Seven Generations Of Excellent Literary Management

20260204

Written for Bradley Ramsey’s “Flash Fiction February Day 4”.

Ugh. They’re arguing again. What a terrible waste of an otherwise pleasant afternoon. I sigh and stretch one paw towards the flirtatious sunbeam, which refuses to commit to settling down with me for a nap. Then pointedly turn my back on the foolish pair and curl up a little tighter.
“What have you done with it now??”
“I didn’t touch it!”
“Well it wouldn’t walk off, now would it???”
Of course not. That would be silly. The registry book always teleports. Strange that neither of them have noticed by now. Arthur, in particular, has no excuse, having inherited the shop from his grandfather. Someone in his family ought to have thought to mention that the local "book of books" gained sentience years ago.
If only I could point this out. But, sadly, both he and Patricia are the sort to pride themselves on being too educated and sensible to pay heed to a cat.
Humph.
Their bickering, like my capricious sunbeam, refuses to settle. I give up and stretch, working my whole back, shake the sleepiness from my rear, and hop down off the windowsill.
Might as well look around and see where that registry’s got to this time.
“Look, now you’ve disturbed Wordy!”
“Pretty sure you’re the one who disturbed Worty!”
Why do they turn nicknames for me into yet another point of disagreement? It’s particularly irritating given that I much prefer to be addressed by my proper name. While I will grant you that “Augustus Wordsworth the Seventh” is a tad long for everyday address, at least from those close to me, a meagre two syllables is hardly too much to ask.
I do my best to transmit my withering exasperation with their lazy nomenclature via a (if I may say so) impeccable side-eye. It goes tragically unwitnessed, for they’re back at it already. Tsk. Fine.
First stop - the kitchen. While the registry rarely ventures to the flat portion of the shop, all good investigations start with a pondering phase and a strategic refuel. Need the mind and body in tip-top shape before patrolling the territory.
As I delicately crunch my kibble I ponder Arthur’s and Patricia’s recent movements. Which naturally I was monitoring carefully while napping. Multitasking is a basic skill for any shop cat.
This afternoon Arthur has been fiddling about in the Contemporary Fiction section getting a fresh "highlights" arrangement together, while Patricia was seated behind the counter working on the shop website. As such, these two areas can be discounted. Which does leave most of the shop.
Ah well. I was due to check on things.
I sniff at the stale, plasticky water they’ve left out for me, sigh, and leap up to the counter. A nudge of the tap produces a fresh aerated stream which is far more pleasing to lap at.
There. Now all’s that required is a quick wash. Must make sure my uniform is in order before touring the shop. Wouldn’t do for a customer to come in and find me looking all rumpled, like a stray cat!
Once every whisker is precisely in place I saunter further into the flat. When the registry does come in here, it usually hangs out in the living room. Settling innocently on the coffee table, or the side, anywhere it could plausibly have been put down by one of the pair, who of course will endlessly blame each other.
Hmm, no, no gentle fizz to the air in here. I do a lap just to be sure, rub my head against the corner of the sofa to tick this room off, then it’s back down the hall and into the shop proper.
Oh good, they’ve given up on arguing and are trying to be useful. Arthur is digging through the back, presumably assuming that Patricia must have misplaced the wayward registry somewhere, and Patricia is vacuuming the main shop floor with excessive vigour.
I make a mental note to redo my “warm welcome” scratches on the entry carpet. Granted, humans never seem to appreciate it, but as a seventh-generation bookshop cat I take great pride in my work. Mother always told me “It’s the quality of service which earns you loyal customers”, and experience has proven her wisdom.
For now, I take a sharp left into Speculative Fiction. My whiskers twitching for the slightest hint of magic in the air as I weave my way along shelves and through genres.
“Oh, hello, Augustus.”
I bestow my friendliest and most approving slow blink upon Winnifred. Part of what makes her an excellent customer is treating both my occupation and name with proper respect.
Granted, she’s technically not a customer anymore, ghosts being uniquely disadvantaged in regards to both monetary matters and personal possessions. But I consider her as having ‘loyal longstanding customer’ status for as long as she lingers, and will instruct my eventual successor in this matter.
“Could you get that book down for me, dear?”
While she’s mastered the art of reading without turning pages, she says it’s much easier when the book is on its own rather than nestled snugly against its fellows. I gladly lend a paw.
“Such a help!”
Slow blink. Whiskers pointed forwards. A polite ‘of course!’ to our dear customer.
Now. With that duty dispatched, back to my patrol. I’ve covered over half the shop floor now; where has the registry gone?
A telltale crackle makes me pause, tail twitching as my ears frantically triangulate.
Well. It thinks it’s well hidden. And apparently it’s bored.
Tail held high I prowl at triple time towards where I can hear imps manifesting. Time to remind this uppity stack of stock lists why we have a bookshop cat!

Prompt was “Write a cozy whodunit mystery set in a small town bookstore where a priceless tome has disappeared! Tell your story from one (or all) of the following POVs; the Bookstore’s Owner, the cat who lives in the store, an innocent(?) bystander.