Энн Файн - The Killer Cat Runs Away

You could tell she was fussy just from the way she said ‘ vermin! ’. But I was tired and hungry, so I thought – why not? Some cats do earn their keep. I could give it a go.

And I was right to try. Because life there could have been perfect bliss! Ms Whippy thought that she was keeping me hungry enough to eat mice, but what she didn’t know is that I’m good with kitchen bins. Every time she went out, I’d step on the pedal, and when the lid flew up I’d reach inside to hook out some half-eaten chop, or the last of the chicken. After I’d had enough, I’d carry the leftovers out into the garden and kick them out of sight behind her precious lupins.

She didn’t get suspicious because the rustling stopped. (It only came from some dried leaf trapped under the kitchen door. I poked that out and – hey, presto! – all the vermin gone.)

For three nights in a row, she sang my praises. ‘You’re brilliant, Pusskins. I could do with a mouser like you in my villa in Spain.’

Her villa in Spain? Was she a millionaire ?

You’d think so. First she bought me a fancy jewelled collar and a swansdown cat bed. (Purrrrr!) Then she bought me a classy water bowl. On the next day she even took me into town to have my photo taken. Yes! None of that cheap, ‘Hold still while I fetch my mobile!’ stuff that I’d been used to back in Ellie’s house. Ms Whippy took me into town to get a proper studio portrait! The photographer sat me on a cushion and asked me most politely to face the camera. ‘Pusskins! Please look this way! Yes! That’s much better.’

A dozen different shots were taken, and I must say they came out very nicely indeed. (Much better than those horrid ‘lost cat’ posters.) I was so pleased I thought I’d take one round to show my old ungrateful family what they were missing. I picked one up by the corner and (trying not to drool) carried it carefully across town to my old home.

Ellie was sitting on the doorstep, weeping bitterly.

I shot behind a bush.

‘Oh, Tuffy!’ she was whimpering. ‘Oh, Tuffy! You’ve been away so long! And how I miss you! Oh, Tuffy, I wish you’d come home!’

Home? Ha! Excuse me, but I have a new home now. A much, much better home where I dine on the finest foods, and people truly know how beautiful I am.

I spat the photograph out of my mouth and watched it slither in the breeze up the path towards Ellie.

Curious, she picked it up, dashing away her tears so she could peer at it more closely. Then she began to wail. ‘Oh, no! A photo of my beautiful Tuffy! And it’s not one I’ve ever seen before!’

Too true, it wasn’t. It was far smarter and glossier than any photo they’d ever had of me.

Ellie rushed into the house. I jumped up out of sight behind the laurel bush and peered in through the window. Ellie was waving the photo in her parents’ faces. ‘Mum! Dad! Look! Tuffy must have been catnapped! See? The catnappers have sent a photograph to prove it.’

I will admit that Ellie’s mum looked most concerned. But Mr Don’t-Expect-Me-To-Put- My -Hand-In-My-Pocket just muttered something most unpleasant along the lines of, ‘If that pesky cat’s worth even a handful of loose change, I’m a banana.’ If I’d not been in hiding, I’d have spat at him. Right in the face.

Ellie burst into tears again, and I jumped down. Don’t you feel sorry for Ellie! Don’t you dare! It’s her own fault! She should have thought about how much she would miss her precious Tuffy before she started mooning over soppy kittens on the computer screen.

So don’t you get your knickers in a twist worrying about Ellie.

You worry about me .

That’s what I did. I suddenly thought, If I don’t get back quickly, fussy Ms Whippy will have emptied the pedal bin before I’ve had time to rescue my supper.

So I hurried off.

14

Nightmare Stuff!

Ms Whippy talked a lot on the phone to her friends about her villa in Spain. It sounded horrible . I’d find the weather far too hot, I am not overly fond of garlic, and I hate walking on tiles because they make my claws click.

Also, why would I care about her lovely private pool? I’m not a swimming cat. No, every time I heard her talk about that villa of hers, I shuddered quietly and thought how glad I was that I live here.

That’s why finding the papers was such a shock.

I wasn’t snooping . It’s just a well-known fact that, if there is a bit of paper lying on a table, that’s what a cat will sit on.

Even if it’s as small as a bus ticket, that’s where we’ll sit.

And this paper was full-size. I sat on it for quite a while. (OK, OK! So dip my paws in soap suds! I had been trying to spread the leftovers of my supper out a little bit behind her lupins and my paws were still chickeny. I made a mess.)

That’s why I glanced down at the paper I was sitting on – to see if there were any more tiny scraps of chicken that had dried enough to be flicked onto the floor.

That’s when I saw the word PASSPORT.

I looked a little closer and saw PET.

I lifted my bum and stepped back so that I could read the whole thing. TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR PET PASSPORT APPLICATION.

Aha! The truth was out! Ms Whippy hadn’t taken me to get a photo simply because of my good looks. She wanted it for a passport so she could take me to her villa in Spain to be a mouser there!

I read the small print. It was nightmare stuff! First, there was a rule about carrying a letter from the vet that proved your pet was up-to-date with injections. (Injections! In case you live on Mars, I’ll have you know that that means needles. Not my favourite things. And vets! Not my favourite people.)

Then came a rule about the size of the wire cage. ‘Cage’, you notice. Not ‘comfy basket’ or ‘cosy box’. Wire cage!

There was a bit about how long your pet would spend in the baggage hold. The baggage hold! Like some old suitcase!

There was a rule about the photo of your pet having to be full-face.

A full-face photograph? Well, didn’t all that sweet-talking, ‘Pusskins, please look this way. Yes, that’s much better,’ sound a bit different now!

And then I read the last line, just above Ms Whippy’s flowery signature.

The date of travel.

5th May , she’d written.

5th May? I looked up at the calendar.

It was the 4th!

15

A Blur of Fur

Ever seen a tornado?

Even if the answer’s yes, you’ve not seen anything as fast as me getting out of that house. I was a rocket . I was a blur of fur that shot through that open window and up the garden path in less than half a blink. I moved so fast that I looked back to see myself pretty well still leaping out.

That was my big mistake. I should have kept my eyes ahead because, before I could even catch my breath, I felt myself being snatched up and heard a man’s voice. ‘Aha! Trying to make a getaway, are you, Pusskins? Well, tough luck! Gotcha!’

I swivelled my head round to look. Yee-ow! The man was dressed in one of those short white coats our vet wears at her surgery.

I wriggled frantically, but all he did was hold me even more tightly. ‘Stop struggling, Pusskins! No point in my driving all the way here for a special home pick-up if my patient has fled.’

Patient? Victim, more like! I’ve had my shots already! I don’t need any more. So I kept struggling madly. I scratched. I hissed. I yowled. I put up a tremendous fight. But this guy was clearly a master at hanging onto squirming animals. Before I even realized what was happening, he’d carried me round to Ms Whippy’s suntrap patio, and used his teeth to pull a towel down from her rotary washing line to wrap me up in it.

Me! Held fast in a roll of fluffy pink! I looked like a struggling sausage.