Imagine having cats called Mulder and Scully

Imagine having cats called Mulder and Scully

This was the thought I had upon finding a picture of a tall lanky black cat next to a small ginger tabby. The X-Files never leaves you, and my muse was happy to imagine a life with these cats.

Scully would eat regular meals. I’d assume someone else fed Mulder as I’d never see him eat, or he’d be putting things in his mouth that I’d rather he didn’t, as he’d be throwing them up later. Mulder would sprawl on the sofa in the please-put-some-pants-on way. Scully would be comfortably arranged in the middle of my bed. I’d tell them human guests were coming around. Scully would elegantly stretch, wash her face and come into the front room. Mulder would look at me with disgust, and then look at Scully asking if she was coming with him. She’d decline to follow, so he’d slink off and go and play with balls.

At 10.13pm, Mulder would go outside. At 11.21pm, Scully would follow him. Being a sensible human, I’d go to bed. I’d be woken by the sound of bad weather, and go outside to call them in. Mulder would be in a high place, and I’d have no idea how he got up there. He’d be fixated on something on a branch or under a rock, and ignore me. I’d look at Scully, appealing to her reason. She’d give me a look that I’ve come to interpret as I’ll-come-in-when-he-does.

It starts to rain heavy. I get an umbrella, and shout at Mulder, “Is what’s there worth catching a cold for?” my voice would startle whatever Mulder was staring at. He’d try and get it, but he’d slip on the now-wet surfaces and come crashing to the ground. Scully would dash to his aid, encouraging him up to get under my umbrella. We’d walk to the house, and they would both refuse my attempts to dry themselves off. They would make a dash for my bed, covering the house in muddy paws, before settling on my bed and cleaning each other off. I’d come to bed after cleaning the floor, and they would settle on a pillow either side of my head. Over the course of the night, their stretches would bring them closer to each other, and by morning I’d be curled up well below the pillows to avoid being suffocated by cat fur.

Sometimes Scully would be manhandled by humans, and Mulder would growl at them, taking a very accurate swipe or bite at their exposed skin to get them to drop her. Scully would return the favour when neighbourhood bully cats took on Mulder. I’d know when this happened, as I’d find them protectively surrounding the other. I’d also know it from the incessant meowing as they tried to find the other.

If I found them gazing out the window together, I’d get my chequebook in the belief my neighbours would be coming around later to tell me what they had damaged while trying to get somewhere they really shouldn’t be. The vet bill for their various scrapes would be equally high.

Scully becomes pregnant, which is impossible as they were both neutered early on. Mulder looks as surprised as I am, but he’s determined to be the best domestic father on the planet after his rescue cat origin. Scully goes into the old shed at the bottom of the garden to give birth to a single kitten – a chimera. I bring them into the house, where Mulder looks absolutely delighted.

The vet tells me this kitten is a medical marvel and warrants studying. I tell them to get stuffed as my family is happy. Even though I’ve had to buy a separate bed for me to sleep in.

 

Of course, the best thing about having cats called Mulder and Scully would be standing on the doorstep calling them in.

MUUULLLDEERR!
SCUULLAAAAAY!
I’m not calling their miracle kitten William, though.

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