Story 116: Go Fund Reza Shadey (or The Great Slumming Sanctuary Swindle)
Snuggle down, my darlings, because tonight's tale is about the day Reza Shadey decided that the internet was invented purely so that magnificent cats could get even more magnificent things – like imported lobster – without lifting a single paw.
It all started, as these disasters usually do, when Mrs Higgins left her tablet on the arm of the sofa. A news story glowed on the screen: a famous station cat had gone to the great scratching post in the sky, and kind humans everywhere were crowdfunding the most beautiful bronze statue in her memory.
The total ticked upwards – £5,000... £10,000... £15,000 – purely for being adorable and, well, slightly dead. Reza Shadey, sprawled across the armchair like a furry Roman emperor, watched the numbers climb with the sort of expression normally reserved for mice wearing bacon jackets.
"A statue?" he scoffed, whiskers twitching with entrepreneurial delight. "How terribly inefficient! Why wait until one is deceased to be immortalised in bronze when one can be immortalised in lobster right now?"
And thus, dear listeners, GoFundReza™ was born – official tagline: "Invest in Greatness. Returns payable in eternal bragging rights."
The campaign was a masterpiece of creative truth-bending. Reza launched the Catford Slumming Sanctuary for Over-Privileged Felines – a luxury "poverty experience" where spoilt pedigree cats would pay handsomely to spend a weekend "roughing it" among the tragic local strays, safe in the knowledge that they could go home to their diamond-encrusted litter trays afterwards.
The tragic local strays were, naturally, Penelope, Ginger Tom, and Tiger – who were not consulted. Reza spent a happy afternoon photographing his friends in their most unflattering moments: Tiger mid-sneeze, Penelope with one ear inside-out after a nap, Ginger Tom yawning so wide you could post a letter in it.
He uploaded the pictures with captions that would make a tabloid editor blush. Under Tiger's photo he wrote: "This poor kitten has never known the comfort of memory foam. Often seen attempting conversation with garden hoses. Urgent intervention required before he accidentally invents cryptocurrency."
Under Penelope: "Hasn't seen a groomer since the Coronation. Possibly feral." Under Ginger Tom: "Wasting away into obscurity, one digestive biscuit at a time."
Donations trickled in. Then poured. Then positively gushed. By teatime Reza had ordered the largest, reddest, most extravagantly imported lobster that money could buy – overnight delivery, no less.
He was halfway through it, wearing melted butter like expensive cologne and purring at operatic volume, when the front door burst open. Tiger's human – a lady built like a rugby player with the heart of a marshmallow – stormed in, waving her phone like a battle standard. Tiger himself was riding on her shoulder, sobbing theatrically.
"My baby is NOT homeless!" she roared. "He has a heated blanket and a Spotify playlist!"
Penelope stalked in behind them, white fur bristling with dignified fury. "I had a full spa day last Tuesday, Rezzi. With the lavender rinse."
Ginger Tom brought up the rear, muttering, "Wasting away? Mate, I'm on the cusp of spherical."
Mrs Higgins appeared in the doorway, took one look at Reza wearing the half-eaten lobster like a bib, and delivered the quietest, most terrifying "Oh, Reza" in recorded history.
The campaign was shut down within minutes. Every penny (minus the non-refundable lobster, which Mrs Higgins declared "evidence") was donated to the local animal shelter. And then came the final humiliation.
Mrs Higgins marched Reza to the shelter himself, plonked a large cardboard sign round his neck, and made him pose for the official thank-you photograph. The sign read, in cheerful primary-school letters: "I am a BAD kitty. I am very sorry for telling fibs about my friends (and eating all the lobster). Reza Shadey"
Reza stood there, butter still in his whiskers, wearing the expression of a cat who has just discovered that dignity is not, in fact, tax-deductible. Mrs Higgins patted his head. "There, love. A real monument is built on truth, not tall tales and seafood."
From that day forward, whenever Reza even glanced at a screen, Mrs Higgins would whisper, "Remember the lobster, darling", and he would slink away faster than you can say "crowdfunding regulations".
A very important message from Mrs Higgins: Crowdfunding is brilliant for proper charities and kind causes, but always, always check where your money is going. If the organiser appears to be covered in garlic butter and smugness, perhaps look elsewhere.
Night night. Sleep tight.