My Cat Fiddle...

 

FIDDLE...

I found Fiddle, as a bedraggled, skinny kitten, in the dark streets of nineteeth century Paris, in Pigalle.

He was soaking wet and starving too, for a drizzling rain had fallen all night. I put him inside my robe. I could feel him shivering, poor, tiny baby. What he needed was a warm bowl of porridge, or stew, or soup. Fortunately, I found an inn that was open, it looked like, all the time. The innkeeper was glad to provide a meal, complete with wine, for me and a bowl of meaty soup for my cat. He grinned hugely, with popping eyes, when I paid with a gold coin, unsuspecting that that coin would turn to a dried leaf in the morning! (This is an ancient faerie trick, of course!) After we ate, Fiddle and me disappeared in a mist, outside the inn. He has been with me, living a pampered, blissful life, in the Land of Faerie, ever since.(I call him Fiddle because he has such a high, melodic voice, like a violin!)