Рейчел Уэллс - A Friend Called Alfie

‘I don’t know, it might be a while yet, but the important thing to remember is that it isn’t serious, or life-threatening.’

‘Thanks for telling me, Dad. Although I still don’t know why he’s here.’

‘He followed me and I thought giving you the news about Harold was more important than trying to get him to do what I told him.’

‘What now, though?’

‘I better get him home before Claire notices that we’ve gone. Are you going to stay here, or come with us?’ I asked.

‘I’ll come,’ George sighed. ‘Someone needs to keep that puppy in line. I’ll come back later, Hana,’ he said. They nuzzled, and we set off.

We were just outside our house when I heard George yowl.

‘Pickles, no,’ he shouted, his eyes frozen in horror. It was as if everything went into slow motion; Pickles had run into the road and was spinning round in circles, but a car was approaching.

‘Pickles, get back here,’ I shouted.

‘Why?’ he asked, not remotely in any kind of hurry to do as he was told, yet again. Panic filled my body, and before I even had time to think or knew what I was doing, I launched myself into the road, in front of him. I lay down and put my paws over my head and hoped for the best. A horn blasted, brakes screeched, and it all went quiet. I didn’t feel anything hurting, I wasn’t sure I could feel anything at all. Was this it? Had I gone too far this time? How could I have done this to my George? I felt my fur shaking in the wind, and my legs started shaking underneath me. I was still alive, and I didn’t seem to have any pain.

‘Dad,’ George said, bounding over and breaking the silence, he sounded worried. I opened my eyes and blinked at my son. I was fine, the car had stopped inches from me. Pickles was standing still for once, although he didn’t seem to understand what was going on. The driver rushed out of her car and leant down to pick me up.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked, panic lacing her voice.

‘Meow.’ My voice shook, but by some miracle I was. I was fine. As was Pickles. My impulsive behaviour had turned out OK. Thank goodness. I felt relieved, even if I was a bit shaken up.

Our front gate sprang open, and Claire appeared.

‘What on earth is going on?’ she shouted.

‘The puppy ran into the road, and the cat seemed to throw itself in front of it,’ the lady explained, she was shaking but holding onto me tight. ‘I wasn’t going fast so thankfully I could stop in time, but I was practically touching him.’ The driver burst into tears.

‘Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry, I don’t know how he got out. Pickles you do not go out without me. How many times do I have to tell you?’ Claire had tears in her eyes now. ‘Alfie, are you OK?’

‘Meow.’ I was almost fine.

‘Alfie, you shouldn’t have let Pickles come out, what were you thinking?’ Sorry, sorry, are you alright?’ She turned to the woman.

‘Just a bit shaken up but I’m so relieved no one got hurt.’

Claire took us and the quivering lady into the house and sat her down in the kitchen. Claire made her a cup of tea, to help her calm down. Pickles, finally noticing he was in trouble, crawled straight into his bed.

George and I sat down, trying to calm ourselves. We were all trying to calm ourselves actually.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ the lady, who told Claire she was called Sally, said. ‘A cat throwing itself into the road to save the dog! I mean I know humans do that but cats?’ She was genuinely confused.

‘I’m guessing you’ve never met a cat like Alfie before,’ Claire replied.

Chapter Twelve

It was the end of a very stressful week. After the incident with the car, Claire told me off quite a lot. George also told me off for risking myself when he needed me. I know he had a point, but I tried to explain that I knew what I was doing and if I had been hit it would have been only a gentle bump. In reality, I knew nothing of the sort, and I felt guilty for putting him through it. I should have thought first and acted second. The trouble was that it was instinct rather than a thought out move, and because of that, I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t do it again if faced with the same situation.

George and I both tried to hammer home to Pickles the seriousness of the situation.

‘Pickles, can’t you see how bad it was?’ George said exasperated.

‘Not sure,’ Pickles replied.

‘Listen to me,’ I said, with my best stern parent voice. ‘You could have been badly hurt, Pickles, and I could have been badly hurt. The point is that it was very bad, and you simply cannot do it again.’

‘Alright, I think I get it, you are basically saying I shouldn’t go into the road on my own?’

‘We’re saying you never go into a road on your own but also you shouldn’t go out on your own,’ I reiterated for what felt like the millionth time.

‘I think I’ve got it, but you know I can’t be sure,’ Pickles replied. George stomped off, I despaired and Pickles licked his nose. He was never going to get it.

In hindsight I should have taken Pickles home, got Claire’s attention and then gone to see George. But I was so keen for him to know Harold was alright, I made a mistake. I hold my paws up to it, I really do. No cat is perfect, after all.

And Claire was more cross with herself, but it was hard with everything going on. She was taking care of the house, the children, Pickles and also visiting Harold every day. What with Jonathan not coming home until late at night, she was on her own a lot. So I took the lectures with good grace as I knew what she was going through.

Harold’s illness had definitely disrupted our calm almost more than Pickles. Marcus was worried, in fact, it was unclear who was the most upset, him or George. However, Marcus could go and see Harold, whereas George was getting increasingly annoyed about the fact that he couldn’t. It turned out that Harold would be in hospital for quite a while longer by the sounds of things. They weren’t going to operate but they had to try different medication and that could take some time to get right. There were lots of technical terms being bandied about, but I’m a cat, so I had no idea what most of it meant. The adults kept reassuring us (and themselves it seemed) that it was all going to be fine, and they all went to visit him, reporting back. I, in turn, tried to reassure George.

The good news was that Harold was complaining about the food, about the company – a bunch of ill old men he called them, and the nurses who were incompetent, and the doctors even worse. He seemed to think they were trying to kill him. Jonathan said it was a good sign, the fact he was well enough to moan suggested he was recovering. Despite my attempts at reassurance, George still fretted – he loved Harold.

‘I miss Harold,’ George said to me as we ate our breakfast. ‘I feel as if it’s been such a long time since I’ve seen him and he’s one of my best friends.’

‘I know, but the important thing is that he’s doing well. How about I take you out today to cheer you up. We could go and see Dustbin?’ I watched George’s mind whirring as he thought about my offer. He was tempted, I could see, but he was also still a little angry with me about the car incident. ‘No Pickles, I promise,’ I added, the pilchard on the cake.

‘OK, it’s been ages since I saw Dustbin,’ he said. ‘But you have to guarantee that the dog does not follow us.’

‘Great, you might get to meet Ally as well. So, George, let’s go now before Polly arrives with Pickles. That way, there is no way he can try to follow us.’

‘Good thinking, Dad. And it’ll be nice, just the two of us again. I love it when it’s the two of us.’