The Adventures of Miss Petitfour

by Anne Michaels

  All was going very well until Mustard and Moutarde got confused and went one way instead of the other. All the cats collided in a bang-up snarly mess. They were just about to plummet into the water, when suddenly, all those Tuesday afternoons of twirling finally came in useful. “Waltz!” commanded Miss Petitfour. And the cats quickly obeyed, waltzing in perfect unison above the rushing river. Expertly, they swayed through the air, never missing a step, and in another moment, they were safely out of danger.

  By now, Mr. Coneybeare had realized he was not seeing a waterspout, for waterspouts do not waltz. He recognized the familiar furry cat-rope and wondered if the capable Miss Petitfour might welcome the use of his sailboat. Swiftly, he steered his sail in the direction of their tails. Miss Petitfour’s navigation was perfect and, at exactly the right moment—for it really wouldn’t do for Miss Petitfour to fly past Mr. Coneybeare’s little boat and miss it entirely—Mr. Coneybeare tossed a rope high into the air, the way someone might throw confetti at a wedding, and Sizzles, in mid-waltz, caught the end of the rope expertly with his tail. Then, in a graceful fall of fur, all the cats primly plopped onto the deck. At the same time, Miss Petitfour nimbly gathered in her tablecloth and landed on the pillow right next to Mr. Coneybeare, who, with a bashful smile, said how very pleased he was that she was able to plop by.

  Both wild and mild adventures are made for the pleasure of returning home, and after a stop at the shop for a packet of fake mustaches, a box of chocolate buttons, sugar doughnuts, spumoni, catnip and party-favor whatnots, and of course a huge wheel of birthday cheddar, Miss Petitfour, Minky, Misty, Taffy, Purrsia, Pirate, Mustard, Moutarde, Hemdela, Earring, Grigorovitch, Clasby, Captain Captain, Captain Catkin, Captain Clothespin, Your Shyness and Sizzles all piled into Mr. Coneybeare’s red sports car and were home in no time at all. A huge birthday tea was prepared, including Minky’s favorite two-layer birthday cheddar-cake. Doubly-round cheese paradise!

  Minky would always remember this birthday as the best one of all. Not everyone is lucky enough to mark their birthday with an almost-dunking, a ripping river rescue, and a ride in a sailboat and a sports car all in a single afternoon. After tea, everyone snoozed in the garden on the very same paisley tablecloth that Miss Petitfour had tied up at the corners, and that had carried them from the beginning of their very rousing adventure to its very sleepy END.

  It was an autumn day, with exciting weather—shivering blasts of wind and silver clouds against a purple sky. This was Miss Petitfour’s favorite kind of day and her favorite season, when it’s cold enough to wear a cardigan and blustery enough for thrilling sails across the countryside. Chilly days gave Miss Petitfour extra energy, and today she was eager to gather the cats and her most colorful tablecloth and sail off on an adventure.

  The cats loved autumn too. They liked to make tottering mountains of leaves, so high that the slightest breath of a breeze would tremble the pile. The three captains—Captain Captain, Captain Catkin and Captain Clothespin—and Pirate liked to sneak their way (very carefully!) into the bottom of these shifting, shuddering mountains, and there, curled up in their secret, crinkly spot, they would listen to the whole whispery weight of leaves stirring above them. They hid there quietly, with little corners of light peeking in through the leaves.

  The captain cats and Pirate loved everything to do with wind and boats and the sea. They loved fancy sailor’s knots and the shiny buttons on a captain’s uniform and buccaneers’ big brass belt buckles. And so, as the leaf mountain heaved and crackled, they would close their eyes and pretend they were on a big wooden sailing ship—you know the kind, with billowing square sails and ropes snapping against the mast. Pirate and the captains loved sea stories, but weren’t too keen about actually going on a voyage, which might require, at some point, getting wet. So, they were very content just to curl up and listen to the wind and dream of the sea. A simply splendid way to spend a morning!

  While Pirate and the captains imagined sea voyages inside the leaf mountain, the other cats ran in circles, gathering more and more leaves onto the pile. They jumped to catch falling leaves, tackling them in midair. Taffy was especially good at the flying tackle, bringing down more leaves himself than all the other cats together. Tackling leaves before they reach the ground is not as easy as it sounds. In fact, if you’ve ever tried, you know that you can leap for an entire afternoon and not catch a single one! But the cats knew a secret: you must throw yourself into the air all the places where the leaf is not. You must jump sideways, away from the direction the leaf seems to be falling—and then, when the wind changes its mind at the very last second, you will be there to catch it.

  And so, on this particular October morning, when Miss Petitfour looked out her kitchen window, she saw all the cats in squirming sideways leaps—long furry cat-blurs in the air—while gentle gusts blew the leaves every which way. The wind was so full of cats and colors that Miss Petitfour decided right then and there to bake buttery leaf-shaped biscuits, with orange and yellow and red icing, for the cats’ tea. And leaf biscuits never require jumping in the opposite direction. On the contrary, they always sit quietly on the plate just waiting to be caught and never jump away from your fingers at the last second. And that’s why we never get tired of eating leaf biscuits and can gobble up quite a few before needing to take a rest.

  While Miss Petitfour sifted powdery flour, making clouds of white dust and speckling the counter, and while she scooped sugar and made little bowlfuls of icing, she thought about the Great Annual Festival of Festooning that was to take place that afternoon.

  The Festival of Festooning always attracted a big crowd, including many people who came by mistake, thinking it wasn’t about festooning, but about cartooning or ballooning. Festooning is, of course, just a fancy word for cleverly decorating things, for draping ribbons and streamers and lace and jewels on things to dress them up. A perfect example is decorating a Christmas tree, festooning it with strings of popcorn and shiny garlands. Fancy occasions can always use some festooning and everyone festoons in their own way: mechanics hang shiny new nuts and bolts as ornaments, chefs hang gleaming spoons and icicles of twisted aluminum foil, and office assistants make extra-long streamers out of Post-it notes and paper clips.

  As you well know, the cats were especially fond of festooning themselves—with velvet and satin ribbon, and skeins of wool, and necklaces from Miss Petitfour’s costume jewelry box. The cats also liked to use themselves and each other to festoon furniture and to join their tails and dangle from curtains and curl around the banister. They would create an elaborate and dramatic display of themselves, and Miss Petitfour would take their photograph. Say cheese!

  Miss Petitfour was very proud of her cats and was looking forward to the great display they were going to present at the festival, hoping to win the shiny silver trophy for first prize.

  While she was baking her leaf biscuits and daydreaming about the festival, Miss Petitfour’s mind began to wander to other interesting topics. (Digression alert!)

  Miss Petitfour thought about the fact that there are some things you have to do every day—like brush your teeth and put on shoes and eat breakfast. Some people believe that if you have to do the same old dull thing every day, then you should just try to ignore it as much as you can and hope it will go away. Or that you should rush through whatever it is at top speed, so you won’t have time to be bored. But Miss Petitfour believed that if you had to do something every day, then that was all the more reason to make it fun. What do you think? Is it better to hold your nose and slowly eat little crumbs of cauliflower, or is it better to steam the whole thing and serve it on a big platter like a giant snowball? Is it better to brush your teeth wearily, as if you were running out of batteries, or to brush your teeth singing long verses of sea shanties in your head and stamping your foot to the rhythm? You know sea shanties, those long songs with lots of verses that Miss Petitfour and Mrs. Collarwaller sang on Thursdays and that sailors sing while they do what sailors do, which
is mostly a lot of pulling hard on ropes—to let down the anchor and pull it back up again, or to lower those big sails and raise them back up again. Well, Miss Petitfour was all for a good sea shanty while brushing her teeth, pulling that toothbrush up and down and stamping her little foot:

  Were you ever in Quebec,

  bonny laddie, highland laddie,

  stowing timber on the deck,

  bonny highland laddie!

  Hey ho and away we go,

  bonny highland laddie!

  Of course, the captain cats always joined in, thumping their tails to the beat.

  And, as far as eating breakfast every day was concerned, Miss Petitfour was definitely of the same school of thought. If you have to sit at the table and pretend to be hungry, just because you-probably-will-be-hungry-the-moment-you-get-to-school-so-you-better-eat-something-before-you-leave, then you might as well make your French toast in different shapes and build a house out of it, or cut your grapefruit into circles to look like the sun.

  Miss Petitfour thought ordinary things should be made grand—or, in the case of Minky, who was the smallest of all the cats, “little grand.” (Tiny Minky was a slip-through-a-keyhole kind of cat, who was scared of whole carrots the size of baseball bats and apples as big as pumpkins—for that is how big they looked to her. So, Miss Petitfour cut her carrots into little swords and sliced her apples into little round shields, just the perfect size for Viking Minky!)

  While she was baking her leaf biscuits, Miss Petitfour also thought about the fact that there were certain tiresome things people were always saying like, “Go on now, eat it all up, it’s good for you.” If people really insist on saying such dreary things, then we may as well hear them as if they were fun. For example, the next time someone says, “It’s good for you,” then you should simply hear, “Good for you!” the way someone says it after you’ve done something incredible, like reciting the alphabet backward or painting a picture of a capybara. “Good for you! Good for you!” Or when someone says, “Hurry up then, are you going to take all day?” you should just hear, “Take all day!” and not feel rushed at all.

  These are the sorts of things that Miss Petitfour thought about, and so she was never bored. Even when there’s nothing else to do, there’s always something to think about! You can think about cats who play badminton, or confetti kings who chase clouds, or, if you’re like Minky, you can think about … cheese.

  Now, Miss Petitfour had just put the leaf biscuits into the oven to bake—in fact, she had just shut the oven door—when she heard a peculiar noise. It was a very faint whump of a sound, coming from quite a distance away. It sounded as if a feather pillow had exploded. Just a single, faint puff of air—like an “oompah” without the “pah,” or a “boom” without the “b.”

  For a long moment, Miss Petitfour stood in the kitchen and listened. But, as everything was just as peaceful after the “oom” as it had been before, she decided to think no more about it. And, just as soon as the leaf biscuits were baked and put on a platter to cool, she and the cats readied themselves to fly off to the festival.

  Oh, it was the perfect day for flying! Far below, they saw the countryside all golden and bronze, all the trees shining their autumn colors. The wind made the long grasses swim in the fields, and Miss Petitfour and the cats looked down with joyful hearts. The beauty of the day made each of the cats, and even Miss Petitfour, mew with pleasure. Young Clasby mewed the loudest, for he especially loved the trees and fields from above and always looked carefully, so later he could paint a picture of what he saw.

  The flight was glorious—and fast too. In ten minutes flat, they had sped far past the outskirts of the village and beyond to the Exhibition Hall, which was already filling up with festooners.

  There was such a bustling! Everyone seemed to be running around pell-mell, carrying bolts of rustling stiff crepe paper and spools of silent velvet ribbon; there was the swish of tinsel and the jittering of plastic beads. And everyone had brought such fancy objects to festoon! Castles and bridges and giant towers, stuffed giraffes and knights in armor. Miss Petitfour and the cats stared in amazement. And throughout the crowd, weaving to and fro, clutching a clipboard and a magnifying glass, was Padmé Patel (Pleasant’s grandmother), who was the official judge of the competition and who was having a good look around while everyone was setting up.

  Miss Petitfour stood back and let the cats get to work. While all around them festooners were struggling with bulky castles and heavy trellises, the cats had brought with them only a single extra-long strand of gold ribbon. Elegantly, and with perfect teamwork, the cats slipped this way and that and, in no time at all, had pulled the ribbon into a perfect cat’s cradle. You know the game of cat’s cradle, when you wrap string around your hands and pass the cradle from one person to the next? You don’t? Ask someone immediately! We’ll wait here.

  All right, does everyone now know what the game of cat’s cradle is? Fine. The cats’ plan was simple: they would festoon themselves with the ever-changing cat’s cradle, in a series of delightful poses. A sure winner!

  They were just settling down, waiting for the contest to begin, when Miss Petitfour cupped her hand over her ear. She had extremely good hearing and, in the midst of the chatter and bustle of the busy Exhibition Hall, she was sure she’d heard that muffled “oom” again. It is not every day we hear a mysterious “oom,” let alone two, and Miss Petitfour was now certain something was amiss. She rushed outside.

  Miss Petitfour looked up and down and all around, and then she noticed a patch of sky that seemed to be glittering and shimmering and twisting in the weirdest way. And furthermore, it seemed to be swiveling directly above Mr. Coneybeare’s confetti factory. Time to investigate! Quickly gathering cats and cloth, Miss Petitfour stretched out her arm to the autumn wind.

  Today was Sunday and the factory was closed, but Miss Petitfour knew that Mr. Coneybeare was probably inside, as he liked to sit in the quiet of the factory on Sunday afternoons and catch up on his thinking. Mr. Coneybeare was very keen to discover new uses for confetti, and every Sunday, he would let his mind wander through the possibilities. Sometimes he would make various experiments, and it so happened that on this very Sunday he had invented his masterpiece: Coneybeare’s Super-Sticky Confetti, which stuck to everything it touched. And it was this experiment that had so abruptly ended with the “oom.”

  The shimmering tornado above the confetti factory was growing bigger by the second, and Miss Petitfour had to be very careful to avoid getting caught in it. They circled to and fro, here and there, trying to find a way through.

  SUDDENLY, the wind shifted and Miss Petitfour seized her chance. They slid right down to the ground through the center of the tornado—it was like swooshing down a tunnel slide—and landed neatly at the front door of the factory. Miss Petitfour found the key under the mat and let herself in, the cats winding excitedly around her feet.

  The factory was huge, with two giant glass urns of confetti standing like sentries on either side of the front door. The vast building was completely quiet, and confetti was everywhere. The walls glimmered like the inside of an ice cave, giving off a pale glow. Miss Petitfour could now see that something had gone terribly wrong and that the “oom” had been a confetti explosion! No one ever wanted the confetti factory to explode of course, yet, over the years, everyone in the village had secretly wondered what would happen if it did. Would confetti shoot through the chimney like a cannon? Would the tiny polka dots make everyone sneeze?

  It must have been quite a blast, for everything inside the factory was coated in sparkling paper dust: the desks, the lamps, the telephones, the big confetti-making machines. It looked as if no one had been there for centuries. The cats began to explore, lifting their paws high through drifts of confetti snow, and soon, like Minky, they all seemed to be wearing little shining socks. Miss Petitfour looked down at her own feet and saw that her blue shoes were sparkling.

  JUST THEN, a small sound echoed through
the factory. It was a yelp, or perhaps “help,” and it was coming from the far end of the building where big silver vats were lined up, ready to fill little round tins with Coneybeare’s Confetti: Extra-Shimmery.

  Miss Petitfour and the cats heard the voice again. They waded as quickly as they could through the drifts of dots and followed the feeble cry.

  Miss Petitfour stood on the tips of her toes and looked over the edge of a vast vat. There, peeking out of the Extra-Shimmery was the very embarrassed face of Mr. Coneybeare, who was sunk and afraid to move, for fear he would sink deeper. His face and hair and eyebrows were shining with paper dust, as if he were wearing a mask. Poor Mr. Coneybeare! He had spent all morning experimenting, trying to find the perfect recipe for Super-Sticky. But his last batch had blown up, and the confetti explosion had oomed him straight into a vat of Extra-Shimmery.

  Without wasting a moment, Miss Petitfour twisted her tablecloth and threw one end toward Mr. Coneybeare, who caught it in his teeth like a fish catching a hook. The cats formed a chain, and with Miss Petitfour tugging too, out popped Mr. Coneybeare. He was completely shimmery, from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes. And Miss Petitfour and all the cats thought the same thought at exactly the same moment: encased in paper dust—including his hair and eyebrows—Mr. Coneybeare looked exactly like a statue!

  The thought of statues reminded Miss Petitfour of the festooning festival and, afraid the cats would miss the judging, she hurriedly led Mr. Coneybeare outside. She readied her tablecloth, linked his arm in hers and, without a moment’s pause, up they flew, deftly avoiding the twister of confetti still hovering above the factory. Mr. Coneybeare was so astonished to be suddenly in the air that he barely even realized what was happening before they’d already landed and were rushing off to take their places for the judging. During the short flight, the wind had blown away all the paper dust from Mr. Coneybeare and, though dazed, he looked his old self again.