Reginald and Bertie at the Mount Doom

As any gardener will tell you, Nature abhors vacuum. And what is Universe but a big lump of Nature, pulsating with possibility, ready to give life to a plucky seed that winds of fate may chance across its path.

When Bertram wrote himself, Sir Waleter and The World out of existence, the vacuum he created existed only for an instant. The World returned into being shortly afterward, not much different than before. Bertram and Sir Waleter, however, now that’s a whole different story..

Beneath a low sprawled chestnut tree, Reginald and Bertie munched on the last shrew from the evening’s hunt.


“This may be the last we have to eat before..” Reginald trailed off, mournfully contemplating the remains in front of him. He would have preferred to pass on the insides and the head, but time constraints meant it was important to eat up as much as possible now as there wouldn’t be enough time to stop and hunt until they’ve reached their destination.

Bertie eyed the entrails hungrily. “If you don’t want to, I could finish it off for you?” he offered gallantly, already starting to skulk forward. Reginald narrowed his eyes. Bertie waited. “All the same, Bertie, I need to eat it all,” Reginald sniffed delicately, turning his head away with mild distaste, ”however much it may pain me to consume the revolting morsels,” he added and then looked incredulously at the bare ground where the revolting morsels were no longer in evidence. “Thanks a lot Bertie!” he hissed. “You are such a liability. And a major pain in the scruff.“


“Sorry Reg.” Bertie gave his right paw a quick lick. He got up and padded off a few paces then plopped down on his side like a sack of kittens.

Reginald licked down his front left paw a few times to calm himself and after a pause that included a put upon stare into a middle distance, proceed to wash properly. A proper wash starts with paws, then head, the sides, the legs, the back, the tail, the underside and the gentleman bits at the end. Bertie never seemed to manage a proper wash. No matter how many times he was told and shown and told again. The brat. If Reginald hadn’t promised Her he’d look after Bertie, this whole undertaking would be a whole lot easier. A whole. Lot.

Bertie lay sprawled on the ground, bits of shrew blood and guts hanging limply from his bottom lip. He was looking at Reginald with a mixture of adoration and vacant wonder.

“Really, Bertie, you could at least make an effort,” Reginald sighed. “I know we may not survive this, but there is no excuse for failing to wash oneself after a meal. A gentleman would not die with his fur sticky and his paws covered in gore.”

Bertie licked his paw a few times and rubbed it over his face. He licked his other paw a few times and his shoulder too. Then he sat back with a self-satisfied grin.

“Come here,” Reginald said, getting up. He walked over to Bertie and started to clean the top of his head. It’s really quite difficult to get it clean properly, the top of the head, always useful to have a friend nearby for that sort of thing. He gave Bertie’s head a really good and vigorous clean. “That’ll do I suppose,” said Reginald. One couldn’t expect Bertie to manage more than the bare minimum when it came to personal hygiene. “Let’s get going.”


Bertie sprang up in one lithe motion and slinked to Reginald’s side. They sat in silence for a while. Reginald was thinking very hard about the task ahead of them and Bertie was thinking very hard about the fact he was still hungry.

The night wrapped around them like a velvety shroud. They walked for a while, keeping to the outer edges of the forest. Eventually, the trees started to thin out and the ground started to curve upwards. Beyond was an open craggy slope without much shelter, so they found a cozy shrub and settled down for a nap.

When the sun pulled up over the top of the forest, they set off again. Higher and higher they climbed, past the heathers and rodenty goodness hiding underneath and towards the impossibly high, bare and rocky Mount Doom.

“And, Bertie,” Reginald paused to give Bertie a meaningful look, ”watch your paws. You know how easily your paws split open and you know how She feels about your paws splitting.”

“Yes Reg.”

“And don’t call me Reg!” Reginald gave a low growl. “One is not a common, flea-ridden, alleyway tom, thank you very much.”


Bertie cocked his head to one side and opened his eyes very wide. “Yes, Reg…inald.” He whispered a tiny mewl and started to walk by putting each paw very purposefully on the smoothest bits of earth he could find. He looked like he was walking on hot oil.


Reginald imagined himself sitting down and putting his face in his paws like he saw Her do sometimes when Bertie was being particularly idiotic. “Just be careful, Bertie. You don’t have to make a spectacle of yourself,” he sighed, trotting ahead.

They continued at the steady pace up the incline, avoiding sharp rocks, stepping around thick, prickly bushes, weaving their way in and out of what shade was afforded by ever smaller bushes. When they were in the shade, Reginald’s thick, luscious, shiny, black fur melted into the shadows and made him invisible. Out in the thickets, Bertie’s mottled, brown-black fur with white speckles let him blend in so thoroughly that it looked like there was only one, sturdy, black tom making it’s way up the steep incline.


It was starting to warm up. For a moment, Reginald wished he were snuggled under his favourite hedge, cool and relaxed. He felt his paws grow slippery with sweat, but pressed on. According to The Plan, they had to reach the summit about mid-day and there was a lot of ground left to cover.


The air smelled fresh and thin. The ground under their paws had been getting darker and more brittle the more they climbed and now was all bare rock, sharp and splintery. Reginald kept checking Bertie for signs of limping but Bertie seemed fine.


“How are you doing, Bertie,” Reginald asked finally. “Are you tired?”

“’m fine, Reg..inald.” Bertie said. “Can’t wait!”

“Good, good,” said Reginald. “Listen, we should probably talk about The Plan. I shouldn’t like to have things veering out of all control because someone forgot what they were supposed to do.”

Bertie nodded. He’d do whatever Reginald asked. He was so excited, he didn’t even feel pain from the deep gush on the pad of his back left paw.

“When we get close, Bertie,” Reginald solemnly commenced with his strategy, “I expect The Beast will be away, but if it returns before we are done, I want you to distract it as best you can without putting yourself in danger. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Distract. Got it.” Bertie was all dopey smiles and hazed-out looks.  His mind was awash with happy thoughts of triumph and glory and legend. And food. Lots of delicious food.

“Bertie, would you please concentrate!” Reginald tapped Bertie on the head with a soft paw.

“Ow!”

Reginald blinked softly. “I am sorry, Bertie, but you are being all sorts of silly. While this is, no doubt, an excellent adventure and one we shall both hopefully live to discuss at great length with any and all interested parties, in due course and foreseeable future; I do urge you to comprehend the full gravity of the prospect before us and show due decorum and diligence.”

“Um. What?” said Bertie, scratching his ear vigorously.

“Oh dear god!” Reginald growled through clenched teeth and covered his eyes with his paw.

Bertie walked over and started to lick Reginald’s ears. “Sorry Reg, I really want to help and everything. I’ll do what you said, honest. Distract it. You can count on me Reg, I promise.” He gave a small pleading whine to prove his earnest intentions and bowed his head just in time to spot a tiny lizard scuttling between his paws. “Here, Reg, have a snack?” Bertie held the squirming lizard in place with one firm paw.

Reginald brightened, “a snack wouldn’t hurt, and you did eat the last of my supper.” He snapped the lizard from Bertie and munched it up in two ungentlemanly gulps.  “Very tasty,” he said licking his lips delicately. “Thank you.” He hissed gently at Bertie, "it is R e g i n a l d, not Reg, if you don't mind."

Bertie smiled happily and had a furtive look around but there were no more lizards.

“Don’t worry, Bertie, when we get there, you are going to think you’ve died and gone to heaven, those things are quite exquisite and very filling.”

Bertie nudged Reginald’s shoulder with his head and gave a small purr.

“All right, all right,” Reginald answered with an affectionate grumble. “Now, listen very carefully, I will say this only vunce.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “What I meant is,” he continued hurriedly,  “that we shan’t have an opportunity to discuss this again, so pay attention.”

Bertie sat back on his hunches and assumed an expression he hoped would convey the extreme paying of attention.

Reginald outlined his plan and then had Bertie repeat it back to him four times, to make sure he remembered it correctly. To Reginald’s mild surprise, Bertie appeared to have grasped the plan and gave clear and insightful answers when questioned. Satisfied that they were as ready as they would ever get, Reginald hurried them onward.  They covered the rest of the way to the top in less than half an hour and made it near the summit right about mid-day, as planned.


The sun was directly overhead. Between the two cats squatting flat against the ground and the apex of the incline remained only a few meters of bare soil covered thickly with a carpet of small bones. The sky was clear and bright, the air smelled of sulphur and rotting flesh. It was eerily quiet.


Reginald gave the sign and Bertie crept off to the left in a low crouch, picking his way carefully between the sharp bits of bone sticking up from the ground. He selected a spot and carefully, soundlessly, cleared the bones to one side making a neat patch of ground few inches from the very top where a large cup of twigs and straw presided over the landscape.

On the other side of the mound, Reginald nodded approvingly and tensed for a jump.

Just then, a piercing cry tore through the air and a monstrous shadow swooped over Reginald, covering him completely. Two feathered sticks unfolded into two giant pitchforks whose talons sunk into black fur, ripping the flesh as they gripped. Massive wings beat angrily, lifting Reginald up into the air so that he hovered directly over the nest where his and Bertie’s intended target, 6 large, juicy eggs, glittered demurely in the mid day sun.

The giant wings beat harder, heaving the bird and its cargo upward.  The Beast aimed to the side of the nest that overhung the sheer drop, intending to release the load over the deep ravine where it would shatter on the large black rocks far below. It struggled to gain altitude, wavering in the air as if pushed about by a strong gale. The load it carried felt heavy and limp.  The Beast shrieked in frustration and pushed the wing muscles harder until they burned with effort.


For a moment the bird dipped a few feet. It flapped its enormous wings furiously forcing itself to rise again.  Suddenly, a blur shot out from the other side of the nest and landed on its feathery back. A set of razor sharp fangs drilled deeply into bird’s neck. The bird’s wings thrashed wildly, talons gripping the load tightly. The cat that had landed on top of it clung tightly to its back making it difficult to flap, the teeth that were sunk deep into bird’s throat crushing the windpipe made it difficult to breathe, and still, the bird would not let go of its load.

Bertie clamped harder on the windpipe between his teeth. The giant bird, carrying one limp cat in its talons and one vigorous cat on its back slowly started to sink towards the side of the hill that overlooked the ravine.

Bertie unhooked his claws from the bird’s back and, not loosening the grip on the windpipe, swung himself over onto the opposite side. His weight and the momentum snapped the bird’s neck and they all fell tumbling onto the nest and over the edge, rolling down the hill in a mass of fur and feathers and blood.


They were stopped by a small patch of heather. Bertie let go of the bird’s neck and curled up in a tight ball. His breath was fast and shallow. Reginald was dead! Bertie shivered at the thought of the big, black body hanging limp and lifeless from the talons of The Beast. He couldn’t let The Beast carry him off.  Reginald was a friend, a brother. He was Family. Bertie gave a low whimper and buried his nose under his tail.

“Well, that was rather unpleasant but thankfully not a complete waste of time.”

Bertie sat up, startled.

Reginald was sitting calmly by the side of the giant bird, licking off a yolky splodge from his face.

“Reg!” Bertie cried and sprang a few inches off the ground. “I thought, I thought you were dead!” Bertie said, confused look creeping up on his face.

Reginald purred. “It may yet come to that my dear boy,” he started to lick the sides of his body where blood had pooled and begun to dry. “When She sees the state we are in,” he paused,” don’t think you fooled me, young man, I know you’ve cut your paw,” he sniffed, “it would not at all surprise me if we don’t both end up dead.”

Bertie smiled a worried smile. “I am so glad you are not dead Reg.”

Reginald purred like a Bentley. “Thank you for coming to my rescue,” he blinked self consciously, “I cannot think what The Beast was doing near the nest at this time of day, it was supposed to be away, hunting.”  He bristled to the tops of his whiskers. “What you did today, Bertie, was completely ingenious.”


Bertie beamed with unadulterated pride. “I was fierce!”


“You certainly were, Bertie, it was extremely impressive. Quick thinking. Fast reflexes. I am so proud of you.” Reginald closed his eyes with sudden embarrassment.


The flies were buzzing around them, settling on the dead bird. Reginald continued, “It may be prudent to make use of this fine gourmet dining we have in front of us. Tuck in dear Bertie.”


Bertie shook his head vigorously to ward of the flies and sunk his teeth into the belly of the giant bird. He came up for air after a considerably long period of time; his head covered in blood and feathers, his belly full and his injured paw throbbing like a brass band on a summer’s evening. Next to him, Reginald was munching delicately on a wing, not a whisker out of place.

“How do you do that?” Bertie said, amazed. “How do you not get all messy?”


“One takes care not to eat with one’s face but one’s mouth, Bertie,” Reginald's whiskers twitched good-naturedly. He shifted around and gave his wounds a few licks. “We ought to get back, I suppose. She’ll start to fret if we are not back in time for dinner.”

Bertie bristled with worry. “She’ll make us go There, won’t she?”

“Well, Bertie, considering the condition of your paw and my ribs, I do believe a trip to the veterinary practice may be advised, yes.”

“I hate it There,” Bertie whined. “I don’t want to go, I’ll stay here until I’m better," he said with an air of finality and fear.

“Really?” said Reginald. “You think that paw will get better on its own, do you?”

Bertie looked unsure.

“Remember the last spring when you first met Mickey from the two doors down and the bite he gave you became infected?”

Bertie shuddered. “Yes, so?”

“Well, Bertie, don’t you remember how much it hurt before She discovered the lump on your side and took you to the vet where you were given antibiotics and a painkiller? Do you not remember how much better you felt after that?”

Bertie sunk to the ground. “Yeah. I remember. It hurt awfully.” He shook his whiskers sadly. “Just awfully.”

“Your paw will hurt much more than that if you don’t get it seen to, my boy.” Reginald licked his wounds again. He wouldn’t mind having a painkiller injection himself, to be perfectly honest about it. Although he always put up a perfunctory fight before being stuffed into the cat carrier, Reginald was deeply appreciative of the usefulness of pharmaceuticals.

Bertie sighed. “All right then.”  He limped over to the black tom and dutifully scraped the top of his head with raspy tongue. "I am so, so glad you are not dead, Reg...inald."

"Mmm, yes, the playing-dead trick does come in useful. And a superbly toned musculature helps protect one's vital organs, you would do well to remember that, Bertie." Reginald  examined  Bertie's lithe frame thoughtfully, "although, I dare say, one does find the takeoff a bit of a bother, so there is something to be said for a leaner frame." He stood up and kicked a broken shell out of the way. "Now, Bertie, let’s get back," he smiled slyly, "if we hurry, we might run into Mickey and the gang before we get home.”

Bertie brightened up, “Mickey will die of jealousy when he hears what we did,” he exclaimed and sat off hobbling enthusiastically downhill, turning the story of his and Reginald's triumph around in his head. It was important to tell it well.

Reginald winced a tired smile. The wounds will heal. The pain will be forgotten.  He followed after Bertie, purring loudly to himself, “Reginald and Bertie – Conquerors of the Mount Doom, that’s what they’ll be saying, Bertie,” Reginald murmured, “even after we are long gone, our story will live on.”


In the hazy warmth of the late afternoon, two battle weary friends, full of good food and dangerous wounds, walked together, towards home and Legend.