Энн Файн - The Killer Cat Runs Away

Small wonder I hate vets. They’ll get you every time. I bet they even take classes in rolling harmless little pussy cats up in old towels so they can shove pills down their throats and stick needles into them.

He carried me back to the front of the house and rang the bell. Ms Whippy must have torn herself away from packing all her fancy clothes because she came to the door.

My captor held me up. ‘Your cat’s a smart one. He was trying to get away.’

Ms Whippy clasped her hands under her chin. ‘Oh, no!’ she said. ‘Thank heavens you stopped him. If he doesn’t have his shots we can’t go, and the flight is tomorrow.’

‘No problem,’ smarmed our most unwelcome visitor. ‘I’ll have him back to you tonight with all the paperwork you need.’

I tried to tell them I had had my shots. All of them. Way back in March. But it came out as one enormous yowl.

And then a ghastly thing happened.

Ms Whippy leaned forward suddenly and kissed me on the nose.

Me! Tuffy! On the nose! A sloppy kiss!

Only one word for that. ‘Yee- uk !’

16

No Hope of Rescue. None.

Whistling cheerfully, the vet carried me back down to his van and unfurled me out of the fluffy pink towel into a cage. He dumped the cage down on the passenger seat.

So boil me in bunny juice. I hissed and spat.

‘Temper, temper,’ he said reprovingly.

We drove a mile or two and then his mobile rang. The vet pulled off the road and rang the number back. I only heard his side of the conversation. ‘Hi, Arif. What’s the problem?’

Arif must have explained because the next words were, ‘You need a cat?’

Excuse me? Was he talking to a madman? Who on earth needs a cat? I mean, we don’t do anything useful. We cost a lot to feed. We ruin the furniture. We do exactly what we want.

I ask the question again. Who needs a cat?

But clearly this Arif did, because when I tuned in again it was to hear the vet ringing Ms Whippy to check she didn’t mind if he lent me to some other vet he knew. ‘It’s only for half an hour, and I must say your Pusskins would be perfect for the job.’

Hear that? ‘Perfect’.

Obviously Ms Whippy agreed. So I admit that, by the time we met Arif somewhere around the park five minutes later, my head was already swelling.

‘Watch him!’ the vet warned as he handed my cage to Arif. ‘He’s in the foulest mood. But he’s the only cat booked into the surgery this evening. I have to give him all his shots tonight, so he can fly to Spain tomorrow.’

‘If the plane gets off the ground!’

I didn’t get the joke, but they still shared a laugh and then the vet climbed back in his van. ‘Be careful,’ he warned Arif, just before driving off. ‘That cat is horribly fierce so, whatever you do, don’t let anyone open his cage!’

Oh, thanks a bunch! What happened to my being ‘perfect’, I wondered as we set off down the street. I can’t say that Arif was the most considerate cat-cage carrier. He swung it till I was slipping from side to side like someone on board a ship in a gale. I paid him out by spitting through the bars and reaching out a paw to pull so many woollen threads out of his fancy jumper that I was practically hidden behind the tangles.

But my heart wasn’t in it. I was miserable . You know me. I am not one to wallow in despair and live my life in fear of what might lie round the next corner. But I admit that I was feeling really glum . I had set off with such high hopes: a better life, a nicer home and more appreciative company. People who recognized my true worth. People who saw me for the handsome, valiant, resourceful cat I am.

Now look at me. Stuck in a cage. Halfway to getting a heap of horrid injections I didn’t need, then lent out for all the world as if I were some rusty loft ladder, or a set of car jump leads.

Not to mention the insults. Ellie had never in all her life called me ‘horribly fierce’ or ‘in the foulest mood’. (She called me ‘spirited’ instead.) She’d never lent me out, or swung me in a cage, or wrapped me up like a sausage in a fluffy pink towel. Or threatened to take me off to Spain for ever, far away from my old friends.

My friends! Dear Tiger! Fun-loving Bella! Sweet Snowball! Where would they be right now?

Mucking about, no doubt, as happily as usual on Acacia Avenue.

Having a good laugh.

Without me.

Oh, how I wished I’d never got all huffy and run away! Why had I let that grumpy Mr Glad-To-See-The-Back-Of-That-Cat drive me away? How silly of me to have allowed myself to become jealous of that tiny fluff-ball Tinkerbell, and even that tiny human baby.

A baby! Why, the sweet little poppet had probably not been laughing at me at all. She had probably been laughing with me.

That is so different.

I had been so wrong! And I had nobody to blame but myself and my own foolishness. And now there was no hope of rescue. None.

17

‘Haven’t You Heard?’

Suddenly, through the tangles of unthreaded wool covering half the cage, I thought I saw somewhere I recognized.

Yes! Mrs Patel’s grocery shop. (She hates me napping on her vegetables.) Arif kept walking and I thought I recognized the pizza parlour. (No need to ask. My order’s pepperoni.) And then I reckoned that we must be getting near to Ellie’s school because I saw the crossing guard. (Since that fur fight in the playground, she’s tried to shoo me off each time we’ve met.)

Behind me, I heard voices. Children were gathering to cross the road, all chatting merrily.

‘What’s in that box you’re carrying?’

‘That’s Harry, my stick insect. What’s in your jar?’

‘Bertha, my beetle.’

‘I saw George bringing his rabbit.’

‘Surina is bringing her mice.’

My heart leaped. Thursday! ‘My Wonderful Pet Show’ evening. So maybe Ellie would be walking along the street. I could yowl really loud, and maybe she would recognize my voice. I might be rescued after all!

Almost at once my hopes were dashed. The very next thing I heard was, ‘Isn’t it a shame about poor Ellie?’

‘Poor Ellie? Why? Isn’t she coming tonight?’

‘No. Haven’t you heard? Her pet’s been catnapped.’

‘Who, Tuffy ? That wonderful cat she used to talk about all day?’

‘Yes, that’s the one.’

‘So beautiful , she told us.’

‘And strong .’

‘And clever .’

‘She misses him so much! She’s spending all her pocket money on “lost cat” flyers, and hands them out everywhere she goes.’

‘Perhaps she’ll come tonight so she can give a flyer to everyone in the audience.’

‘Maybe she will. But I don’t think so. How could she bear to watch us all walking out of the hall so happily with our own pets? Surely she can’t do that? Not even for her most beloved Tuffy!’

‘Poor Ellie. Oh, poor Ellie!’

My heart sank in my boots. If Ellie couldn’t bear to come, then it would be ‘poor Tuffy’ too!

18

All the Usual Rubbish

The children all rushed off into the school. Then, through the tangles of woolly bits, I saw Ellie’s head teacher. She was hurrying out to greet Arif.

‘There you are! I was just getting worried. Everyone’s here, with their pets. I’ve even brought my parrot Gregory to be part of the display. And all the children are keen to listen to your little talk about how important it is to care for animals properly.’

Yes, I thought bitterly. Care for them properly . Not swing them about in a cage.

Arif only grinned. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It took a bit of time to lug this great big lump all the way from the park.’