Porridge the Tartan Cat Books 1 to 3

by Alan Dapré

  Or my food bowl.

  Me-yum!

  4

  The Van

  Birds do funny things to a cat.

  When I saw the craws I just had to play a game of CATch. I couldn’t stop myself! I forgot all about Mini Mum’s super-short problem and flew out the window.

  Me-whoosh!

  Och, it was quicker than boringly pawing the kitchen door. (I still don’t have a cat flap.)

  Pesky wee craws are hard to catch. Catching fishy biscuits is much easier. I just dip my paw in the box. I love them so much I could eat them until they came out of my ears. Then eat them again until they came out of my ears. Then eat them again until…

  Me-yum!

  That’s why I was delighted to see a VAN FULL OF FISHY BISCUITS stop in our street. The van purred like a contented kittycat. I purred like one two because the fishy biscuits were three. I mean, I purred like one too because the fishy biscuits were free. It said so on the side of the van:

  Me-wow!

  ALL those tasty treats were just meant for me because I’m the only tartan cat in the whole wide Porridgyverse! I had to get to the van before it drove off. Some cats would get in a flap, but not me. (BECAUSE – AHEM – I STILL DON’T HAVE A CAT FLAP… even after all these books!)

  I CAT-a-pulted towards the van.

  Me-T-w-a-n-g!

  By the time I got to the end of this sentence, I was at the garden gate.

  “Afternoon, Porridge,” puffed our neighbour, Mavis Muckle. “I’m taking Basil out for a stroll.”

  Actually, Basil the elephant was taking Mavis for a roll.

  This was no time for a cat to chat. The van door was swinging in the wind, and waving HELLO at me! Or was it GOODBYE? I ran faster, desperate to taste the delicious treats inside.

  I dived into the van. Deep, deep, deep into a heap, heap, heap of fishy biscuits and me-yummed them down like there was no tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the day after that, or the day after that, or the day after that or the day after that, which is a Tuesday.

  I was too busy munching to notice the van door slam shut, or spot the spellling mistake in this sentence.

  Me-oops.

  The van thundered down the street, faster than a speeding elephant. So fast, the illustrator didn’t have time to draw it – sorry! So she drew this picture of a slow-moving snail instead:

  5

  Little Birdies

  The craws and I have a deal: you scratch my back and I won’t scratch yours. In other words, I promise not to gobble them up, as long as they watch Isla and Ross like hawks when I’m away.

  Mmmm. Hawks.

  If I miss anything interesting, a little birdie soon tells me what’s been going on. The wee craws love juicy gossip just as much as they love juicy worms. They sat on a telephone wire and tweeted lots on-line about the van zooming off.

  Ross and Isla spun round at the loud engine sound. They just got a glimpse of the vanishing van, with a tartan scarf billowing out of the back.

  “I hope that din didn’t scare Porridge,” said Ross, looking around for his favourite tartan cat. (ME again!)

  Isla glanced at my wee birdie pals on the window ledge. “He’s probably outside creeping up on those craws.”

  “Aye, it is dinner time,” said Ross.

  Och, forget craws – I’d rather have these fishy biscuits.

  Me-yum!

  6

  The Sack

  Night fell suddenly, then picked itself up and whistled a bit and pretended nothing had happened.

  Just as suddenly, the van braked hard. The fishy biscuits flew in the air and rained down on me like delicious weather.

  CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP

  Before long, the van was empty and I was full.

  Me-yum!

  I curled up in a corner and closed my eyes, ready for a wee catnap.

  My mega-super-well-OK-not-bad ears twitched as I heard the driver’s door open.

  CLUNK.

  Then I heard the CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP of menacing boots.

  Then I heard the SWISH SWISH SWISH of evil shoelaces.

  Then I heard the CREEK EEK EEK of the van’s back door opening.

  Then I heard something MUCH MUCH MUCH x 107 worse! It brought fear to my heart and a paw to my nose.

  TRUMP-PA-RUMP!

  Think of the worst smell you know. Double it. Then times it by a big number and sixty-four. Then add a mouldy cabbage, ten stinky dustbins, six skunks and your teacher’s smelly socks.

  Plus any more revoltingly revolting stuff you can think of. The smell I was smelling was even smellier than that.

  I wanted to flee from the foulness but a hunched-up figure blocked my way. It had bunched-up fingers and scrunched-up hair that glowed in the moonlight like tangled jellyfish tentacles.

  Me-shiver!

  My whiskers tingled. My legs shook. My fur stood on end. And my tail fainted. I had no words to describe how scared I felt. (Except for those fifteen words I’ve just used.)

  “Here, kitty-kitty-kittycat,” oozed a voice, as warm and soft as molten lava.

  I recognised it instantly! For it belonged to a minor character in one of the other Porridge the Tartan Cat books. It was…

  WINDY WENDY the pet shop owner!

  “Who is she? Tell us more,” I hear you whisper, because it’s probably late at night and you’re meant to be asleep, but you like this book so much you can’t put it down, so you’re reading it under the covers and turning the pages very quietly.

  Before I could tell you more, Windy Wendy whipped out an old laundry sack that had never been washed.

  Me-yuk!

  Or emptied.

  Me-yuk-yuk! Down came the sack and all went black. All I remember is thinking to myself:

  Help!

  And then

  Help! There are pants on my head!

  7

  A Wee Problem

  Me-help!

  If only Ross and Isla could rescue me from this stinky sack.

  A wee birdie told me later they were too busy trying to re-grow Mini Mum back to normal size.

  The twins tried feeding her up.

  “This is delicious,” squeaked Mini Mum, happily nibbling on a breadcrumb and slurping down a spoonful of soup.

  Och, that didn’t work.

  “Can’t you just reverse the super-short shortbread recipe?” asked Ross.

  “I would if I knew how I did it in the first place!” squeaked Mini Mum.

  Isla gestured at a tall sunflower in the garden. “Maybe we should plant you?”

  “Och, no,” Mini Mum grumbled. “My clothes would get muddy.”

  Ross pointed to the oven. “Maybe we should pop you inside until you rise like a cake?”

  “I’d be cooked to a crisp!” Mini Mum wailed in a loud whisper.

  “Balloons get bigger when you fill them with air!” said Isla, rummaging in a kitchen drawer. She pulled out a plastic pump and grinned at Mini Mum. “All we need to do is blow you up!”

  “Och no,” squealed Mini Mum in tiny writing. “When things blow up they go BANG!”

  The twins sighed. “We’ll never solve our wee problem at this rate.”

  “What wee problem?” asked Mini Mum.

  “YOU!”

  8

  The Pesky Pet Shop

  Goats get KIDnapped. I got CATnapped.

  Me-sigh!

  If only I’d left that nasty fishy van, and those tasty fishy biscuits, alone.

  Windy Wendy swung the sack from side to side as she clomped along an echoing passageway. All the swaying and stinky clothes were making me sack-sick. I was glad to hear a key turn and a door creak open.

  The moment Windy Wendy switched on the light, I knew I’d entered her pet shop. The place erupted louder than a noisy volcano. All around me, caged creatures squawked and barked and croaked and whistled and chirped and oinked so crazily I couldn’t hear myself blink.

  “Haud yer wheesht!” bellowed Windy Wendy, “I cannae hear myself think.”<
br />
  TRUMP-PA-RUMP!

  Or stink. The stunned animals fell silent. And a clumsy parrot fell off its perch.

  Me-whiff!

  Windy Wendy opened the sack and gawped inside.

  I gawped back up at her.

  Me-gawp!

  They say people look like their pets. Och, Windy Wendy looked like all the pets in the shop mixed together. She had pointy ears, a furry top lip, fingernails like claws and straggly hair. Her nose was round like a rabbit’s tail and her boots clomped about like heavy horse hooves.

  “I did it,” she cackled, with a STINKY look. “Eureka!”

  You reeker! I spluttered, remembering that STINKY smell from long ago!

  Me-gasp!

  That STINKY smell – and STINKY look – suddenly brought back a STINKY old memory. This pongy pet shop was my first home! It was here, just over there, that I had fallen into a tin of tartan paint, all those cat-years ago.

  Me-splosh!

  Och, that was the moment an ordinary kitten became an extraordinary tartan cat!

  Suddenly Windy Wendy was all smiles again. Anyone who came in and met her now would have thought she was terribly sweet. After all, she spoke in a terribly sweet way. As sweet as cough syrup. But too much cough syrup is very bad for you. Just like too much Windy Wendy is very bad for you.

  And me.

  Me-shudder!

  This pet shop was a terrible place, full of terribly terrible smells and terribly terrible terrible memories.

  “I knew I’d trap you in my fishy old van one day,” Windy Wendy cackled. “You could never resist a smelly fishy biscuit.”

  Or ten.

  Windy Wendy went on, “Your owners don’t love you like I do: I’ve loved you ever since you fell in that tin of tartan paint.” She let the cat out of the bag and put me on the floor. “You splattered tartan paint all over my grotty boots.” She beamed at the thought. “You made them look absolutely fabulous! From that moment, I fell in love with TARTAN! Tartan curtains, tartan carpets, tartan hats, tartan handbags, tartan lipstick, tartan soup, tartan flowers, tartan ANYTHING!”

  Windy Wendy pulled a sad face.

  “Most of all, I love YOU, my pretty tartan kitty-kitty-kittycat. I was soooooo broken-hearted when naughty Moggiarty chased you away.”

  MOGGIARTY!!!!!!!!!!

  I suddenly remembered him too.

  Me-gulp!

  Moggiarty is a cat you never ever want to meet, ever. Not in a dark alley or a pet shop. Or this book. It’s bad enough seeing a drawing of him.

  That monstrous moggy used to chase me all over the shop – all over the shop!

  Me-shudder!

  I cast a troubled glance at his old cage in the corner. It was empty. Maybe he had been sold while I was away? Or given away as a free gift with a bag of dug biscuits?

  Claws crossed.

  9

  THE WENDY PORIDJ HOUSE

  It was late and way past your bedtime.

  And mine. But wild-haired Windy Wendy was still fizzing with energy. She danced in front of a gloomy mirror at the back of the shop, beside herself with excitement (get it?), then she turned and beckoned me with a crooked finger.

  “Here, kitty-kitty-kittycat!”

  I’m a big tartan cat, not a wee kitty-kitty-kittycat. I crossed my front paws and stayed put.

  She tried again and waggled a fishy biscuit between her fingers.

  I’m a big tartan cat, not a wee kitty-kitty-kittycat. I crossed my back paws and stayed put.

  Next, Windy Wendy waggled a whole box of fishy biscuits.

  I’m a big tartan cat, and I haven’t eaten since Chapter 6. I crossed the room and gobbled the lot.

  Me-yum!

  “I want to show you something,” she crooned, in a cough-syrupy voice. Windy Wendy pulled aside a dusty drape to reveal a wooden playhouse. Two words were chalked in dusty letters above the door: Wendy House.

  “Every wee lass called Wendy in the world has a Wendy House,” she went on. “And this wee one was mine.”

  It was wee. Windy Wendy was never going to fit into it now, unless she used it as a hat. She clomped to the door and slid open a rusty bolt on the door. The bolt squeaked, the door creaked and I sneaked a peek inside the wee Wendy House.

  Me-wow!

  It carpeted the carpet. It covered the cushion cover. It even enveloped an envelope. Everything inside was TOTALLY TARTAN!

  …except for a totally untartan cat called:

  MOGGIARTY!

  I was just a wee kitten when I last saw him, but Moggiarty hadn’t changed at all. His green eyes were still as hard and shiny as raw sprouts. His fur was still grey as a grubby old snowball. And even though Moggiarty wasn’t a real snowball, he always melted whenever Windy Wendy was around.

  He loved her more than mice.

  Mmmm. Mice.

  Moggiarty slinked over to Windy Wendy and greeted her with a loud purr. While he rubbed happily against her boots, she plucked a brass bell from his collar.

  “I’m sorry, Moggiarty,” she whispered, not sorry at all. “There’s only room in ma heart – and the Wendy House – for one cat.” Windy Wendy wiped away a crocodile tear, then lifted a trapdoor and put the crocodile back in the cellar. And suddenly let out a terrible TRUMP-PA-RUMP! so terribly terrifying that Moggiarty leaped backwards…

  …and landed in an empty cage.

  Windy Wendy calmly latched the lid.

  No longer top dug, er, cat, Moggiarty hissed like a leaky balloon.

  SSSSSSSSSSSS!

  He pawed at the bars, but Windy Wendy only had eyes for me.

  MWAH!

  And kisses.

  Me-yuk!

  “You’re such a pretty kitty, Porridge.” Windy Wendy plonked me onto the tartan cushion where Moggiarty had been sitting only a few paragraphs ago. “I want to keep you forever. From now on, my Wendy House will be your home!”

  She scratched out the word WENDY and scrawled PORIDJ instead.

  (Everything about Windy Wendy was terrible. Even her spelling.)

  Me-sigh.

  “I’ve got you a new collar,” she trilled, tossing my old one to the floor. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  I felt her fingers clip a thick, metal band around my neck. As soon as she did so, the collar glowed green.

  “By the way, I keep the crocodiles in the cellar, just below your cat basket. If you leave this cushion, or mutter the slightest meow, the collar will flash red. The floor will flip down and…”

  Me-snap!

  Smiling now, she hung Moggiarty’s old bell on my new collar. “An itty-bitty-kitty-kitty-kittycat like you needs feeding up. Just ring the bell when you want fishy biscuits. Day or night.”

  And with that, she bolted the door and clomped away.

  Never. I thought to myself.

  NEVER.

  NEVER would I give in and ring the brass bell and eat her delicious nutritious fishy biscuits…

  I batted the bell softly.

  Ting.

  10

  No Porridge For Breakfast

  Dawn dawned.

  The wee craws yawned. They were up bright and early to sing a few notes. And scribble a few notes for me. They crowded (crawded?) around the kitchen window, and saw the twins making Mini Mum’s breakfast: a drop of milk on a cornflake.

  “Sorry, Mini Mum. We were up half the night but we still can’t think how to change you back,” yawned Ross.

  (That’s the trouble with yawning. When somebody or somebirdy starts to yawn, everyone else has to join in.)

  “Maybe Porridge can help?” yawned Isla. “He usually saves the day.”

  “He hasn’t touched his fishy biscuits,” yawned Mini Mum. “That’s not like Porridge. I wonder where he is.”

  “We haven’t seen him since yesterday,” said Ross. “Just before that fishy-looking van vanished down the street, trailing a tartan scarf.”

  “Very fishy looking!” agreed Isla. “It was covered in big pictures of fishy biscuits. What if P
orridge got stuck inside?”

  “Maybe that wasn’t a tartan scarf?” Mini Mum gasped. “Maybe it was a tartan tail!”

  “Perhaps Porridge has been kidnapped!” cried Ross.

  CATnapped. It’s CATnapped!

  Everyone fell silent. They were sure the tail – er, tale – was true.

  “It’ll be terrible if he’s been taken,” cried Ross. “More terrible than the time he accidentally swallowed a Christmas tree decoration and got rushed to the vet with tinsel-itis.”

  “The best way to find Porridge is to find that van!” said Isla.

  “But what about making Mini Mum bigger?” added Ross.

  “Och, finding Porridge is far more important,” she squeaked.

  Quite right.

  And before you could say let’s get some paper and pens and make some posters… they got some pens and paper and made some posters.

  Which looked exactly, very much, just like this:

  When they were finished, it was time to put them up all over Tattiebogle Town.

  “Let’s do it,” said Isla.

  So they did.

  Me-missing!

  11

  Vijay’s Café

  Mini Mum and the twins flew around town all morning. They were not the only ones. The craws flew around town too. Swooping and circling and doing proper show-off flying as only a bird can do.

  “I’m running out of posters,” said Isla.

  “I’m running out of puff,” gasped Mini Mum. “Let’s stop and have lunch.”