But before Limpy and Goliath could slide Uncle Vasco under Stan’s plate, Stan’s face crumpled and big drops of water started rolling down his cheeks into his beard.
It took Limpy a few moments to realise what was happening.
On the table, near Stan’s plate, was a photo in a frame. Stan’s watery eyes were moving from Uncle Vasco to the photo and back again.
Limpy peered more closely at the photo.
And understood.
‘Goliath,’ he said as his guts went into a swamp-weed-sized knot. ‘I think I’ve made another terrible mistake.’
Limpy sat on the verandah, staring at the ute parked down by the kerb and wishing it had never swerved into his life.
‘Don’t feel bad,’ said Goliath. ‘It was a mistake anyone could make. How were we meant to know that Uncle Vasco looks like Stan’s wife?’
Limpy sighed.
‘It’s my fault,’ he said. ‘I should have remembered that when our lot get squashed, sometimes our faces end up human-shaped.’
‘Personally,’ said Goliath, ‘I don’t think Uncle Vasco does look that much like Mrs Stan. OK, the wrinkles are similar, and her eyes were sort of big and close together like Uncle Vasco’s, but that’s all. She was a human, for swamp’s sake. And Uncle Vasco is completely flat.’
‘Photos are completely flat,’ said Limpy glumly.
He tried desperately to see a good side to it all.
At least Stan had kept Uncle Vasco. But Limpy had a horrible feeling it was just so the poor bloke could gaze lovingly at Uncle Vasco’s wrinkles and feel even sadder about his wife.
Limpy sighed again.
He wished he’d never heard of Christmas.
As far as he could see, Christmas was just a time when half the world felt either lonely, or sad, or both.
Limpy was feeling both.
Home felt further away than it ever had. He wondered what Mum and Dad and Charm were doing. Whatever it was, he hoped they weren’t doing it on the highway.
Goliath was rummaging in his sock.
‘Here,’ he said to Limpy. ‘Happy Christmas.’
Limpy blinked, surprised.
Goliath was giving him a Christmas present.
Limpy looked up at Goliath’s big warty earnest face, and for a moment he felt better. How could anyone stay miserable with a cousin like this?
Then Limpy saw what Goliath had pulled out of his sock. It was plastic, with a windscreen and human numbers on it.
It looked kind of familiar …
With a jolt, Limpy remembered.
The mobile phone from the human house.
‘Goliath,’ he said, shocked. ‘You stole it.’
‘Swapped it,’ said Goliath. ‘Those mongrel cats have got our Santa hats.’
Limpy stared at the phone. Why did Christmas have to be so complicated?
‘It’s a very kind thought, Goliath,’ he said. ‘But it’s not so kind to the humans who own the phone.’
Goliath didn’t look like he agreed, or cared, or even understood.
‘Humans use their mobiles a lot at Christmas,’ said Limpy. ‘And not just for ordering ham and turkey pizzas. I’ve seen it in the ads. Christmas is a big time for humans getting in touch with their loved ones.’
‘If you don’t want it,’ said Goliath grumpily, putting the phone under his arm, ‘I’ll keep it.’
Limpy realised he and Goliath had a choice. They could go home to their dear swamp, where their loved ones were waiting for them. Or they could try to stop two more humans having a sad and lonely Christmas.
Limpy made the choice.
He knew he would probably have to spend the rest of his life dodging humans and their vicious weapons. And when he was too old to dodge any more, and he had to face his final truck or peg, he knew that one of his last thoughts would be about how he and Goliath had made a sad human smile, just for a moment.
Limpy looked up at the sky.
The sun hadn’t set. There was still a bit of Christmas Day left.
He hopped to his feet and gave Goliath a hug.
‘Thanks for my present,’ he said.
‘It’s the thought that counts,’ said Goliath.
‘I know,’ said Limpy. ‘That’s why we’re going to keep the thought and take the present back.’
The setting sun threw long shadows down the street.
Two of the shadows clambered out of a stormwater drain. The large shadow hung back. The small shadow gestured urgently to the large shadow to get a move on.
‘Do we have to?’ grumbled the large shadow.
‘Yes,’ said the small shadow, and started hopping towards a house with a shed in its backyard.
The large shadow followed, shoulders slumped, a shadow mobile phone tucked under one arm.
As Limpy hopped, he stared at his dark bobbing self on the footpath in front of him.
Experienced shadow experts, he thought, like owls or glow-worms, would probably be thinking I’m an idiot for putting me and Goliath in danger like this. Exposing us to possible violent attack by two humans in imported tracksuits just to return a mobile phone.
Well they’d be wrong.
Limpy tried to remember what Dad always said.
Sometimes you have to do what you know is right, even if you end up being bashed with a coffee-making machine.
Actually, thought Limpy, I’m not sure if Dad has ever said that.
Because Limpy and Goliath weren’t Santa’s helpers any more, they didn’t bother going back into the house through the kitchen fan exhaust pipe.
The cat door was easier.
Limpy forgot it might not be as safe.
‘Look out,’ hissed Goliath as he led the way in. ‘A cat.’
Limpy froze halfway through the door.
Goliath was right. Over in one corner of the kitchen, on the floor, was a familiar fluffy white ball with claws and teeth.
Limpy saw that the cat’s eyes were closed. It was lying curled up in a brushed-nylon leopard-skin sleeping pod, its head resting against a cat bowl from which drifted faint sounds of music.
Limpy slipped quietly through the cat door.
‘Please,’ he whispered to Goliath. ‘Don’t start a fight.’
‘All right,’ muttered Goliath. ‘That fur-ball’s lucky it’s Christmas. Let’s just dump the phone and clear out.’
‘We should put it back where we found it,’ whispered Limpy. ‘Up on the kitchen bench. We’ll be OK if we’re quiet.’
At that moment, a horrible rasping gurgling sound came from the next room.
Limpy froze again.
‘What’s that noise?’ said Goliath. ‘Sounds like a cockatoo in a coffee-making machine.’
Limpy had watched a cockatoo spend quite a bit of time in a coffee-making machine at a human camp-site. This sounded very different. More like a second cat getting really furious and indignant after spotting two cane toads who’d barged in without invitations.
The sound got louder.
Goliath took a hop back.
Limpy took a hop forward.
The noise was sounding less like anger and indignation, and more like desperate gasping for breath.
‘If I’m not allowed to start a fight,’ said Goliath, ‘let’s get out of here.’
‘Wait,’ said Limpy. ‘I think the other cat might be in trouble.’
Limpy peeped round the dining-room door.
The first thing he saw was a table covered with the leftover bits of a human meal. A big human meal. There were only two plates on the table, but lots of bowls and platters and serving dishes, all with scraps on them. A big turkey skeleton sat in the middle of the table looking like it wasn’t having a very good Christmas.
‘Wobbling wasp willies,’ gasped Goliath over Limpy’s shoulder. ‘Check out the scraps.’
Limpy was checking out other things. In particular a couch with two humans on it, heads flopped back, mouths open, asleep.
But the gasping-for-breath sound wasn’t
coming from them.
It was coming, Limpy saw, from the grey cat, who was lying on the floor, fluffy legs sticking out in all directions, mouth open as wide as it would go, gasping and wheezing and gurgling.
‘It’s got something stuck in its throat,’ said Limpy.
He hopped over to the cat and started to reach into the cat’s mouth.
Goliath pulled him away.
‘Let me,’ said Goliath. ‘I’m an expert at this.’
Goliath jammed one arm down the cat’s throat.
The cat’s eyes widened with surprise, then glared angrily at Goliath.
‘It’s OK,’ Limpy whispered to the cat. ‘He’s an expert.’
Just in case the cat didn’t believe him and sank its teeth into Goliath’s arm, Limpy put his own hands into the cat’s mouth and pushed against the gums to keep its jaws open.
‘Can’t feel anything,’ muttered Goliath, his arm down the cat’s throat up to his shoulder. ‘I might have to send a dung beetle down to take a look.’
The cat twitched with alarm.
‘That’s just a figure of speech,’ said Limpy to the cat. ‘He doesn’t mean an actual dung beetle. It’d probably just be a cockroach.’
‘Hang on,’ said Goliath. ‘I’ve got something.’
He rummaged and grunted and finally slid his arm out of the cat’s throat. In his fist was a turkey bone.
The cat gave an indignant meow.
‘Do you mind?’ it said. ‘I was eating that.’
‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ said Goliath. ‘I get stuff jammed in my throat all the time. Twigs, lizards, bits of cars. It happens.’
Limpy nodded to the cat to show that it did happen, at least to Goliath.
‘What’s going on?’ said a voice behind them.
Limpy turned.
The white cat was in the doorway, frowning.
‘These clowns reckon they saved my life,’ said the grey cat. ‘As if.’
The white cat narrowed its eyes.
‘Were you eating bones again?’ it said to the grey cat. ‘Did one get stuck again?’
The grey cat looked at the floor.
‘One might have got a bit stuck,’ it mumbled.
The white cat sighed and shook its head long-sufferingly. After a moment, it squinted at the food scraps on the table, then at Limpy and Goliath.
‘Amazing,’ said the white cat. ‘A pile of food sitting unguarded, and you two aren’t up there gutsing yourselves. That’s pretty rare for cane toads in my experience, putting a good deed before a good feed.’
Limpy smiled bashfully and glanced at Goliath, who was looking wistfully at the scraps on the table.
‘You must let us repay your generosity,’ said the white cat. ‘What would you like? A musical bowl? A mechanical mouse that’s also an MP3 player? Anything, just take it.’
‘A big bucket of scraps?’ said Goliath.
‘I know what I’d like,’ said Limpy quietly.
The idea had just hit him like a flying Santa sleigh out of the blue.
‘Name it,’ said the white cat.
‘A human friend of ours is very sad and lonely,’ said Limpy. ‘If he had a new friend, perhaps he wouldn’t feel so alone …’
Limpy hesitated.
He couldn’t bring himself to say it. He could see how content and well-looked-after the cats were, and it just didn’t seem fair to ask one of them to go and live with Stan.
The cats were looking at each other.
‘I think I know what you’re asking for,’ said the white cat to Limpy. ‘And the answer is yes.’
Limpy felt a bit stunned.
‘That’s wonderful,’ he croaked.
‘Can we have a bucket of scraps as well?’ said Goliath.
While the white cat led Limpy towards the other end of the house, Limpy rehearsed a thank-you speech in his head. About how kind it was for one of the cats to leave this comfy home to go and live with a lonely human it hadn’t even met.
But before Limpy could say anything, angry voices started hissing behind him.
‘Gimme my hat.’
‘It’s not your hat, it’s my blankie.’
‘Thieving fluff-ball.’
‘Tragically unintelligent wart-head.’
Limpy turned and saw that Goliath and the grey cat were both struggling over something red and white and bobbly and familiar. Goliath had one end of it in his mouth, and the cat was clawing at the other end.
Limpy realised it was one of the Santa hats he and Goliath had left in the shed last night.
‘Finders keepers,’ protested the grey cat. ‘That means it’s mine now, gravel-breath.’
‘Mmmf mmp mmg mmf,’ retorted Goliath, which Limpy was pretty sure meant, ‘Yeah, well I just found it again, fluff-brain.’
‘Stop that,’ said the white cat loudly.
Goliath and the grey cat stopped wrestling, but neither of them let go of the Santa hat.
The white cat gave the grey cat a stern look.
‘Where are your manners?’ said the white cat. ‘Give our friend his hat.’
The grey cat scowled and let go of the hat.
‘Say thank you,’ whispered Limpy to Goliath.
Goliath opened his mouth and the hat plopped soggily onto the floor.
‘Why should I say thank you?’ he grumbled. ‘It’s mine. Cats don’t need hats. Whoever heard of a cat in a hat?’
‘It’s my blankie,’ said the grey cat in a hurt voice.
Limpy didn’t like seeing anyone sad on Christmas night.
‘There should be another Santa hat around here somewhere,’ he said to the grey cat. ‘I left mine in the shed last night too. You can have that one for your blankie if you like.’
‘Unfortunately,’ said the white cat, ‘the other hat got thrown out.’
‘What?’ squeaked Goliath. ‘That’s an outrage. We risked our warts to get those hats. Who chucked it out?’
‘Our owners,’ said the white cat. ‘They threw it away after they’d used it to wipe some horrible dribbly stuff off the lawnmower.’
There was a silence.
Limpy decided not to pursue the matter any further, and he could see Goliath was feeling the same.
Anyway, the hats didn’t really matter.
What was important was that one of the cats was going to live with Stan.
‘This is so kind of you,’ Limpy said to the cats. ‘Leaving this comfy house to live with a lonely human you haven’t even met. Um, which one of you will actually be, you know, going?’
There was a long silence.
Both cats stared at Limpy.
‘Leave this comfy house?’ said the white cat.
‘To live somewhere else?’ said the grey cat.
‘With a human we haven’t even met?’ said the white cat.
‘Why would we do that?’ said the grey cat.
Limpy felt his warts blushing.
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I must have misunderstood. I’m sorry, I thought one of you was offering to go.’
Both cats shook their heads.
‘We couldn’t possibly leave here,’ said the white cat. ‘Our owners would be heartbroken.’
‘Plus,’ said the grey cat, ‘they’ve got two gold-studded flea collars on order from Italy.’
Limpy’s warts sagged.
A lovely picture faded from his imagination. The one of Stan’s face beaming. Well, not beaming exactly, but sort of glowing softly behind his beard as the wet stuff dried up.
‘We’re sorry too,’ said the white cat. ‘We thought you just wanted to get your human friend another human friend for Christmas.’
‘Dangling duck flaps,’ exploded Goliath. ‘Why would we want to do that?’
Limpy stared at the cats for a moment, taking this in.
His warts started to tingle.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘that’s a very good idea.’
The cats led Limpy and Goliath into a bedroom.
‘Wow, look,’
said Goliath, putting on the Santa hat and gazing into a mirror. ‘The colour of this hat matches some of my wombat teeth marks.’
‘Goliath,’ whispered Limpy. ‘Pay attention. These kind cats are going to help us find Stan a friend.’
The cats jumped up onto a desk with a computer on it.
Limpy knew about computers. He’d seen the ads. He knew they were good for sending messages, and doing other things he couldn’t quite remember.
Washing clothes?
‘Hey good-looking,’ Goliath was saying to his reflection. ‘You are hot in that hat.’
Limpy didn’t say anything. Sometimes it was better to accept that Goliath lived in a world of his own and leave it at that.
Up on the desk, the cats were tapping the computer keyboard with their claws.
The screen lit up.
Limpy squinted at it.
There was a lot of stuff on it he didn’t understand, the stuff humans called print that looked like rows of ants doing yoga. There were also some things Limpy did understand. Photos of humans, including the cats’ owners.
‘Wow,’ said Goliath, hopping up onto the desk and nearly knocking the grey cat off. He gazed at the screen. ‘How did you do that?’
Limpy hopped up too, in case Goliath tried to eat the computer.
‘We’re very intelligent,’ said the white cat. ‘And we spend a lot of time watching humans.’
‘Same here,’ said Goliath. ‘It’s how I learned burping.’
Limpy interrupted before Goliath got on to nose picking.
‘Is this how we’re going to let the humans know about Stan?’ Limpy asked. ‘With a computer photo?’
The cats both nodded.
‘It’s how humans get friends,’ said the white cat.
‘Really?’ said Goliath, looking amazed. ‘They don’t sniff bottoms?’
‘I know it seems weird,’ said the white cat. ‘But if you’re a human and you want friends, you just go on the internet and send out a photo of your face.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Limpy. He wasn’t sure what the internet was, but it sounded amazing.
Then he remembered something.
‘We haven’t got a photo of Stan,’ he said.
The cats looked at each other, and Limpy could tell from their faces that the whole plan had gone a bit hopeless.
‘Back soon,’ said Goliath, hopping down from the desk.
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