brag or should I huff?

Poo-see! Poo-see! Poo-see!

The Fright of Retinas is going berserk, looking now more like a turkey with ruffled feathers. Clinging to the wires of his cage and shrieking like a cuckoo, he stirs a high voltage current in me. I puff up in response, perhaps even hissing a bit.

It’s enough for Mistress to throw a glance over her glasses. The big-mouthed grumbler shuts up instantly. Did I take his tongue, you ask? I wish! I've heard it's a true delight in aspic.

What do you have to say about the mason jar in the kitchen? she quizzes me.

The what now? From where?

I swear on my whiskers, I haven't a clue about what she's talking about! I convey my innocence through my big, bright, yellow eyes, shimmering with pure golden sincerity. But Mistress looks at me as a customs officer would a suspicious package:

Feigning ignorance, are we? Follow me, mister, and I'll jog your memory.

I trail behind her, dragging my paws. My almost canine paws, darling, as she once described them to Miss Gloria, one of her friends. As I glance at them, I can't help but disagree. They aren't nearly big enough to play ping-pong without a paddle, at least not with Alfonso on the receiving end. Believe you me, I've tried more than a couple of times.

Right in the middle of the kitchen, a shattered mason jar lies on the shiny tiles, surrounded by a thick, reddish stain that smells distinctly of strawberry. A noticeable gap in the neatly stacked jars on the cupboard tells me where the rogue one originated.

I can't even take a nap anymore because disasters might strike? What's next, finding the house flooded?

I glance at Mistress, then at the broken jar, and finally at its likely point of origin. Sure, I’ve been known to cause a mess before. Swinging from the furniture around the house and playing Tarzan is something every cat enjoys.

Except, not this time. I've been grooming my ‘tash back at my pad. I didn't even hear the racket the fricking jar must have made. Unless I’ve developed a habit of daydreaming and engaging in swashbuckling adventures while my mind gallops across the prairies of imagination.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a faint fluttering of wings. The rainbowy egg-layer peeks out from an opening in his cage. Hearing is not his forte, so he strains his dumbness headquarters to catch the sounds from the kitchen. But I can still see the sneer spread across his beaky face. EurikA!fonso.

Meow! I protest, tilting my head towards the smooth criminal.

Don't you 'meow' me! she retorts.

The fingers from her left hand start to tremble. I've seen this movie before, precisely seven times until now. Mistress will try to snatch me and I’m telling you, having your nose rubbed in your mess is no fun. No fun at all.

Just as I leap through the slightly ajar kitchen window, I bequeath my will to the garish wheeler-dealer:

I'll lick you for this, Alfie boy. I'll lick you good, I promise.

2

(FOR THE ROAD)

"F orgive me, Father , for I have sinned."

I walk with this guy for a while. He's as tall and thin as a pole. Although Mistress pretends that in Poland they talk Plsh, not English. And instead of speeding tickets, they apparently hand out tickets for excessive use of vowels.

However, he might just be a broken record because that's all he says, without acknowledging or speaking to anyone else:

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

I abandon him at the next corner. I crave entertainment, not the mechanical ramblings of a broken man. The pet needs to be petted, folks! To compensate for the unjust scolding I got from Mistress. And to cook up a plan to retaliate against that colorblock drag.

It's nice outside. The air is crisp, and the sun is sipping clouds. The rain is long gone. Only the scent of damp earth, the wet grass, and a few puddles here and there serve as reminders of the Noah’s flood cousin from earlier.

What a cute ginger tabby cat!

Are you kidding me? With those giant paws? It's a freak.

Two rascals, around twelve, fiddle with some handheld devices on the sidewalk. For all I care, they can stick that ‘it’ up to their derrières. And even further.

Do you think it's lost?

Do I look like I care?

What if there's a reward for it, dumbo?

Now you're talking! But how can we be sure?

I park myself not far from them, watching and listening. It may be fun. For starters, their eyes remain glued to those devices in their hands, only sparing fleeting glances at each other or their surroundings. Their fingers move frantically, like virtuoso pianists performing a duet.

Does it have a collar around its neck? The owner's name and phone number are usually on it.

Don't you have eyes to see for yourself?

I'm about to enter level 28. I wouldn't look up even if you told me Batman, Superman, and Spiderman are fighting two blocks away.

Yes, you would.

Yeah. I'd probably even try to film the whole damn thing.

With that piece of junk you're holding? Sure.

Look who's talking.

At least mine isn't a hand-me-down from my big brother.

Yeah, yours comes straight from the flea market. Listen, how about we further investigate this thing about the potential reward? Who knows, we might score some new devices.

Agree to hit the pause button, counting to three?

Agreed. I'm counting. Ready?

Shoot!

One… two… three!

Four eyes are now gazing at yours whiskerly. But they look at me as though I'm behind a glass panel. None of them extend a hand to reach me. Which, I'm told, is the natural gesture when you see a cute ginger tabby cat like myself. Not to brag or anything - these