by Anne Fine
That it tastes delish-lish.’
Just the thought made me feel peckish. I turned the corner, and there in a doorway stood a young man. He’d put a paper plate on the pavement, and passers-by were putting down their shopping bags and fishing in their pockets to toss in coins.
A busker!
He had been given quite a lot of money. I watched for a while, and every few minutes he’d scoop up a few coins and put them in his pocket. Then he’d start singing again.
I could do that! I could sing too, and maybe some of the shoppers would open their bags and drop me a tiny chunk of chicken from their ready-cooked suppers, or peel a slice of smoked salmon off the top of their pack.
Yum, yum. Delish-lish!
So I went round the next corner to find a doorway for myself, and to collect the little gifts that I expected to get I dragged a fairly clean takeaway dinner tray out of the gutter.
And then I sang.
I sang my little heart out. First I tried charming them with that forlorn old song about the kitten whose paws get frozen in the snow.
Then I sang that song that makes soft people weep about the tabby cat who starves to death up a tree. (Per-lease! How old are you? And how many cats’ skeletons have you seen dangling from high branches so far in life? None. That’s right. None.)
And then I gave my all to my own favourite, The Wild Cats’ Chorus.
None of them worked. Not one. People just clutched their heads and hurried by. Some of them even glowered. Nobody bothered to stop to say, ‘What charming melodies! And what a lovely voice!’
In fact, they were quite rude. I kept hearing snatches of what they said as they rushed past.
‘. . . horrible yowling noise . . .’
‘. . . shouldn’t be allowed . . .’
‘. . . perfectly ghastly . . .’
‘. . . clearly in misery. Ought to be put down . . .’
Then one man had the cheek to pick up my collection tray and drop it in the litter bin along the street.
I gave up singing then, and just walked on. Time for another plan.
9
The Wild Cats’ Chorus
This time I was smart. I walked up a nice-looking road and found a nice-looking house with a nice-looking lady unloading nice-looking groceries from her nice-looking car.
She looked a tiny bit familiar. But then, I get about. I’ve met a lot of people. So anyhow, I thought, This place will do.
First thing: get introduced. I wrapped myself round her legs, all the time purring madly.
The woman reached down to stroke me. Suddenly she looked a little nervous. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘Haven’t I seen you before? Wasn’t it you who got in a flying fur fight with another cat in our school playground once, and upset all my tiny Year Ones?’
Uh-oh! Now I remembered who she was! Ellie’s head teacher!
But I was hungry, and they were nice-looking groceries. So I turned the purring up to Regulo 8. It worked a treat. ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘I must be wrong. You’re such a sweet and friendly cat, and that one was downright horrible. Why, our school crossing guard still has a scar where that vile animal scratched her.’
I tried to look sympathetic as I followed her inside the house. I kept up the heavy purring while she put away her shopping. Then she bent down to feel around my neck.
‘No collar.’
Of course, no collar. I am a good deal smarter than that!
She sighed. ‘Oh, dear. I suppose I’d better feed you.’ She shook a finger. ‘But it’s just this once!’
Just this once? Ho, ho, ho. Everyone knows if you feed a cat once, it has you on a string for life. So I was in. She fed me tuna from a can, and picked me up to carry me around. I didn’t struggle at all. It was an act of will, but I kept purring.
Even when she showed me her parrot.
‘Look,’ she said, pointing to his cage. ‘Meet Gregory.’
Gregory the Parrot gave me the blink, and I blinked back.
‘I hope you’ll both be friends,’ she said.
I purred my hardest.
‘Gregory’s very clever,’ she told me. ‘I’m going to shut you in the kitchen. But if you hear lots of odd noises and voices while I’m out, you mustn’t be afraid. That’ll be Gregory imitating things he’s heard.’
I purred and nodded.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now I’m afraid I have to nip back to school to sort out a few things for the special “My Wonderful Pet” show we’re holding on Thursday evening. I’ll find your owner tomorrow. But just for tonight, you can stay here.’
She picked up her briefcase and left.
So I sat in the kitchen.
Just a kitchen.
Boring. Dead boring.
Then Gregory started up. First he did ‘creaking door’ and ‘the wheelie-bin rumble’. After that he did ‘Fireworks Night’. Then he did his owner saying, ‘Oh, Gregory! You know I get headaches from horrid noises. Can’t you do something quiet and nice?’
OK, OK. So boil me in bunny juice! I taught him The Wild Cats’ Chorus. I yowled it from the kitchen, and Gregory the Parrot picked it up in no time. Soon we were yowling away together so it was twice as loud, and he learned how to do that too. And by the time I’d had enough of singing along with him, Gregory could sound like four cats singing, not just one, all by himself.
Stellar!
The problem was that he was so excited with his new trick he kept it up for two whole hours after Ellie’s head teacher came back.
So naturally I got thrown out.
10
The Perfect Home
I spent the night in the tool shed. Then, in the morning, I set off to find a better home. I had a tiny thought that I might go back to Ellie. I was quite sure she would have realized her mistake by now, and be lying face down on her bed, sobbing her poor broken heart out and wailing my name to the heavens.
But as I strolled along the street, what should I see but a notice stuck on a lamppost.
And then another.
And another.
And more and more. All the same.
I stretched up to take a look. It was a ‘lost cat’ notice, with a photo of the roughest, toughest, sourest, grumpiest-looking moggie you’ve ever seen in your life.
I couldn’t help but think: Who’d want to have that thug back?
Then I peered a little closer.
It was me.
I took a long look down the street. Sure enough, far in the distance I could see Ellie’s mum, stopping at every lamppost to stick up yet another of her insulting posters.
The cheek of it! For one thing, I am not a ‘lost cat’. I am a cat who has moved on to better things! And for another, they’d picked the worst photo ever. Not my best side. I mean, I do not look like that! Not all the time, anyhow! Not every day. Sometimes – perhaps – if I am in a really fed-up mood. But hardly ever! Almost never!
No one would recognize me from that photo. No one. Not in a million years!
So I strolled on quite happily – though it was odd how many people I saw glance at the posters then bend down to try to pick me up. (I simply spat them off.)
And then I found what I was looking for.
The perfect home.
It had wide windowsills to lounge on. The garden was a jungle. (Good hunting there!) Some of the windows were unlatched. The wheelie-bin lid was off. And, best of all, there was a fish pond with sweet little goldfish darting about in it.
Oh, bliss! Oh, sheer and perfect bliss! If there’s one thing I love to do, it’s stretch out along the side of a fish pond in the sun and idly dip in a paw to try to—
No. No time to think about that now! I went to meet the owner. He was washing up. We had a conversation. It went like this:
Him: Hello, puss. Where did you spring from?
Me: Purr, purr. (I’m slinking round his legs to let him know I’m feeling peckish.)
Him: Hungry? Fancy some leftover fish?
Me: Purrrrrrrrrrrr!
Him (putting d
own a dish): There you go. Finish that lot and you’ll feel a whole lot better.
Me: Chomp, chomp, chomp.
I thought I was in heaven. I ate the fish. (A little too much dill, I thought. But, hey! not everyone’s a master chef.) I had a nap on one of his windowsills. When it got chilly I slipped back into the house through one of the unlatched windows, and when I felt like a snack at lunch time, I set off for the little pond.
Shame! He was out there, hanging out the washing.
Well, never mind. Fish fresh as that will keep. I took a turn round the side of the house and had a poke through the recycling bins.
Half a fish finger. Delish-lish. Just like the song. Yes, I’d found The Perfect Home.
Or so I thought. But then, at half-past three, my world caved in. There was a stampede up the garden path. A pack of carrot-topped hooligans, all shrieking and yelling.
‘Look! On the windowsill! A cat!’
‘Daddy’s got us a real pet! Not just those stupid goldfish, but a real live cat!’
‘Bagsy I cuddle it first.’
‘No! I’m the one who saw it, so I get first cuddle.’
‘Then me.’
‘Then me.’
‘Then me!’
‘Well, if I’m last, I want to be the one to take it in to school for the “My Wonderful Pet” show!’
Nice to be wanted, of course. But really, the noise was horrendous! While they were crowding round, I counted them. Five carrot-tops! Five horrid noisy children all reaching out to grab me. I tell you, it took a good bit of hissing and spitting to get off that windowsill.
Didn’t they change their tune then!
‘The horrid thing!’
‘It’s scratched me! Look! I’m actually bleeding!’
‘It must be wild.’
‘Who’d want to take that into school? I’d rather show everyone our lovely goldfish.’
‘We didn’t really want a new pet anyway.’
‘Well, we certainly didn’t want this one.’
A good thing too, because I wasn’t staying. The Perfect Home, indeed! I don’t think so.
11
‘Come Home So I Can Strangle You.’
I took a nap in next door’s garage. (OK, OK! So twist my tail! I left a dent in the fancy new hat some man was hiding in there till his wife’s birthday. But anybody napping in there would have used it as a little bed. That hat was comfy. It wasn’t my fault that the ribbon round the brim got tangled and torn. All I was trying to do was brush off the cat hairs that I shed on it while I was having my snooze.)
I woke up starving. Back at my old house, when I was hungry I simply parked myself on my big furry bottom somewhere really inconvenient and stared at Ellie’s mum till she remembered to feed me.
Sadly, that does not work with strangers who are hurrying by. I had to keep stepping in their path and wrapping myself round their ankles (the way I used to do with Ellie when I was getting bored).
But strangers are so clumsy. I got tripped over and stumbled into several times. And snarled at quite a lot. Some people were quite rude. In the end I gave up and went to check what had been thrown out by the nearest pizza place. (Don’t you adore pepperoni?)
Just as I came round the corner, who should I see stamping past in a tantrum but Mr I’ve-Been-Sent-Out-To-Look-For-Our-Cat.
I didn’t fancy being carried back by him, so I slunk out of sight.
‘Puss, puss!’ I heard him calling to the wind. ‘Tuff! Tuff-eee! Where are you? Come home so I can strangle you! Come home so I can boil you in oil! Tuff-eee! Do you know what’s on telly at this very moment? Yes! The Best-Ever Penalty Shoot-out Show! And am I sitting watching it? No, I am not! Partly because the television is ruined. And partly because I’ve been sent out to find you! So come home, Tuffy! Puss, puss, puss! Come home so I can spoil your life the same way that you spoil mine!’
I ask a simple question. If you heard that, would you be stupid enough to pad out from the shadows and show yourself?
No, you would not.
I wouldn’t, either. All thoughts of going home had vanished once again, so I turned round and slunk off fast the other way.
12
I Did Not Kill It!
(Here is a warning. Those of you who are ‘of a nervous disposition’ – and that means wet – had better skip this chapter. It isn’t nice.)
I tramped the streets. The hours went by. And I got hungrier.
And hungrier.
And hungrier.
Everyone’s wheelie bin lids were fixed on tight. I went through one garden after another on the prowl, hoping that someone had at least put out a dish of milk for a hedgehog to keep me going.
But there was nothing.
I made my way right to the end of a row of gardens.
Nothing.
Sighing, I made my way back again. That’s when I saw it lying on the grass under my feet.
A baby bird.
I did not kill it! Understand? It must have fallen out of its nest after I went by the first time. (Possibly from fright.)
But it was dead. (And fresh.)
And I was hungry.
I gave the thing a little poke. ‘Come on!’ I told myself. ‘Don’t be so mimsy! It’s meat. It’s fresh. It’s nice and traditional. And you are very hungry.’
Alas! Nowhere near hungry enough, my friend. Nowhere near hungry enough.
Bella and Tiger and Snowball were right.
Eeee-yuk!!!
13
‘A Photo of My Beautiful Tuffy!’
So there I was, still trying to persuade myself that baby bird would taste as good as pepperoni, when a shadow fell over me.
A woman had come out of the house.
I stared at her. She stared at me. I stared at her because she’d done her hair so that it looked like one of those whippy ice-cream cones.
She stared at me as though she thought I were a gift from heaven.
‘A cat!’ She looked at the sad little mess between my paws. ‘And clearly a hunter! Are you a mouser too? Because there’s a rustling somewhere near my kitchen door. I think I might have vermin!’
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 doo
rstep, 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.
