FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Another day over. Another nine to five, eight hour stretch of rote mindlessness in the guise of a paying job done and dusted. Signing out of his terminal the listless and dull-eyed cat took a few short moments to mechanically reorganise the many piles of paperwork that clustered like so many photocopied weeds across his small desk, always growing back no matter how much he trimmed them, then threw his jacket over his slight shoulders and turned to leave, weaving his steady way through the serried ranks of cubicles to the lifts.

To his quiet surprise he actually made it to the ground floor and within five feet of the main entrance doors before Vivian inevitably caught up to him. He could actually see his plain little camper van waiting outside, ready to whisk him away from the drudge, towards home and just about the only spark left in his life. First, though, he had to go through the daily ritual of fending off the office predator, all the while quietly wondering why on earth she persisted in chasing a pencil-thin, dull-furred, four-eyed, messed-up little moggy like him...

"Ooh, nearly caught me out today, tiger," the honey-voiced mouse cooed, slinking toward him. "I'd almost think you didn't enjoy our little after-work tête-à-têtes..."

"How could I not?" the cat answered, mildly, his murmuring voice belying only the tiniest hint of sarcasm, all the expression of his feelings he'd permit himself lest he set off her legendary hair-trigger temper. "They're a genuine highlight of my day."

"Oh, you really know how to sweet-talk a lady," Vivian giggled, curling round to stand in front of him and cock her hips, her considerable cleavage, straining against a shirt two or three sizes two small and with half the buttons undone, almost seeming to thrust toward him. "What say you we...adjourn to a...smoky little joint I know..." Now she was leaning forward languorously, her eyelids hanging low, her voice sultry, breaths sighing from a teasing smile. "Have a drink or two...a little conversation...and see where we go from there...hmm?"

As she finished speaking she attempted to slide her muzzle along the length of his, but the cat jerked backwards quite violently, as if he'd been stung, fur bristling. "_No!_No. Not now. Not ever."

Vivian's eyes widened for an instant, the rodent backing away, then her nostrils flared wide and her expression hardened into disdainful contempt, her hands snapping to her hips. "You're pathetic, Stumpy," she growled, tones as sharp and clear as a shard of glass. "It was just a bloody nuzzle, for chrissakes."

"To you." He turned on his heel and strode right out of the building without looking back, into the drifting snow and buffeting wind, not relaxing until he was safely inside his van with the doors locked shut. Groaning softly, he ran a paw over the ragged stump that was all that remained of his left ear, then turned the key.

In melancholy silence he navigated the twisted maze of snow-swept, traffic-choked streets between him and his suburban home, working pretty much on autopilot while his mind drifted through bitter-sweet and time-yellowed memories of gentle paws, soft smiles and caressing muzzles. He knew he shouldn't dwell, even after all these long years, but he just couldn't help it, least of all on a winter's evening like this...

The daze dissipated when, more than an hour after he'd left work, he drew into the modest car park of a small supermarket not too far from his home. Parking right at the rear he slipped out, locked up, then set off, mentally going over his shopping list a few times, both glad of the distraction and quietly concerned about how successful he'd be with it. He hadn't spotted any of the usual signs, but still...

The store proved to be a little quieter than he'd expected, only a few people browsing each long aisle, and only half of the dozen checkouts open, short queues at each. Spirits lifting a degree or two he picked up a basket and ambled over to the vegetables, many pleasant aromas tickling his keen nostrils. As he pored over the cherry tomatoes, trying to find, by sight and scent, the best of the bunch, he thought he heard a faint giggle somewhere off to his left, but a glance in that direction showed nothing.

Sighing, shaking his head, he placed a dozen tomatoes into a paper bag, the bag in his basket then moved on to his next stop, just a little way further on. More giggling, slightly louder this time, from the same rough direction, but he ignored it, picking out a small pack of rosemary leaves. Harder to ignore was the thin, pink whip of a tail that zipped out of sight as he turned to move on; groaning under his breath and rubbing his temple he forced himself to think positively - maybe they wouldn't get the chance today, or maybe they'd get bored and leave...

They didn't. Those high-pitched giggles followed him around for the next ten minutes, as he collected bread, olive oil, chicken breasts and a handful of spices and condiments, his tension levels slowly but surely increasing the whole time. On reaching his penultimate port of call, the wine aisle, they spiked dramatically. Only one other customer was there, and they soon moved away.

He took a long, suspicious look around, ear cocked for that telltale laughter, before allowing himself to focus on the serried ranks of dark red bottles before him, searching out a suitable accompaniment for the meal he was planning. It needed to be quite strong and fruity, he knew, but that usually meant a high alcohol content, as well, and he preferred to avoid those. There had to be a decent compromise to be found somewhere, though.

He was examining a promising candidate from New Zealand, a region who's produce he hadn't had the pleasure of sampling before, when a small hand gripped the tip of his tail and yanked; hard. He yelped and started violently enough to drop the bottle he was holding and clatter against the shelves, jostling and rattling their contents badly, then slip to the floor with a thump.

The wine he'd dropped landed - to his relief - on the bread in his basket, but several more bottles teetered dangerously on the lip of the topmost shelf. Even as he hastily lunged to stabilise them one toppled over just beyond his reach, leaving him to watch in horror as it pitched toward the floor.

"Whoa!" cried out a voice, a paw whipping out to catch the bottle a foot before impact. "You all right, sir?"

The cat slumped, breathing out long and deep, as relief washed hard and fast through him. He nodded at the neatly attired male rat shop assistant - the same one it somehow always was at moments like this, Robin - now standing over him, tidily slotting the wine back into place. "Fine, thanks. You really must be getting tired of me by now."

"Not at all, sir," Robin assured him, with a smile. "We're all well aware these little incidents aren't your fault. Would you like a hand up?" He politely extended one as he spoke.

The cat instinctively shied away, his ears flattening just a little, mouth gaping slightly and pulse jumping. "N-no, I'm fine, thanks..."

"One of these days you'll accept," Robin noted, quietly. "And maybe I'll find out what the hell happened to leave you like that."

"Rough childhood." The cat gave his standard evasive answer as he got to his feet, feeling just a little sheepish now. "Speaking of kids..."

"We got her." Robin gestured toward the front of the store, where a petulant little shrew girl was being vigorously scolded by her mother, while a stern wolf security guard watched on. "She shouldn't trouble you any more, sir. If there's anything else I can do...?"

"No...thanks." He nodded his gratitude. "Just glad nothing got broken this time. I'd better finish up before I cause any more problems." His basket back in hand he turned and walked away, leaving a nonplussed rodent in his wake.

"But you haven't!" was the last he heard of Robin.

He ignored it, just wanting to finish and leave. Fortunately all he had left to collect was milk, so it was only a couple of minutes later that he joined one of the queues at the checkouts, both paws firmly grasping the basket handles, wary eyes scanning the car park. He kept up this careful scrutiny as he progressed along the line, and even as the pretty feline manning the till scanned and bagged his items he kept glancing outside. Once he'd paid he grabbed his two carriers and, thanking the checkout girl, hastened through the exit doors.

Outside the snow had thickened up considerably. Hunching into himself the cat strode across the car park, his camper van firmly in his sights. Halfway to it a rough, throaty grumble assailed his ear; not even pausing to look he broke into a sprint, bubbling panic driving him toward the safety of his vehicle. He didn't find it.

Instead, he found himself slamming into the side of the bonnet of a dirty white hatchback, hard enough to pound all the air from his lungs and set his vision swimming as pain lanced right through his torso. He slumped to the sodden, snow-streaked tarmac, gasping and choking for breath, his bags thumping down either side of him, while the car pulled away like nothing had happened, rolling smoothly out onto the road and into traffic, just another shopper heading home.

Footsteps and concerned voices hastening over spurred him into life again; gathering his bags, which by some miracle hadn't spilt or broken anything, and hurrying the rest of the way to his van, he was quick to scramble inside and lock the doors. He slumped in his seat, willing the ache to fade from his chest and stomach, his eyes tight closed to keep the faces at his window out of mind; he even clamped a paw over his ear-and-a-bit to try and block out the knocking and muffled calls.

The very instant the pain receded enough for him to not wince when he moved he turned the key, slipped into gear and pulled out of the space, leaving a half-dozen volubly confused and concerned people, a neatly attired shop assistant among them, in his wake. He got held up waiting for a break in the traffic at the exit long enough for the rat to start toward him, but not long enough for them to get close. His last glimpse of them, in his rear-view mirror, showed the rat fishing in their pocket, a grimly determined expression on their face.

He shook his head sharply, banishing all of it from his mind. Instead, he spent the rest of the short trip home running over the recipe he was planning to tackle tonight, an exercise that settled him down quite a bit by the time he pulled up outside his door. All right, his torso still ached slightly from the impact, and the deeper, duller aches behind his eyes and in the hollow of his gut remained, so familiar to him now he thought them a normal part of himself, but all in all he actually felt fairly relaxed. It helped that things hadn't been nearly as bad tonight.

After a long exhale of breath he collected his shopping, slid out of the van, locked it up and trudged along the path on the left-hand side of his tiny and currently snow-blanketed front garden to his warm orange front door. The guttering and window frames were the same hue, a legacy of the previous owners he'd never had the heart to change. If he was completely honest, he actually quite liked it; just the hint of a nostalgic smile would often curve onto his muzzle at the sight of them.

It did now, as he stepped through into his little entrance room, then closed the door with a solid clunk behind him. Once all the locks were secure he shrugged off his coat, hung it up, kicked off his shoes and set them on a low shelf, before pushing through the next door. As that one clicked softly shut he closed his eyes and leaned against it, taking another deep, slow breath, the familiar warmth and peace of his home easing away most of the stress that remained.

It was a good couple of minutes before he opened them again, but by then they'd gained a subtle yet distinct shine. Flicking the light on and hanging his keys on a nearby wall-mounted hook he padded along the thin, dark green rug that stretched the length of the linoleum-floored hallway, just a soupçon of a spring in his step, and his tail tip swaying gently behind him. The pale door at the end opened into his modest square of a kitchen - cooker, sink, and two counter-topped cabinets to the left, fridge-freezer, washing machines and a handful of cupboards (most wall-mounted) to the right, with a small larder tucked into the diagonally opposite corner from him. Straight across stood the door to his back garden.

In rapid succession he distributed all his purchases among the larder, fridge and cupboards, stripped off his work clothes, bundled them into the relevant washer (his wallet placed on a counter beforehand - he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice) and set it going, and finally turned the cooker on, setting it to two hundred degrees, eager to get started with his meal; office drudgery worked up an appetite.

First, though, he had one more little thing to attend to. He glanced down the hall at his front door, reassuring himself it was locked, then out of his back door, relieved to see no life beyond a gull on the roof of his shed and a blackbird foraging for food in his vegetable patch. Still, though, he hesitated, fingers and tail-tip twitching, wanting to be as sure as he possibly could he was alone and safe, until he couldn't hold back the urge any longer.

He shook himself from head to toe, shimmying and rolling every last part of his body, his short fur dancing crazily, his tail rippling like a sine wave, a genuinely gleeful smile splitting his muzzle. When he finally ceased it was with a long and happy sigh, his formerly rumpled and matted pelt now looking much smoother and tidier, his smile settling down to a quiet contentment. Now he was starting to feel better.

In fact, he felt good enough to give himself a little treat, to which end he turned to the twin counters, fishing a slim MP3 player and two tiny speakers from one of the drawers. Placing it all in one corner of the surface he clicked the device on and scrolled through his library until a tune caught his eye. Setting the volume at a comfortable level, loud enough to be heard over whatever he was doing but not so loud as to dominate, he pressed play and the quiet, shimmering introduction of The Blue Danube filled his ears.

Unconsciously moving in time with the music he set out a mortar and pestle, a chopping board and knife, a sprig of rosemary leaves, small salt and pepper cellars, lemon zest and juice, and a slim bottle of olive oil. The rosemary and a pinch of salt were dropped into the pestle and deftly pounded to an even powder, then the lemon zest and half of the juice were added into the mixture.

Rinsing his hands, he then swept, as the music surged into the waltz proper, over to the fridge freezer to collect a chicken breast and a jar of wholegrain mustard; twirling back around he laid the former on the chopping board and carefully sliced horizontally, almost the whole way through, then opened it up and flattened it with the palm of one hand. Hips and tail beginning to sway to the rhythm the cat coated the breast in the rosemary marinade then set it aside.

After another brisk rinse of his hands he mixed a teaspoon of mustard with the remainder of the lemon juice and several splashes of olive oil in a small perspex dish. Leaving that by the chicken he danced over to his larder to gather half a dozen cherry tomatoes and a packet of green beans. The rosy red vegetables were placed on a tray, seasoned with pepper and slipped into the oven.

By now he was humming and curling his arms as well as swaying his hips, quite literally waltzing around his kitchen. A pan was filled with salted water and a handful of the beans, then set upon a hotplate to boil; it was quickly joined by a griddle. Having a few moments to spare the cat poured himself a glass of the New Zealand wine and sniffed it inquisitively. Finding the scent pleasant enough he took a sip, and the smile that had been plastered on his face throughout his cooking grew a notch. Not bad at all.

Two more sips of the wine had flowed down his throat by the time the griddle was at temperature; he laid the chicken breast over it with expert grace. Ever assiduous he cleaned his hands again, then checked the beans; discovering they were nicely cooked he drained them and slipped them into the dish of mustard dressing. A hand rinse, a fourth mouthful of wine, then he turned the chicken over, satisfied to see it was grilling well.

The music crescendoing he tidied up with plenty of flourish, putting away the remaining ingredients, packing the used utensils and dishes into the dishwasher, and wiping the counter clean, then setting out a plate and cutlery. Whiskers twitching delightedly at the scents he laid the chicken on the plate then coated it in the bean-speckled dressing.

The tomatoes needed a little while longer, though, so he put the pan in the dishwasher; the griddle was rinsed in the sink before taking its place in the machine. As the Blue Danube had finished now, and the next piece didn't really suit his current mood, he took a moment to dig out some lively and melodic Mozart - a little night music - then moved back to the oven and his now perfectly roasted tomatoes. Dotting the vegetables over the chicken he loosed a full-blown grin - the result of all his work looked and smelt wonderful.

With a lot of bounce and sway in his step he carried his MP3 player and speakers along the hall to the closest of the doors at its left centre, opposite the stairs. It led into a room with a plush pastel blue carpet, a modest square of a dining table with two chairs, a tall oak cabinet in one corner and large patio doors leading out into the back garden. He set the player on the table then returned to the kitchen to collect his supper and a flower-patterned place mat, but just as he settled into a chair the front doorbell rang, loudly.

Biting back a curse, his heart hammering a drum solo against his ribs, the cat bolted back into the hallway and wrenched open the cupboard under the stairs. He dug out a loose grey t-shirt and a pair of jet black tracksuit bottoms, struggling into them as he hastened to deal with his ill-timed visitor, the bell chiming again, sounding almost insistent. On opening both doors to the outside he was confronted with a tall, neat and expressionless police constable polecat, and his heart stopped.

"Mr Calum O'Hearn?"

"Yes." He swallowed, just a little intimidated. "H-how can I help you?"

"We had a report that you were involved in an incident at the Farrow Road supermarket about an hour ago, sir."

The cat fiddled his fingers nervously. "Yes, I was. How did you...?"

"A shop assistant; he seemed very concerned. From what he's told us this wasn't an isolated incident."

"Robin." Calum let out a soft, rueful laugh. "Yes, it's happened many times before. I've almost gotten used to it."

The polecat's brow creased in concern. "Then why not report it, sir?"

"Because I've never seen who's driving the car, or been able to get a licence number. No-one else has seen it happen before, either. D-did anyone manage to...?"

"We have a licence number, and several descriptions of the driver - a pale mouse with small ears, sallow face and a scar on his nose. Does he sound at all familiar?"

"No." Calum shook his head, not one bell of recognition ringing. "I've no idea who he is."

"And no idea why someone night be nursing a grudge against you?"

"No. I keep to myself. No-one knows enough of me to bear any kind of a grudge, I don't think. He must have some reason, though, right?"

"We'll find out soon enough, sir - some of my colleagues are bringing him in as we speak. Is there anything else you can think of that might be of help?"

"Nothing. Sorry. It doesn't make any sense to me..."

"No problem, sir; we'll be in contact again soon." The polecat tipped his hat and turned around smartly.

Calum watched him stride out onto the street, slip into his car and drive smoothly away, mind whirring all the while. It stopped dead on spotting a figure lurking in the shadows across the street, one he was pretty sure he recognised. He toyed with the idea of just turning away and heading back inside, but...that really wouldn't be fair.

"Robin!" he called, his voice cracking a little with the unaccustomed volume. "Do you want to come inside?"

"Really?!" The rat came into view, his expression of shock bordering on the comical.

"Really." Calum felt the corners of his lips twitch upwards. "But please be quick - my food's going cold."

"Sorrysorrysorry!" Robin squeaked, hustling across the road. "Rotten timing..."

"Actually, pretty good timing." Calum guided the rat inside. "For once I could use some company."

A moment later they were sitting at the dining table, the MP3 player silenced, the cat tucking into his (thankfully) still hot meal while the rat nursed a glass of wine and looked around.

"Nice place you have here," Robin commented. "Cosy."

"Thanks." A tinge of pride washed through Calum's soft smile. "Family home; I'm the third generation O'Hearn to live here. Only just keeping it going, but it's worth it." His whiskers twitched thoughtfully. "Meat's a little chewy...maybe I should have let it cook a little longer."

"Value range?" Robin asked.

"Yeah - all I can afford."

"Then it wouldn't have made any difference. Value chicken's always poor quality. Pretty sure it's factory farmed. You a foodie?"

Calum nodded. "One of my escapes. I'd love to cook with some good ingredients, but...that would need a better wage and I can't see that happening any time soon. Not many promotion opportunities when your boss only sees you as a verbal punching bag."

"Man, you're surrounded by bullies, aren't you? Yeah, my supervisor can be a serious bitch sometimes, but that suddenly doesn't seem so bad. What's the universe got against you?"

"I've been wondering that for years." Calum set his cutlery on his now empty plate and sat back, his expression darkening. "Never could find a reason, just like I can't find a reason why you'd be so determined to _help_me...not that I don't appreciate it. You've certainly made future shopping trips easier."

"Just something about you, I guess. The way you move, the way you talk. As a friend of mine might phrase it, you've got soul under those scars. I think he'd like you, actually." He tapped a musing finger against his muzzle. "Hmm..."

Calum cocked his head. "Sounds like I might like him, too. Any friend of yours has to be interesting, at the very least."

"Interesting doesn't even begin to describe him." Robin leaned closer to the cat. "How do you feel about meeting him tomorrow night? We have a...little something we do every Friday, just a bit of fun, and it'd be a perfect time to experience the wonder of Cameron Currie."

To his surprise, it didn't take Calum long at all to reach a decision. "All right - tomorrow night it is. Hope I don't regret it."

"Oh, you won't." Robin gave a castanet grin. "You really, really won't."