A Pair of Black Cats

Many moons ago, in a suburb of Pennsylvania, there once lived an intriguing pair of black cats. Matilda and Mildred were the only survivors in a litter of ten, born of a sickly mother. Matilda, the oldest by three minutes, was long and lean, quick-witted and agile. Unfortunately, she also had a bit of an attitude problem and was abrupt with her words. Mildred, on the other hand, was short and stout, solid and sentimental. She could chat for hours, loving meaningful conversation.

The girls lived with their master, Margaret, a retired second-grade teacher in a humble abode on a quiet dead-end street. She lived a simple life enjoying her fruitful plot of land, keeping to herself most of the time. Margaret adored children, although she never bore any of her own. Her pair of cats, who she nicknamed Tilly and Milly, filled the void just fine.

As fate might have it, Margaret was also a witch. Not the kind from horror movies casting evil spells, but a gentle soul respecting the balance in nature, creating potions from a place of love. She did not appear to age past fifty as her facial features were soft and rosy. She was neither fat nor skinny but pleasingly plump, and her voice was calm and soothing like rain showers.

Aside from her coven, no one knew that Margaret was a witch. Naturally, Tilly and Milly knew, but who would they tell? Besides, the knowledge of talking cats would stir up quite the ruckus.

The trio got along quite well, enjoying typical family activities. Old late-night movies from the black and white era fascinated Milly while playing scrabble always kept Tilly on her toes. The pair of black cats loved each other dearly, often grooming the other before their afternoon naps. Like any siblings, sometimes they argued when Tilly cheated at scrabble. When called out on her transgressions, she would say, “That’s rubbish,” and throw her nose into the air, prancing off in a snit. Other than that, the only motivation for arguing was Milly’s love for food and her uncontrollable overindulgence.

Speaking of food, the black cats loved Margaret’s cooking, especially her dishes prepared with pears. On her plot of land, growing in abundance, were three beautiful pear trees of the Moonglow variety. Lacking the grainy texture typical of many pear types made Tilly and Milly's mouths water each time they heard a knife hitting the cutting board. Carefully scrutinizing the bite-size pieces and their splattering juices tempted the girls into jumping up on the kitchen counter to steal their prize. Margaret, however, was much too fast for the black kitties, shooing them away each time. "The pears are for the pies," she always scolded. "You must wait until later." Then she would chuckle and toss her babies each a couple of slices.

Margaret's kitchen skills were almost magical with the wide assortment of pear desserts she created; however, all of her baking came from natural talent and love for the blushing delicacy. Her coven raved over the variety, continually amazed at what Margaret would whip up for meetings, rituals, and holidays. Everything from easy pear cobbler and harvest pear crisp to baked cinnamon pears, pear tarts infused with white wine, and cranberry pear pie, a perfect union of sweet and sour; the possibilities were endless. The happy cats and witches were so preoccupied stuffing their faces that no one considered the possibility that the pears would ever run low.

Not until they did, that is!

The awful news came one early morning in the first week of August. Margaret was on the telephone, spilling the beans to a coven elder when Tilly just happened to be strutting by. She heard the word "pears," and her ears perked right up. She took cover, hiding around a corner, and began to eavesdrop.

"Yes, the pear trees are ripening much too quickly this year," Margaret cried." I will have to preserve the ones I can salvage, but we all know that Bartletts are the best variety for canning," she continued. "So, it looks like I will be paring back on the deserts, conserving to get us through the fall season."

Tilly was beside herself with grief. She flipped her tail back and forth erratically, trying to make sense of the situation. All she could think to herself was, "How can a pair of black cats who love pears possibly pare back the consumption!" Finally, after her afternoon grooming and nap with Milly, Tilly realized what she had to do. It was high time for an intervention with Milly about her eating habits. Sure, they argued about Milly's eating sounds, the slurping, gurgling, and after-meal belching, but things had progressed beyond an annoying lack of manners. This pear problem was serious business, for if Milly could not curb her enormous appetite, Tilly would miss her fair share.

Tilly rolled over and climbed on top of Milly, whispering, "We need to talk." Then pausing for a moment, and then shrieking, "NOW!"

"Tilly, you scared me," Milly whimpered. "I was having the most glorious dream about a giant jar of catnip. Margaret tried to hide it in the cupboard, but it was far too large to fit. Then you began laughing, so I began laughing and then..."

"Enough!" Tilly snapped. “There is no time for one of your long, drawn-out stories. I have a serious matter to discuss, and you will listen to me!"

"Okay," Milly blubbered. "You don't need to be so curt. I am listening.”

Tilly shared with Milly her plan to concoct a spell to curb Milly's appetite ensuring the paring worked in everyone's favor. It was simple. The cats would wait until Margaret was fast asleep, sneak into her herbs and spices, and cast a spell using one of her spellbooks next to her altar.

"Matilda," Milly gasped! "That spell will not meet Margaret's approval. You know better!"

"Blah, blah, blah," Tilly replied. "I do not need her approval. Margaret will thank me later. You will see."

"Perhaps, you are right." "I will do anything to help Margaret with the pears."

"That's what I thought," Tilly winked. "It is settled. We move at midnight."

At the first stroke of midnight, the pair of black cats tip-toed across the creaky old floorboards, past Margaret's room to her ritual room. Tilly had to shove Milly through the doorway as her conscience got the best of her.

"I am having second thoughts," Milly complained. “I do not think that this spell is a good idea. Is it natural to suppress my hunger? What will I eat? I might become anorexic or even starve. What if you say it wrong and"...

Tilly backhanded Milly with her paw, silencing her immediately. "Enough!" Tilly hissed.

Tilly scurried about gathering ingredients while Milly was left to fire up the cauldron. Once lit, she stirred the water gently, here and there until bubbles began to roll. Then, the pair of cats worked quickly together, tossing herbs into the pot. "A little of this, and a little of that," Tilly said to herself. "Ahh, a little more eye of newt, hmm, well perhaps another pinch," she continued, pouring some into the cauldron.

"Um, Tilly, that looks like a lot more than just a pinch of an eye of newt. Remember what Margaret said about using the correct proportions?" Millie questioned.

Tilly ignored her every word and dunked a metal measuring cup into the brew, removing enough to fill two small bowls. She learned forward, twitching her nose to take a whiff, and then snapped her skinny neck back in disgust. Milly slapped both of her paws over her mouth, which muffled out her frantic mewing. Tilly proceeded to put the bowls on a tiny stand, pushing one closer to Milly.

"Down the hatch," she ordered.

"Why do I have to go first?" Milly asked.

"Because you need more discipline than I do. My eating habits are under control."

Tilly sauntered around the cauldron, showing off her slender legs and demure figure. Milly let out a sigh, looking down at her round fluffy pot belly, responding, "Why don't we drink the brew together? I will feel much better knowing I have your full support."

"Fine," Tilly answered. So, Then, on the count of three, start drinking: Okay, one, two, three.”

The pair of black cats lapped up the brew as fast as they could. No sooner than the girls gulped it down, the trouble began. They began hacking and coughing uncontrollably as if a massive furball became lodged in each of their throats, but no matter how hard they choked, nothing came up. Back and forth, the "hem, ahem" became louder and louder, waking up Margaret, sound asleep in her bed. She jumped up, following the continued "hem, ahems" until she found two sick cats retching up phlegm.

Margaret inspected the cauldron, immediately plugging her nose. "Oh, dear," she exclaimed. "It appears that we have quite the mess here. You girls used far too much eye of newt and mixed it with bat wings. Oh, my, a catastrophe!”

Milly wobbled over to her master, whispering, "It was all Tilly's idea. She wanted to curb my appetite because of the pear paring, so she fixed this brew up. She drank it with me for moral support, but we feel so awful!"

Margaret began to cackle. It was the first time she ever cackled. Typically, her laughter came deep down from her belly, but this was different. She sounded like one of the coven's older and testy hags, not sweet, resilient Margaret.

"Well, my lovelies, I am afraid that neither one of you will eat pears or anything sweet for that matter in the foreseeable future. Too much eye of newt causes severe stomach distress, and bat wings sour the taste buds."

The cackling continued.

"Oh, by the way, we are spared the paring. I have a solution. A few of the witches are going to come over tomorrow and assist with canning. They are lending their cellar spaces for additional storage, so I do not have to cut back on the desserts after all."

The pair of black cats looked at each other and began yowling. Milly nuzzled Tilly's shoulder, seeking comfort, and Tilly lay down so she could soothe her younger sister's nerves. "This is the worst news ever,” Milly sobbed.” We are going to miss so many delicious pear tarts, and pear pies, and pear"...

Tilly placed her paw over Milly’s mouth, collecting her emotions in a snap. “Yes, well, we would not be in this predicament if it were not for your weight," she grumbled.

At the same time, Milly let out an explosive sneeze. “I am sorry. I did not hear you. What did you say?”

"Oh, um, I said that it is too bad, and we will just have to wait."

"Yeah, you are right, Tilly; we will just have to wait.”

“Yup, hem, a-hem, weight.”