Энн Файн - The Killer Cat's Christmas

‘ Who never did him any harm,

But killed the mice in his father’s barn .’

I was so bored with listening to them singing and arguing that I settled down to watch a great fat hairy spider climb out of a staple hole inside the cardboard well, and start on a new web.

The spider was good fun to tease. I let it spin a couple of lines, and then reached out to twang one – not so hard it broke, but just enough to set the spider bouncing.

Spin, spin.

Twang, twang.

Bounce, bounce.

It was a laugh. I kept on doing it. But the spider was stubborn and kept on spinning. I was so busy twanging, I hardly noticed when The Three Bad Singers finished their stupid argument and started up again.

‘ Ding dong bell! ’ Lancelot sang loudly. ‘ Pussy’s in the well! ’

‘ Who put him in? ’ chirruped Lucilla.

‘ Little Tommy Lynn ,’ gargled the Corncrake.

‘ Who pulled him out? ’ warbled Lucilla.

And that’s when Lancelot reached over the side of the well to pull me out.

Well, don’t blame me for everything that happened next! I already told you twice. I wasn’t really listening . I was much more interested in twanging the web – a little harder each time. I don’t see how I was supposed to know that suddenly I’d twang too hard, and the spider would lose its grip on the web and fly up in the air.

Or that it would be Lancelot’s turn to sing the next line of the nursery rhyme.

So that his mouth would be open wide.

Very, very wide.

Okay, okay! So scream the house down, everyone! Lancelot swallowed a spider . What’s the big deal? I’ve seen him eating fish. Fish are a whole lot bigger than spiders. (And they have creepy eyes.)

And he ate pork last night. That is a lump of dead pig’s bottom. So why make such a fuss about an eensy-weensy spider? And anyway, it was already deep down inside him, getting mixed up with his lunch. So there was really no point in reeling round and round the room, screaming and gagging and spluttering.

That spider was inside to stay.

If anyone had any reason to make a fuss, it was the poor old spider, not fussy Lancelot.

Lucilla and Ellie were on my back, of course. ‘Tuffy, that was so mean !’

‘That was a horrible thing to do, flicking that spider into Lancelot’s mouth!’

‘Poor Lancelot!’

Poor Lancelot? I like that! Why should Lancelot get all the sympathy? Who is it who has spent the whole day locked in a room with the The Three Show-Offs?

Me, that’s who.

So how about feeling sorry for me ?

8: Chasing half-dead mousies

NOW IT WAS Lucilla’s turn to be Star of the Show.

‘Which nursery rhyme will you choose?’ they asked her.

Lucilla hugged herself with glee. ‘I’m going to sing Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, where have you been? I’ve been up to London to visit the Queen. Then I can wear that lovely, lovely crown in the dressing-up box.’

(These three can get excited about anything . The jewels on that ‘lovely, lovely crown’ are stuck-on wine gums. I know that for sure because I’ve licked them.)

Ellie wasn’t happy with Lucilla’s choice. ‘Oh, please don’t let’s do that one! I always cry when it gets to the bit that says, Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there? I frightened a little mouse under her chair .’

‘Why?’ Lancelot asked.

There was a silence. They all looked at me as if I was a criminal – as if I spent my whole life chasing half-dead mousies round the house.

I was offended, if you want to know. They wouldn’t open the door, so I just went and sat under the Christmas tree, next to the presents.

Okay, okay. So I was sulking . But how is it my fault that my tail was flicking from side to side? I am a cat, and that’s what happens to our tails when we get cross. My tail’s a part of me. From my point of view, it’s just the end of my bottom. You don’t spend all day looking to see exactly what’s going on at the end of your bottom, do you? Well, neither do I. So how was I supposed to notice that it was acting like a little furry brush, and flicking all those silly little labels off and out of sight, under the carpet?

It took them ages, but finally, finally , they managed to choose another rhyme for their show.

‘“Three Little Kittens, They Lost Their Mittens”,’ decided Lucilla.

‘Yes! Perfect!’ Ellie said. ‘We can use Tuffy and my two soft cat toys.’

‘Use’ Tuffy? Excuse me! What am I now? A kitchen towel, or something?

Nobody ‘uses’ me.

Now Lancelot was pitching in. ‘And we’ll need twelve little mittens.’

I looked up. Mittens? On my paws? Oh, no. No, no, no, no. Not even if they made me Star of the Show.

But they were already rushing off to look for what they needed. While they were gone, I had a laugh, reaching up to bat a few of the glittery balls off the tree. Just like last year, I gave myself five points if they fell down among the presents, and a bonus of five if they rolled on to the carpet.

I got a hundred and twenty points in all.

Excellent score! Even better than last year. But that’s practising for you. You know what they always say: ‘Practice makes perfect.’

9: Bare at the bottom

OKAY, OKAY! SO no one warned them when they rushed back in. Three pairs of feet can trample on an awful lot of decorations before skidding to a halt. So there were crispy bits of glittery ball everywhere. All trodden in. Ellie’s father had to get out the vacuum cleaner, and Ellie’s mum spent ages picking tiny silver slivers out of the fluffy slippers Aunt Ann had left by the sofa.

Things were quite quiet after that, apart from Ellie’s father’s constant grumbling. ‘I knew we should have kept Tuffy behind bars. Look at that tree! What a mess! Practically bare at the bottom now. And overloaded at the top. It looks quite shocking.’

You could tell Ellie was worried I might end up in the cattery. She said, ‘We could move some of the glittery balls that Tuffy couldn’t reach down to the lower branches.’

But Mr Didn’t-Get-His-Way was in a giant snit. ‘Why would you do that? Just to help the fiendish little beast smash all the ones he couldn’t reach before?’

Did you hear that? I get accused of everything . I didn’t smash the glittery balls. All that I did was set them rolling where they got trodden on. Is it my fault if people can’t be bothered to look where they are putting their big fat feet?