Allow me to introduce you to a very important fellow.

He is the hero of our story, and, I think, a person you will soon grow to like. Though I suppose 'person' isn't the right word to use, for this hero happens to be a spotty grey cat. He is Captain Whiskers, a pirate who sails the ocean, far and wide.

I realise that pirating isn't something that cats are typically known for doing, preferring instead to play with balls of yarn and lap milk from dishes, but the world of Captain Whiskers is a strange place, where animals talk like you or I. So it is not very out of the ordinary to see a cat like Captain Whiskers, wearing a spiffy red coat with yellow buttons and a long, billowing white scarf.

Though, it must be said, the scarf does have a great many holes, and a fair few of those yellow buttons are missing. His brown pants are also worn out at the knees, and his belt is nothing more than a thick piece of string tied around his waist. At the very least, his black boots are shiny and new, because he only found them a few days ago.

Captain Whiskers loved a great many things. He loved a good sword fight, as most pirates would, as well as eating ridiculously large meals next to a nice warm fire. He loved adventure, but more still, telling people all about those adventures, often exaggerating details in the process. He loved a spot of rum, but it was hard to come by these days. A shortage of rum had stricken the many corners of the sea, thanks to an unfathomable heat wave ruining most of the crops; a heat wave that started a year ago, and was still ongoing to this day. They hadn't seen a proper winter that season, or an autumn, or anything remotely resembling spring.

It rained so infrequently, world leaders were formulating ideas to draw drinkable water from the sea, a ludicrous notion that consisted chiefly of trying to mix the water with something that tasted nice. These were difficult times, no doubt, with starving families and townships sent into chaos from the stifling temperatures. Whiskers didn't like this. Partially because it was depressing. But primarily because of his fondness for rum.

On nights like this, however, he loved pirate songs. Captain Whiskers would belt out all sorts of ditties into the night when the mood took him, tapping his foot and bobbing to-and-fro, with nobody but the lashing waves singing back.

He was a merry sort of chap, but mostly, he liked to sing at night because he often chose to navigate at the wheel during the twilight hours to get places faster, and he would occasionally find himself nodding off. A fellow of merely nineteen years of age, Whiskers needed sleep just as much as the next young feline. But he felt beyond his years, somehow: an old soul in a fresher, healthy body. Perhaps that was why he felt so in tune with his second-in-command, First Mate Latimer.

Latimer was an old sea dog—quite literally—a bulldog who had seen it all and done it all. Loaded with muscles and knowledge, he was about the best crew-mate a young captain could ask for. His crusty disposition made him rational and level-headed, though it did often lead to great exasperation. For one thing, he highly disapproved of Whiskers' penchant for setting sail during the night. He would have much preferred to find a port in the evening, head towards the local inn, and sleep in a nice, cosy bed, ready for an early morning. But Captain Whiskers would not have it. For Whiskers hated wasting time, and he hated spending money on lodging, and above all else, he hated mornings. Blast those mornings!

Tonight was a night for speeding across the ocean, he felt, to hasten their arrival. It was not, unfortunately, a very good night for singing, as the first rain he'd seen in weeks was hammering from the stormy clouds above, and the wind seemed very intent on sending each individual drop directly into Captain Whiskers' mouth every time he tried to sing. He despised critics, particularly those that came in the form of rogue weather patterns.

Of all the nights in the world to finally feature rain, why tonight? He needed to sing his pirate ditties! They were his bread and butter, his jaunty ally in the night, his very livelihood as a pirate. Another gust blew into his face, whipping his fur about and sending a stream of water into his eyes. He shook his fist at nobody in particular, before starting to hum quietly.

The weary old ship he stood upon was rocking uneasily upon the waves, creaking and groaning as though it too was ready for a good night's sleep. The Dread Lock was once a naval ship, called the S.S. Gertrude or Grapevine, or something silly like that, that Captain Whiskers had inherited from his adoptive father, Bruce Whiskers. The elder Mr. Whiskers had been a powerful political figure; a large, hulking brute of a vole who had been given the retired ship as a gift, under the very specific stipulation that it was never to see the open waters.

Once his father had passed away, however, Whiskers figured it was high time the old girl saw some action. He shed the name, dubbing it the Dread Lock after the particularly exciting hairstyle of an owl passing by at the time, and went on his way, declaring himself to be a pirate. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to do much pirating up to this point. In actuality, the Dread Lock had gained some minor fame across the shores as being a very cheap cargo ship manned by a very naïve captain. Whiskers liked being called naïve: it sounded very official and distinguished. He would have to look up its meaning someday.

As for the Lock herself, she had seen much better days. Whiskers' unorthodox sailing patterns and lack of repairing ability had led to the quick decline of the once proud ship. Her sails were tattered and worn, her decks filthy and cluttered, and her hull threatened to puncture like a balloon at any moment. First Mate Latimer did his best to try and maintain her, but he was outmatched by Whiskers' foolishness.

Captain Whiskers continued humming to himself, trying to focus as hard as he could on the song he was muttering—as well as, at least to a small degree, focussing on where he was going—but this dastardly wind was drowning out his sounds. He defiantly hummed louder, though it just seemed to make the gusts respond more furiously. His spotted brow furrowed, as he tried to formulate a plan.

How does one fight the sound of the weather, exactly? As we've established, it rained so rarely these days that most people would have been excited and cherished its presence. But these people were clearly not singers, because it was most certainly unwelcome aboard the Dread Lock.

Captain Whiskers stepped away from the wheel, peering over his shoulder and pondering whether he should fetch his pirate hat. Surely it would help dull the noise, if only he could remember where he put it. He shuffled unsteadily across the deck, and began searching among some crates that reeked of old meat. This might seem like an odd place to begin looking, but Whiskers rarely wore his pirate hat, choosing instead to use it as an excellent bowl for his dinners. Odds were, if somewhere smelled of food, his hat was likely nearby.

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He flung some bones off the deck, pretending that they were walking the plank as they hit the water with an inaudible plunk. There were a few greasy knick-knacks among the mess that he hadn't recalled acquiring: little baubles that were common in marketplaces of the west. He could sell those for some coin at his destination. He put them in his pockets for safekeeping, and continued his search. He found a broken fork, some old mush of unknown origin that quivered in his hand, and a very ancient potato that appeared to have grown arms and legs. They were also sent overboard.

His hat was still missing.

Captain Whiskers racked his brain for ideas, trying to remember when he'd last had it on. He had it in the galley yesterday, drinking some delicious soup from its brim, and then he was wearing it as he paced the deck, practicing his pirate snarl, and then...

Of course! Whiskers' head whipped up, and he squinted to see the crow's nest through the squall. He had used it to cover his eyes while he had been napping up at the ship's highest point. It was an excellent nap, to be sure, but it was not the best place to leave one's hat.

He grabbed hold of the rigging. Like most things upon the ship, it was not in peak condition. Regardless, he used it to begin climbing up the mast. One couldn't dwell upon safety measures when there were hats that needed retrieving.

As quick as a sprite, Whiskers clambered up to the barrel atop the mast, and took a peek. The crow's nest was filled with water, and in fact seemed more watertight than the hull of the Lock itself. Floating atop it was his pirate hat. It was ragged and filthy, and the skull he had drawn upon it with chalk had been mostly washed away. But it would have to suffice.

At last, the song in Captain Whiskers' heart was about to be matched by the song coming out of his mouth! He clutched the hat tightly, and looked down below. The wheel of the ship danced about excitedly, no doubt eager to hear this song. It span rapidly to the right, and then jerked back to the left so fast it was practically a blur.

Was it supposed to be doing that, actually? Now that he thought about it, Whiskers realised that the ship had been driving itself for quite some time while he was hunting for his hat. It was a clever ship, as far as ships go, but probably not a suitable navigator. He peered ahead to see where it had taken him, and even through the darkness and the rain, he could see a large rock jutting out of the ocean.

And it was heading right this way.

'Well... gosh!' Captain Whiskers gulped, putting his hat in between his teeth and climbing as quickly as his arms and legs could, back down the mast. That silly old ship had set a course for disaster, and as usual, it looked as though it was up to Whiskers to fix it.

Only now, with the added element of impending doom thrown into the mix, the rigging seemed shoddier than ever before, the sails sagging upon Whiskers' weight and causing him to lose his grip as he descended.

'Come on, you pile of rubbish!' Whiskers mumbled, his words muffled by the hat in his mouth. 'Don't go to pieces on me now!'

As if on cue, the next thing he grabbed hold of, a spar he had always identified as being particularly troublesome, broke in his hand. Captain Whiskers rocked about unsteadily, before losing his balance and falling off of the mast. He bellowed as he headed towards the deck at a terrifying speed. Cats were supposed to land on their feet, he'd often been told, but perhaps being raised in a family of voles had stymied that ability, because Whiskers always inevitably tumbled headfirst.

Before he hit the deck, however, he was caught abruptly around the ankle. He opened his eyes, and saw that a piece of rope had handily looped itself over his boot. Why, that rope had saved his life! Henceforth, it was officially his favourite rope.

Now that he was only a few feet from the floor, he untangled himself and landed in a heap. He shot up, tucking his hat under his arm, and ran towards the wheel.

It was whizzing in circles dangerously, and when he reached out to grab it, it cracked against his fingers in a violent display.

'No,' the wheel seemed to be shouting. 'I know what I'm doing!'

But it absolutely did not, because no matter how much it veered left or right, it was still on a crash course directly with the rock.

Captain Whiskers began to analyse the situation quite thoroughly. Lesser captains would abandon ship, but he would never do that. The Dread Lock was his pride and joy, and First Mate Latimer was still sleeping in his quarters. Captain Whiskers was no coward!

Nor could he swim.

He then recalled the hat he had under his arm. He placed it over his hand like a silly black mitten, and used it to deter the impact of the spinning wheel. At last, he was able to grab it and hold it steady. He took the wheel in both hands, and with a mighty heave, he set a course for starboard. In times of emergency, he always turned to starboard. It was his lucky direction. And he needed all of the luck he could muster now.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the Dread Lock began to veer to its right. Whiskers winced as the rock drew closer and closer, almost upon him.

Then, at last, it began to sneak off past the Lock, scraping by with a sickening screech. It didn't go down without a fight, but at least it hadn't sunk the ship.

'Ha-har!' Captain Whiskers whooped, dancing a jig and poking his tongue out at the rock as it disappeared behind him. 'Who is braver than Captain Whiskers?'

There was no response.

'Who is smarter than Captain Whiskers?'

Again, silence.

'Who is handsomer than Captain Whiskers?'

The only sound was the wind and the rain, and the crashing of the waves.

He planted his pirate hat proudly atop his pirate head, and dipping it low so it shielded his face from the rain, he began to sing:

There's many a pirate upon the sea,

They're frightful, and dreadful, and mean!

But there's one alone, who I think you'd agree,

Is cunning! And daring! And keen!

He's quick with a sword, and quick is his wit,

His voice booms louder than thunder.

He'll not be ignored, he never shall quit!

Yo-ho! It's the Spotted Wonder!

Maidens come from near and far,

Their voices sweet and tender.

But he has no time for their charms,

Alas! He'll have to offend her.

So if you're looking for the one,

Who's mastered the art of plunder.

He'll never rest until he's done,

He is the Spotted Wonder!

Yo-ho! It's the Spotted Wonder!

Captain Whiskers cackled to himself gleefully. He had often wondered whether he had been a bard in a previous life. He did have nine of them to play with, after all. He bowed to his non-existent audience, the noises of the ocean making for suitable applause. When he whipped back up, the wind plucked the hat right from his head. It danced about in the air, before finally flitting off into the night, never to be seen again.

Whiskers groaned, resigned to his fate as a pirate without song. A pirate without meaning, really.

He stood there in silence, holding onto the wheel, watching as the waves lurched back and forth. Frankly, this night had been rather boring by his standards. Only one song to its name, and one mere catastrophe averted. He blinked a few times to clear the stinging cold from his eyes. He could see a light some ways off in the distance. It was up very high, which led him to believe it was a lighthouse. Or perhaps an eccentric parrot who had pinched a lantern as a prank of some sort.

It was quite far off, but as long as he held course, Whiskers would safely arrive there. Eventually.

He felt comforted by this knowledge, and smiled to himself. He blinked again, clearing more rain from his vision. This time, it was a longer blink. It was much more satisfying.

Captain Whiskers felt his head begin to dip forward. He raised it, and shook about to regain his attention. Another blink. A very, very long and most absolutely lovely blink.

The light still sat ahead, off in the horizon in the night.

'Maybe...' he said quietly. 'I can just rest my eyes for a moment.'

The next blink was held for so long, it could scarcely be called a blink at all.