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Fifty Finicky Felines


Scott Cramer



Fifty Finicky Felines. Copyright Scott Cramer 2018

All Rights Reserved


This story is fiction from the author’s imagination.





To MistyDuck



“Fetch my fifty felines,” King Frederick the Fifth said in a friendly tone.



Paula, the page, got the King’s pussy cats.



“Fill the royal feline bowls,” King Frederick said after watching his felines frolic. “They must be famished!”



Paula knew King Frederick was fond of making ‘F’ sounds. The King also fancied the fanciest of fares, so she put forkfuls of Fettuccini Alfredo in the feline bowls.



The fifty felines paced and pawed.



They flipped their tails and flicked their whiskers.



But not one feline took a lick of fettuccini.



“I know what your pussies prefer,” Paula piped up.



“Fiddle-faddle,” King Frederick fired back. “Francois, fix a five-course feast for my fifty felines.”



The King’s favorite chef started with mice fondue and finished with pheasant al fresco.



The fifty felines noodled and nudged.



They danced and pranced and stared into the bowls.



But not one feline took a nibble of the French fare.



King Frederick’s face flushed with ferocity. “Francois, you are fired! Farewell.”

“I know how to make your pussies purr,” Paula pleaded.



King Frederick gave Paula a first-rate royal sniff. “Unfortunately, my fifty felines are finicky!”



Paula persisted. “Your pampered pets—”



King Frederick forgot his manners and interrupted Paula. “I have a fabulous idea. Whoever feeds my fifty felines shall receive a fortune!”



News of the contest spread like wildfire in the fiefdom. Fittingly, King Frederick ordered the feeding to take place in five days, on Friday, at four o’clock.



Everyone knew that King Frederick fancied the fanciest of fare. They figured his felines must, too.



Flavorful aromas—and some that were downright funky—filled the air.



King Frederick nearly fainted from hunger. After firing Francois, he’d been eating nothing but frozen falafels.



“Please, may I participate?” Paula posed.



“Harumph!” King Frederick fumed.



Paula plastered on a patient smile. She knew what those pampered pussycats preferred.



“I can feel my felines’ ribs!” King Frederick fretted. Seeing that Friday was still four days away, he moved the calendar forward.


The following morning, Friday (formerly Monday), a long line formed outside King Frederick’s fortress.



King Frederick used his finger to fine-tune the hands of the clock. “It’s now four o’clock. Let the festivities begin.”



“Your fifty felines will flip over my frankfurters in fudge,” said a feisty fellow named Ferdinand.



One look at the fudgy franks sent the fifty felines fleeing.



“Fried frog legs on fluffy pillows,” Francine, a fabulous female, said.



The fifty felines nosed and nudged.



They bounced and pounced on the pillows.



Feathers and fur flew, but not one feline took a bite of a frank.



King Frederick, who had fallen asleep on the pillows, awakened to an awful noise: fifes and flutes, fiddles and flugelhorns.



“Ferret Frappuccino,” a fickle couple, Fabio and Fantasia, shouted over the fracas.



The fifty felines flipped and tripped.



They howled and blinked.



But not one feline took a sip of the caffeinated drink.

King Frederick, who was temporarily deafened by the fuss, watched the rest of the faithful fork their fancy fares into the royal feline bowls.



Fritters, foie gras, fish fingers, flaky flounder, flashy fowl. . . The unfolding fanfare seemed to go on forever.



The fifty felines poked, pawed, jiggled, wiggled, tripped, flipped, shrieked, howled, and blinked.



But not one feline took a sip, nibble, or bite of what was offered.



Finally, the fifty finicky felines shook their fluffy fannies at King Frederick the Fifth.



Forlorn, the King said, "Everyone has flunked!”



Paula plopped a glob of pasty, pink mush onto a platter. King Frederick pinched his nose at the putrid odor.



The cats hissed and squabbled, at first perplexed.



Then they gobbled it down and stretched out on the floor.



Every cat meowed for more.



“This generic brand of cat food is perfect,” Paula proclaimed.


King Frederick was flabbergasted. “What is your name? Felicity? Fiona? Francesca?”



“Paula.”


“Paula with an ‘F’”? King Frederick inquired with a frown.



“Pah,” Paula said, puffing out her lips. “‘P.’”



King Frederick firmed his jaw. “For sure, you mean Paula with a ‘ph.’ ‘Ph’ sounds like ‘fah.’”



“Just P.”



The King pinched his eyes shut. “Pa-pa-pa. . . pa-pa-pa. . . Paula has won the prize.” When he opened them, he was pleased to see that his pussies were primping and purring.



King Frederick and Paula became pals.



The King rehired Francois and gave him a pay raise. Francois prepared plenty of food for the pair, all of it plain but quite pleasing.



King Frederick’s pussycats became very f. . .



Plump.



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