Hello everyone, here I want to share one article that I take a shoot at The Cat Museum Petrajaya Kuching Sarawak.
TITLE: WHY CATS IN KUCHING HAVE SHORT TAILS AN OLD IBAN FOLK TALE, Daylight Lautern By O.T.LI~
Long long ago, before anybody can remember, there weren't any cats in Kuching. But one day, a smart young tabby Tom Cat who lived in Singapore heard of a town named after his deceased great-aunt, a lady to whom he had been affectionately attached.
"I must make a pilgrimage to this place," he decided, waving his magnificent tail as he spake, "and place offerings at the foot of the monument they are certain to have erected in her pious memory."
He was, like many a young Tom, a man of a practical mind. He figured (correctly) that he would be the Cat of the Walk once he got to Kuching, and he assumed (also correctly) that since the town only revered, but not harboured, his great-aunt, there would be an abundance of rodents. So he took a passage, and one fine day he disembarked at a green hill dedicated to the sainted lady's green eyes.
He was hardly off the gangplank when one of the friendly natives addressed him.
"Hullo, a cat!" quoth he. "Just arrived?"
"Just arrived!" confirmed Tom, with a nonchalant wave of his tail.
The man pulled a sheaf of papers out of his back pocket and leafed through them for a moment.
"That," he slowly said, "makes you an import."
"I expect it does," Tom assented, and then he howled with astonishment and pain. The man held a pair of clippers in his hand, and he had just taken a good inch off the poor cat's tail.
"No offence," the man muttered with a pre-occupied air, "Import duty," and moved on to the next new arrival.
Poor Tom, an inch shorter in overall length, slunk off the gangplank and looked around for any sign which might direct him to the cenotaph of his deceased relative. His tail was sore and bleeding, and he undulated it gently to cool the burning pain.
"A sail! A sail!" a fat gentleman in the footpath shouted, brandishing a hatchet.
Tom was rather surprised to hear Shakespeare quoted in so unlikely a place, by so unlikely a speaker, but the pull of culture was strong.
"Indeed you might consider it a sail," he smiled, giving his waving plume an extra-elegant twist.
"If sales then sales tax!" the man suddenly bellowed, and down came the hatchet.
Tom had not yet completed a howl of indignation when another man, lean and tall, came dancing out from behind the fat one, with a long cut-throat razor in his hand.
"If sales tax then surtax!" he chanted, grabbed hold of Tom and neatly sliced another three millimeters off the diminishing tail.
"Tom fled from the river and the murderous men, licked his wounds in silence and wondered what sort of highway robbers he might have fallen amongst. He made a firm resolution to avoid short fat men as well as lean tall ones in future, particularly if they carried hatchets.
The next man he met was eminently confidence-inspiring. He wore a grey suit and a white shirt, he carried a black briefcase, and his voice was soft and calm.
"Lo, a cat," he said. "How very nice to meet you, I take it you are a very Top Dog among cats?"
"Now Tom did not know the meaning of this expression, but he had sensed the complimentary tone of the man's soothing voice. And he was up to, and above, any canine standards!
"A very Top Dog!" he confirmed and stretched his tail as long as it would still go.
"Excellent!" the man exclaimed. "That puts you in the 50% class right away!" and with a pair of sceateurs suddenly whipped out of that trustworthy-looking bag, he neatly halved the remnant of Tom's tail.
"Inland Revenue - pleased to meet you!" he introduced himself, too late, and pleasantly smiling took his leave.
Tom stayed in a hiding-place for days, catching a few of the abundant mice in the dark and making plans about a speedy return to Singapore.
He managed to amass enough cat's gold to pay for his passage and a very happy Tom marched down to the waterfront to see about sailing schedules (nor was he going to let himself be caught about sailing dates!)
"What a nice cat!" a cracked voice said as he walked past the piles of timber stacked by the riverside. The speaker was middle-sized, crinkled, his nose was red and his eyes bleary, and he did not look like any of the blood-thirsty tail-chasers Tom had encountered earlier. He thought it quite safe to answer: "Thank you."
"Surely in excellent spirits?" the man whined on.
"Excellent spirits!" Tom smiled, and then he felt a cruel cut being taken off his tail.
"Excise duty!" the man whined, and then he watched, open-mouthed, as Tom leaped up a stack of timber, missed his footing, and fell off on the other side.
Two exceedingly long-armed men stood ready there to catch him.
"Payroll tax!" shouted one as he grabbed the unfortunate animal.
"You roll in timber you pay tax lah!" amplified the other, as exuberantly, and swung a wicked-looking axe.
When they released Tom his was reduced to a dripping stump, and he rolled over on his back while his unfortunate brain reeled. He recovered his senses just in time to see another slice being hacked off his tail, this time with a short heavy meat-chopper.
"Turnover tax, sir," said the last operator, and made his way through the crowd back to his office.
"Oh," groaned Tom, "mati aku!"
"What did he say?" squeaked a voice which belonged to a red-faced short-necked man in sombre undertakers' clothes. "Did you say mati?"
"Dead right!" Tom confirmed, whereupon the man opened his black bag and took out a pair of tinshears. He beamed at Tom, all friendliness and good-fellowship.
"Estate duty," he introduced himself. "Allow me to take the rest, sir."
Which he did, and that's why cats in Kuching have no tails.
TITLE: WHY CATS IN KUCHING HAVE SHORT TAILS AN OLD IBAN FOLK TALE, Daylight Lautern By O.T.LI~
The story begin,
Long long ago, before anybody can remember, there weren't any cats in Kuching. But one day, a smart young tabby Tom Cat who lived in Singapore heard of a town named after his deceased great-aunt, a lady to whom he had been affectionately attached.
"I must make a pilgrimage to this place," he decided, waving his magnificent tail as he spake, "and place offerings at the foot of the monument they are certain to have erected in her pious memory."
He was, like many a young Tom, a man of a practical mind. He figured (correctly) that he would be the Cat of the Walk once he got to Kuching, and he assumed (also correctly) that since the town only revered, but not harboured, his great-aunt, there would be an abundance of rodents. So he took a passage, and one fine day he disembarked at a green hill dedicated to the sainted lady's green eyes.
He was hardly off the gangplank when one of the friendly natives addressed him.
"Hullo, a cat!" quoth he. "Just arrived?"
"Just arrived!" confirmed Tom, with a nonchalant wave of his tail.
The man pulled a sheaf of papers out of his back pocket and leafed through them for a moment.
"That," he slowly said, "makes you an import."
"I expect it does," Tom assented, and then he howled with astonishment and pain. The man held a pair of clippers in his hand, and he had just taken a good inch off the poor cat's tail.
"No offence," the man muttered with a pre-occupied air, "Import duty," and moved on to the next new arrival.
Poor Tom, an inch shorter in overall length, slunk off the gangplank and looked around for any sign which might direct him to the cenotaph of his deceased relative. His tail was sore and bleeding, and he undulated it gently to cool the burning pain.
"A sail! A sail!" a fat gentleman in the footpath shouted, brandishing a hatchet.
Tom was rather surprised to hear Shakespeare quoted in so unlikely a place, by so unlikely a speaker, but the pull of culture was strong.
"Indeed you might consider it a sail," he smiled, giving his waving plume an extra-elegant twist.
"If sales then sales tax!" the man suddenly bellowed, and down came the hatchet.
Tom had not yet completed a howl of indignation when another man, lean and tall, came dancing out from behind the fat one, with a long cut-throat razor in his hand.
"If sales tax then surtax!" he chanted, grabbed hold of Tom and neatly sliced another three millimeters off the diminishing tail.
"Tom fled from the river and the murderous men, licked his wounds in silence and wondered what sort of highway robbers he might have fallen amongst. He made a firm resolution to avoid short fat men as well as lean tall ones in future, particularly if they carried hatchets.
The next man he met was eminently confidence-inspiring. He wore a grey suit and a white shirt, he carried a black briefcase, and his voice was soft and calm.
"Lo, a cat," he said. "How very nice to meet you, I take it you are a very Top Dog among cats?"
"Now Tom did not know the meaning of this expression, but he had sensed the complimentary tone of the man's soothing voice. And he was up to, and above, any canine standards!
"A very Top Dog!" he confirmed and stretched his tail as long as it would still go.
"Excellent!" the man exclaimed. "That puts you in the 50% class right away!" and with a pair of sceateurs suddenly whipped out of that trustworthy-looking bag, he neatly halved the remnant of Tom's tail.
"Inland Revenue - pleased to meet you!" he introduced himself, too late, and pleasantly smiling took his leave.
Tom stayed in a hiding-place for days, catching a few of the abundant mice in the dark and making plans about a speedy return to Singapore.
He managed to amass enough cat's gold to pay for his passage and a very happy Tom marched down to the waterfront to see about sailing schedules (nor was he going to let himself be caught about sailing dates!)
"What a nice cat!" a cracked voice said as he walked past the piles of timber stacked by the riverside. The speaker was middle-sized, crinkled, his nose was red and his eyes bleary, and he did not look like any of the blood-thirsty tail-chasers Tom had encountered earlier. He thought it quite safe to answer: "Thank you."
"Surely in excellent spirits?" the man whined on.
"Excellent spirits!" Tom smiled, and then he felt a cruel cut being taken off his tail.
"Excise duty!" the man whined, and then he watched, open-mouthed, as Tom leaped up a stack of timber, missed his footing, and fell off on the other side.
Two exceedingly long-armed men stood ready there to catch him.
"Payroll tax!" shouted one as he grabbed the unfortunate animal.
"You roll in timber you pay tax lah!" amplified the other, as exuberantly, and swung a wicked-looking axe.
When they released Tom his was reduced to a dripping stump, and he rolled over on his back while his unfortunate brain reeled. He recovered his senses just in time to see another slice being hacked off his tail, this time with a short heavy meat-chopper.
"Turnover tax, sir," said the last operator, and made his way through the crowd back to his office.
"Oh," groaned Tom, "mati aku!"
"What did he say?" squeaked a voice which belonged to a red-faced short-necked man in sombre undertakers' clothes. "Did you say mati?"
"Dead right!" Tom confirmed, whereupon the man opened his black bag and took out a pair of tinshears. He beamed at Tom, all friendliness and good-fellowship.
"Estate duty," he introduced himself. "Allow me to take the rest, sir."
Which he did, and that's why cats in Kuching have no tails.
~The End~
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