The old woman, Broomtilda, took me in when I was a wee kitten and named me Tinkleberry. Her idea, not mine…Over the years, it became increasingly difficult for her to provide us with bread and cheese. Were it not for the old cow in the byre, we would have no milk for our breakfast.
One night, Broomtilda tucked her shoes under her bed and pulled the covers up to her nose. Come dawn, being too weak to rise, she called me to her side. “I have provided all your needs until today, Tinkleberry. Now, you must go, my friend, kill a small beast and bring me meat, for I can no longer work to feed us.”
That she should ask me to kill a living creature went against my very soul, for unlike my feline brothers, I have long been a conscientious objector. “You know I would do anything for you, dear Broomtilda, but I cannot kill even the smallest living creature. Please do not ask me to pay such a price for your kindness.”
“How can you answer thus, when I am ill and hungry?” she replied. “Have I not always provided for you?” Her tears wrenched my heart, and yet I trembled at the thought of killing the smallest vole.
“Isn’t there another way to meet our needs?”
She wept. “Only one, but I fear it’s far too dangerous.”
I bowed my head, my fur bristling in dread. “I will do as you command.”
“You must make your way to yonder mountain. High on the top beside a river, is the cave of a wicked leprechaun,” she said. “Perhaps you can trick him into revealing where he hides his gold. Even one small coin would feed us for many weeks. Go, now, Tinkleberry. My life is in your paws, small friend.” My mistress fell back upon her pillow, her voice a bare whisper. “If you fail to bring back a piece of gold, I shall perish.”
I set out to do what must be done in hopes I could match wits with the evil leprechaun and live to tell the tale.
The mountain trail was steep. With each step nearer the cave, I had no clear plan for how to trick the leprechaun out of his gold.
As I stepped on the log that spanned the river, shrill words chilled my heart. The wicked leprechaun! “Halt. Who goes there? Answer, Cat, or I’ll turn you to stone.”
Panic seized my heart. “Hold! A thought popped into my furry head. “I’m just a harmless pussy cat out for a stroll in the woods. My, what a lovely river you have here, Sir Leprechaun. I love what you’ve done with the place.” I sashayed across the log, humming an Irish ditty, and bowed low. “My name is Tinkleberry. Her idea, not mine. What might I call you, kind sir?”
The leprechaun stepped from his cave, his demeanor softened. “My name is Merichandrick. What do you seek?”
“A spot of tea would be lovely. I’m weary from my travels.” I looked wistfully toward the creature, an attempt to convey abject vulnerability and candor. To my great surprise, he agreed.
“Come on in, then, and I’ll light the fire.” I followed him into the grotto, suspicious of his intent. Once inside, did he plan to toss me into the stew pot? My nerves tingled, prepared for the worst.
“Sit over there.” The little man shuffled toward the fire.
Fearing treachery, I kept a wary eye on my host as I gazed around. A green-and-red parrot squawked in a cage hanging from a golden hook. “Oh, what a lovely bird,” I said, sidling closer to the cage. Where was that blasted pot of gold? Near the back of the cave, something bulged beneath a red blanket.
The little man turned. “Will you be after spending the night?” says he, with a wicked glint in his eye.
“If I’m so invited,” says I with a yawn, patting a paw against my mouth. He likely plans to kill me as I sleep. “Let us drink our tea, and I’ll curl up on yon lovely red blanket for the night.”
He shook his mop of green curls. “Not there,” says he. His wicked eyes glittered. “Best you should sleep closer to the fire.”
“A perspicacious idea!” says I. Oho! The gold is under the blanket. Once the little man sleeps, I’ll snatch a coin and be on my way.
My host set out two mugs, shoving one toward me. Expecting a trick, I sneezed, and as he reached for a Kleenex, I switched the mugs. Indeed, the mug was drugged, for the evil leprechaun drank and soon fell into a stupor. As I snatched a gold coin from the pot beneath the blanket, the parrot began spewing vile curses. Murderous rage filled my heart as I became a conscientious objector no more. I leaped and knocked the cage from its golden hook. The now repentant parrot squawked and flapped on the ground. One swift snap of my jaws, and the bird would curse no more.
Broomtilda traded the gold coin for six chickens and a second cow. That gives us enough milk to trade for bread and vegetables. Since I’m a recovering conscientious objector, only occasionally do I venture into the woods, highjack an unsuspecting rabbit, and fetch it home for the stewpot. If our fortune changes or the old cow dies, the wicked leprechaun still has a pot full of gold coins, and I know where he lives.
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