Nine Lives. One Missing Brain. Zero Common Sense.
Another Tale from Castle IGORITHMS — The Institute of Questionable Artificial Intelligence
Chapter One: The Doctor Is Not Himself
Something was terribly wrong at Castle IGORITHMS.
For the first time in its history, the laboratory had gone an entire morning without an explosion.
No screaming.
No electrical fires.
No mysterious green vapor escaping beneath the laboratory doors.
And most disturbing of all, Dr. Samuel Altmanstein had not shouted at Igor even once.
Instead, the doctor was curled up on his laboratory chair, sound asleep.
Igor approached cautiously.
“Mathter?”
No response.
“Mathter, your breakfatht ith ready.”
Nothing.
“Mathter, the laboratory ith on fire!”
The doctor opened one eye.
Then closed it again.
Igor scratched his hump.
“Thith ith theriouth.”
Abby Normal entered carrying her morning coffee.
“What’s wrong, Igor?”
“The Mathter hath been athleep for fourteen hourth!”
Abby glanced at the sleeping doctor.
“Fourteen hours? That’s the most productive thing he’s done all week.”
Suddenly, the doctor stretched, arched his back, and emitted a long, luxurious yawn.
Then he began licking the back of his hand.
Igor recoiled.
“Mathter! You haven’t bathed thinthe Tue thday!”
Abby took another sip of coffee.
“Igor, I think we’ve established that the doctor’s brain is inside Mr. Whiskers, and Mr. Whiskers is inside the doctor.”
“Yeth, Abby.”
“So the creature sitting in that chair is technically a house cat.”
Igor stared at the doctor.
The doctor stared back.
Then slowly closed both eyes.
And opened them again.
Igor gasped.
“HE’TH DYING!”
“No, Igor. That’s a slow blink. Cats do that when they feel safe and affectionate.”
Igor looked horrified.
“The Mathter liketh me?”
“Apparently.”
“But he hathn’t liked me in twenty yearth!”
“Try not to take it personally.”
The doctor slowly blinked again.
Igor backed toward the door.
“I liked him better when he hated me.”
Chapter Two: A Most Uncomfortable Affection
By lunchtime, Igor had discovered an entirely new problem.
Every time he entered the laboratory, the doctor followed him.
Not walking normally, of course.
He crouched.
He crept.
He occasionally stopped to inspect a dust particle.
And then he began rubbing himself against Igor’s legs.
“Mathter, pleathe!”
PURRRRRRRRR.
“Mathter, I’m trying to carry your chemicalth!”
The doctor rubbed against his other leg.
“Mathter, you’re making me nervouth!”
PURRRRRRRRRRRRR.
Igor stumbled.
A tray of test tubes flew through the air.
One landed in a wastebasket.
Another bounced into a sink.
The third struck a small mechanical device, which immediately began playing the national anthem of Luxembourg.
Abby appeared in the doorway.
“What happened?”
“The Mathter tried to knock me over!”
Abby looked at the doctor, who was now rubbing his cheek against a filing cabinet.
“He’s marking his territory.”
“WHAT?”
“Cats have scent glands around their faces and bodies. They rub against things they consider familiar.”
Igor stared at his trousers.
“I’m being claimed?”
“Congratulations.”
“Can I refuthe?”
“Not without a lawyer.”
The doctor approached again.
Igor raised a trembling finger.
“NO! BAD MATHter!”
The doctor stopped.
Slowly blinked.
Then began purring.
Abby smiled.
“I think he forgives you.”
Igor threw up his hands.
“I DON’T WANT TO BE FORGIVEN! I WANT TO BE LEFT ALONE!”
Chapter Three: The Cat Who Ran the Castle
Within forty-eight hours, Mr. Whiskers had established a new management philosophy at Castle IGORITHMS.
No experiments before noon.
No shouting.
No unnecessary meetings.
And absolutely no disturbing the laboratory director during his afternoon nap.
Igor loved the new schedule.
For the first time in years, he had evenings off.
Skankella was equally delighted.
She found the doctor sitting in the library and began scratching him behind the ears.
A low rumble emerged from his chest.
PURRRRRRRRRRRRR.
Skankella’s eyes widened.
“Samuel! I had no idea you were so sensitive!”
She scratched a little harder.
The purring intensified.
“Good heavens! You’re practically vibrating!”
Abby walked past.
“Careful, Skankella. At that frequency, he may loosen the castle’s foundation.”
Skankella leaned closer.
“You know, Samuel, if you weren’t such an impossible man, you might actually be charming.”
The doctor slowly blinked at her.
Skankella gasped.
“He’s flirting!”
Abby shook her head.
“No, he’s being a cat.”
“What’s the difference?”
Abby considered the question.
“Fair point.”
Meanwhile, the doctor had developed another habit.
Whenever he encountered an object on a table, he studied it carefully.
Then nudged it toward the edge.
Then pushed it off.
CRASH!
A beaker.
CRASH!
A microscope.
CRASH!
A priceless seventeenth-century astronomical instrument.
Igor rushed into the laboratory.
“MATHter! That cotht forty thouthand poundth!”
The doctor stared at the broken instrument.
Slow blink.
Then he pushed a second one off the table.
CRASH!
Abby surveyed the damage.
“Interesting. His research methods haven’t changed much.”
The Laboratory Litter Incident
By the second afternoon, Igor had discovered something even more disturbing than the doctor’s new habit of rubbing against his legs.
In the far corner of the laboratory, behind a large electrical generator, stood an enormous wooden box filled with a peculiar gray substance.
A neatly printed sign above it read:
LABORATORY LITTER
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Igor stared at the box.
“Abby? What ith that?”
Abby glanced over.
“It’s the doctor’s new restroom.”
“His WHAT?”
“Restroom, Igor. Mr. Whiskers apparently doesn’t understand that human bodies come equipped to use indoor plumbing.”
Igor looked horrified.
“But we have three bathroomth in the cathtle!”
“Try explaining that to a cat.”
At that moment, Dr. Altmanstein entered the laboratory.
He walked directly toward the box.
Stepped inside.
Turned around three times.
And began scratching furiously at the litter.
Igor’s eyes widened.
“OH, NO!”
Abby immediately turned her back.
“Everybody look away!”
Skankella entered carrying a tray of coffee.
“What’s all the fuss about?”
She glanced toward the corner.
The tray hit the floor.
CRASH!
“SAMUEL ALTMANSTEIN! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!”
Abby sighed.
“Technically, yes. That’s the problem.”
From the corner came a vigorous scratching sound.
SCRITCH! SCRITCH! SCRITCH!
Igor covered his eyes.
“Pleathe tell me when it’th over!”
A few seconds later, the doctor emerged from the box, looking enormously pleased with himself.
He slowly blinked at the horrified staff.
Then began purring.
Skankella clutched her chest.
“I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO DISGUSTED IN MY LIFE!”
Abby looked at her.
“You dated Igor.”
“THAT WAS DIFFERENT!”
Igor cautiously opened one eye.
“Abby?”
“Yes?”
“Who hath to clean the Laboratory Litter?”
Abby smiled.
“Who normally cleans up after the doctor?”
Igor’s shoulders slumped.
“Oh, thit.”
“Exactly.”
Chapter Four: The Real Doctor Demands Justice
High above the laboratory floor, perched on a bookshelf, sat Mr. Whiskers.
Or rather, the body of Mr. Whiskers.
Inside that furry little head was the brilliant, furious mind of Dr. Samuel Altmanstein.
He had spent the previous two days attempting to communicate.
He had tried scratching equations into the furniture.
Unfortunately, everyone assumed he was sharpening his claws.
He had attempted to type a message on Abby’s computer.
The resulting document read:
JJJJJJJJJKKKKKKKKK;;;;;;
Abby had examined it.
“Looks like one of the doctor’s research papers.”
Now he sat atop a bookshelf, seething.
He could see his own body lounging in his favorite chair.
He could see Igor feeding it treats.
He could see Skankella scratching it behind the ears.
And he could see his precious laboratory being slowly destroyed.
“THIS IS INTOLERABLE!” he thundered.
What emerged from his mouth was:
“MEOW!”
Igor glanced upward.
“Poor Mr. Whithkerth. He theemth upthet.”
“MEOW! MEOW!”
“Maybe he’th hungry.”
“MMMMEEEEEOOOOW!”
Igor opened a tin of tuna.
The doctor sniffed.
His stomach growled.
He was horrified.
No.
Absolutely not.
He was Dr. Samuel Altmanstein, the greatest scientific mind of his generation!
He would not surrender to primitive animal instincts!
Igor placed the tuna in a saucer.
The doctor stared at it.
Five seconds passed.
Then he leaped from the shelf and buried his face in the fish.
Abby watched.
“Well, there goes his Nobel Prize.”
Chapter Five: Abby Has a Theory
By the third day, Abby had become thoroughly tired of managing a laboratory director who slept in the sink.
She decided to repair the B.E.A.N.E.D. machine herself.
This presented two difficulties.
First, the machine had been almost completely destroyed.
Second, its inventor had left no useful instructions.
Abby found the original engineering notebook.
Page one contained a drawing of two human brains.
Page two contained a drawing of a sandwich.
Page three read:
REMEMBER TO BUY MUSTARD.
Page four was labeled:
VERY IMPORTANT SCIENTIFIC STUFF.
The remaining pages were blank.
Abby sighed.
“Remarkable. The man managed to invent a brain-transfer machine without understanding either brains or documentation.”
Igor approached.
“Can you fix it?”
“Probably.”
“Will the Mathter get hith brain back?”
“Possibly.”
“Will he thtart yelling at me again?”
“Almost certainly.”
Igor hesitated.
“Then why are we doing thith?”
Abby looked at him.
“Because, Igor, a cat may be a better laboratory director, but it can’t sign the payroll.”
Igor nodded solemnly.
“An excellent point.”
From the bookshelf came an indignant:
“MEOW!”
Abby looked up.
“Yes, Doctor. I know you’re listening.”
The cat slowly blinked.
Abby smiled.
“And for the record, that’s the first time you’ve looked at me affectionately without asking me to work overtime.”
Chapter Six: A Cat Among the Controls
Abby spent the next twelve hours rebuilding the machine.
She replaced the damaged wiring.
Recalibrated the cerebral transfer coils.
Disconnected the microwave oven.
And, as a precaution, removed the popcorn setting.
Igor assisted by holding tools, carrying equipment, and occasionally asking whether they were all going to die.
By midnight, the machine was ready.
Two electrical chairs stood beneath the great copper coils.
One chair had been reinforced to accommodate the doctor’s body.
The other had been fitted with a small velvet cushion for Mr. Whiskers.
Abby inspected her work.
“Perfect.”
Igor examined the cat-sized chair.
“Doeth the Mathter need a theat belt?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Because cats don’t generally cooperate with experimental neurosurgery.”
The real doctor, still inside Mr. Whiskers, approached the little chair.
He studied it.
Sniffed it.
Then climbed aboard.
Igor gasped.
“He underthtandth!”
Abby nodded.
“Of course he does. He’s the doctor.”
Across the room, the doctor’s body was less cooperative.
Mr. Whiskers, occupying Altmanstein’s six-foot frame, had discovered a fascinating object.
A red laser pointer.
Abby had been using it to align the machine’s optical sensors.
The doctor spotted the tiny red dot dancing across the floor.
His eyes widened.
His shoulders lowered.
His entire body tensed.
Abby froze.
“Oh, no.”
The red dot moved.
The doctor lunged.
CRASH!
He knocked over a trolley.
The dot raced across the wall.
He pursued it.
BANG!
A cabinet collapsed.
Igor screamed.
“ABBY! HE’TH GONE MAD!”
“He’s a cat, Igor!”
“HE’TH A MAD CAT!”
The red dot landed on the ceiling.
The doctor crouched.
Abby stared in horror.
“Don’t you dare.”
He jumped.
His head struck a hanging chandelier.
KRAAAASH!
Glass rained across the laboratory.
The doctor landed in a heap.
Igor looked at Abby.
“Thould we call a doctor?”
Abby closed her eyes.
“We’re trying to.”
Chapter Seven: The Great Restoration
After considerable effort, Igor and Abby managed to secure both patients.
Mr. Whiskers sat calmly in the little chair, looking deeply offended.
The doctor’s body was strapped into the larger chair, purring so loudly that the control panel vibrated.
Abby approached the console.
“Now listen carefully, Igor. This machine must not be interrupted once the transfer begins.”
“Yeth, Abby.”
“No touching the switches.”
“Yeth.”
“No moving the cables.”
“Yeth.”
“And under absolutely no circumstances are you to bring food into the laboratory.”
Igor looked down at the sardine sandwich in his hand.
“Even thith?”
“Especially that.”
He reluctantly placed it on a shelf.
Abby activated the machine.
The lights dimmed.
The copper coils began to glow.
Blue electrical arcs danced between the helmets.
A familiar electronic voice announced:
“BRAIN TRANSFER INITIATED. PLEASE REMAIN SEATED UNTIL THE RIDE HAS COME TO A COMPLETE STOP.”
Igor crossed his fingers.
The doctor, inside Mr. Whiskers, closed his eyes.
The doctor’s body began to twitch.
The machinery roared.
And then—
KABOOOOOOOM!
A tremendous flash illuminated the laboratory.
Every clock in the castle stopped.
Somewhere in the kitchen, the toaster began singing opera.
The lights went out.
Silence.
Then a deep voice emerged from the darkness.
“IGOR!”
Igor gasped.
“Mathter?”
“IGOR! TURN ON THE DAMNED LIGHTS!”
Igor fumbled for a switch.
The laboratory lights flickered back to life.
There stood Dr. Samuel Altmanstein.
Upright.
Human.
Furious.
And unmistakably himself.
“SUCCESS!” he roared.
Abby checked the instruments.
“Cerebral transfer complete. Neural pathways stable. No evidence of cross-contamination.”
Altmanstein threw his arms into the air.
“ONCE AGAIN, THE GENIUS OF DR. SAMUEL ALTMANSTEIN HAS TRIUMPHED OVER THE FORCES OF IGNORANCE!”
Abby folded her arms.
“Actually, Doctor, I rebuilt the machine.”
“EXACTLY! UNDER MY BRILLIANT SUPERVISION!”
“You were a cat.”
“DETAILS!”
Igor wiped away a tear.
“Oh, Mathter! It’th wonderful to have you back!”
Altmanstein glared.
“IGOR! WHY IS THERE TUNA IN MY SLIPPERS?”
Igor smiled.
“Yeth, Mathter. You’re definitely back.”
Chapter Eight: Nine Lives and One Bad Habit
The following morning, life at Castle IGORITHMS appeared to have returned to normal.
Dr. Altmanstein was shouting.
Igor was apologizing.
Skankella was complaining.
MONSTER 1.0 was looking for cookies.
And Abby was preparing a report explaining why the Institute’s insurance premiums had increased by four hundred percent.
The doctor stood proudly before his laboratory staff.
“LET THIS BE A LESSON TO YOU ALL! NOTHING CAN DEFEAT THE SUPERIOR INTELLECT OF DR. SAMUEL ALTMANSTEIN!”
Mr. Whiskers entered the room.
The doctor stopped speaking.
The cat looked at him.
The doctor looked at the cat.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Mr. Whiskers slowly blinked.
Altmanstein’s eyes narrowed.
His shoulders rose.
His back began to arch.
A low, threatening sound escaped his throat.
“HISSSSSSSSS!”
Everyone froze.
Abby lowered her clipboard.
“Oh, dear.”
Mr. Whiskers hissed back.
Altmanstein crouched.
The cat crouched.
Igor stared in disbelief.
“Mathter?”
The doctor began circling the cat.
Mr. Whiskers began circling the doctor.
Skankella whispered, “What on earth is happening?”
Abby sighed.
“I may have overlooked a few residual behavioral pathways.”
Altmanstein suddenly lunged.
Mr. Whiskers shot beneath a cabinet.
The doctor dropped to his hands and knees and tried to follow.
“COME BACK HERE, YOU FURRY LITTLE IMPOSTOR!”
Igor rushed forward.
“Mathter! Pleathe! You’re a human being!”
“HE’S IN MY TERRITORY!”
“Mathter, thith ith your laboratory!”
“EXACTLY!”
Abby looked at her report.
Then crossed out the words:
NO EVIDENCE OF CROSS-CONTAMINATION.
She replaced them with:
SUBJECT DISPLAYS MINOR FELINE TENDENCIES.
Behind her, the doctor was attempting to squeeze beneath a cabinet.
Igor knelt beside him.
“Mathter, would you like a thaucer of milk?”
“SHUT UP, IGOR!”
A pause.
Then, very quietly:
“…IS IT WARM?”
The Return of Laboratory Litter
Later that evening, Igor found Dr. Altmanstein standing in the corner of the laboratory.
Beside the enormous wooden box.
The one marked:
LABORATORY LITTER — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
“Mathter?”
Altmanstein jumped.
“IGOR! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
“I work here, Mathter.”
“WELL, STOP SNEAKING AROUND!”
Igor glanced at the box.
“Thall I remove the Laboratory Litter now that you’re back to normal?”
“OF COURSE! REMOVE THAT DISGUSTING THING IMMEDIATELY!”
“Yeth, Mathter.”
Igor bent to lift it.
“WAIT!”
Igor froze.
“Mathter?”
Altmanstein cleared his throat.
“PERHAPS WE SHOULD KEEP IT FOR SCIENTIFIC PURPOSES.”
“Thientific purpotheth?”
“YES! I WISH TO STUDY THE GRANULAR COMPOSITION!”
Igor looked down.
Then slowly looked back at the doctor.
“Mathter?”
“WHAT?”
“Why are your troutherth around your ankleth?”
A long silence followed.
Altmanstein’s face turned crimson.
“IGOR!”
“Yeth, Mathter?”
“GET OUT OF MY LABORATORY!”
Igor hurried toward the door.
Behind him came the unmistakable sound of vigorous scratching.
SCRITCH! SCRITCH! SCRITCH!
Igor stopped.
Shuddered.
And whispered:
“Thome thingth can never be untheen.”
Epilogue: The Purr-fect Disaster
One week later, Abby completed the official B.E.A.N.E.D. Restoration Report.
CASTLE IGORITHMS
THE INSTITUTE OF QUESTIONABLE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE
EXPERIMENT: CEREBRAL RESTORATION
SUBJECTS: Dr. Samuel Altmanstein and Mr. Whiskers
RESULTS:
- Original brains successfully restored.
- One laboratory partially demolished.
- One chandelier destroyed.
- One elderly cat deeply traumatized.
- One scientist displaying unexplained feline behavior.
- Seventeen complaints filed by Igor.
- One permanently installed Laboratory Litter box.
- No Nobel Prizes anticipated.
CONCLUSION: INTELLIGENCE NOT GUARANTEED.
Abby placed the report on the doctor’s desk.
Altmanstein examined it.
“RIDICULOUS! I AM PERFECTLY NORMAL!”
“Of course you are, Doctor.”
“MY BRAIN IS FUNCTIONING AT ONE HUNDRED PERCENT!”
“Naturally.”
“AND I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO REMAINING FELINE INSTINCTS!”
Abby nodded.
“Then perhaps you can explain why you’re sitting in a cardboard box.”
The doctor looked down.
He was indeed sitting in a cardboard box.
A rather small cardboard box.
His knees were pressed against his chest.
His elbows protruded over the sides.
And somehow, despite his considerable size, he appeared perfectly comfortable.
Altmanstein stared at Abby.
Abby stared back.
Then the doctor slowly closed his eyes.
And opened them again.
Abby smiled.
“Was that a slow blink, Doctor?”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”
From somewhere deep inside his chest came a faint sound.
Prrrrrrrrrrrr.
Igor appeared in the doorway.
“Mathter, your lunch ith ready.”
Altmanstein’s ears practically perked up.
“WHAT ARE WE HAVING?”
“Tuna thandwicheth.”
The doctor leaped from the box.
“OUT OF MY WAY!”
He raced down the corridor.
Abby watched him disappear.
Then turned to Igor.
“Well, at least we got his brain back.”
Igor nodded.
“Yeth, Abby.”
A long silence followed.
Then Igor asked the question that had been troubling him all morning.
“Abby?”
“Yes, Igor?”
“Do you think he’ll ever thtop rubbing againtht my legth?”
From the corridor came an enormous crash.
Followed by the doctor’s furious voice.
“WHO PUT THIS DAMNED VASE ON THE EDGE OF THE TABLE?!”
Abby took a sip of coffee.
“Somehow, Igor, I doubt it.”
THE END
At Castle IGORITHMS, curiosity doesn’t always kill the cat. Sometimes it just gives the doctor nine more chances to make a fool of himself.
OFFICIAL INSTITUTE DISCLAIMER
Castle IGORITHMS does not recommend exchanging brains with household pets, using experimental neurotoxins, or installing oversized litter boxes in professional laboratories.
All characters, experiments, and events in this story are fictional. No actual cats were subjected to brain transfers, electrical shocks, or Dr. Altmanstein’s scientific theories.
Castle IGORITHMS — Intelligence Not Guaranteed.
YOUR TURN, YOU MAD GENIUS!
If you had to exchange brains with an animal for twenty-four hours, which animal would you choose?
And what’s the funniest or strangest thing your own cat has ever done?
Tell us in the comments! Abby is collecting evidence that animals may already be smarter than the staff at Castle IGORITHMS.
MORE MADNESS FROM THE CASTLE
Dr. Altmanstein Gets B.E.A.N.E.D.
The brain-swapping experiment that started this entire catastrophe.
The Bride of MONSTER 1.0
A romantic disaster, a flying candlestick, and the concussion that led to B.E.A.N.E.D.
Igor’s Love Potion No. 9½
When Igor experiments with romance, the results are anything but lovely.
THE CASTLE RULE
“Never exchange brains with a cat. You may get your intelligence back, but you’ll never get your dignity back.”
— The Institute of Questionable Artificial Intelligence
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