Cats Undercover

by Ged Gillmore

  CATS

  UNDERCOVER!

  by

  GED GILLMORE

  WARNING!

  Well now, I hope you’re not picking up this book thinking it’s all cute and furry and about sweet little puddycats. If you are thinking that, you should put the book down immediately and go and put on a nappy. Because this is not a sweet little story. It’s a terrifying tale about rough characters and rougher places. It’s scary and spooky, exciting and kooky. Just don’t come crying to me when the whole thing gives you goose bumps, laughing fits, and nightmares about giant rats.

  It’s not like I didn’t warn you.

  WHAT A START!

  Once upon a time, not that long ago, there was a farm deep in the middle of the countryside. This farm lay in a hollow called Dingleberry Bottom and bordered a great dark forest called The Great Dark Forest. The farm had been abandoned many years before and now its fences were mostly collapsed. Its fields, once grazed by fat dairy cows, were overgrown and full of weeds. The main gate hung at a strange angle from just one hinge and, in the night when the wind blew, its eerie creaks echoed across the yard.

  Cripes, what a sight! If you or I had looked at this farm we might have thought, ‘Goodness, what a desolate, dilapidated and downright decrepit dead-dairy dump.’ At least I’d have thought that, because I’m learning lots of long words and I’m up to ‘D’ in the dictionary. But maybe you’re ahead of me? Maybe you’d have thought, ‘Far out, that flipping farm is fairly forlorn, fully forgotten and frankly forever forsaken.’ And that would have been a fair conclusion. But it would have been a wrong one. Because on this farm lived three cats.

  How the cats came to live on the farm is another adventure altogether. What I will tell you is that there had once been four cats living on the farm: a big ginger cat called Ginger (think you can remember that?), an athletic black cat called Tuck, a mild and mellow old mouser called Major, and a rather precious and very furry cat called Minnie. Don’t worry, you’ll get to meet them all in good time, and then you’ll learn who is who. At least, you’ll get to meet three of them but, alas, you will not meet Major. For cool, calm, collected Major departed for Purrvana before this story begins. This, I suppose, was a happy ending for him, because Purrvana is the lovely place where dead cats go to await the ones they love. And who did Major love? Major loved Ginger. But whilst many gruesome, gruelling and grievous things were yet to happen to Ginger, at the start of this story she was still very much alive.

  Ginger was an extremely experienced cat. She’d travelled all over the world and wherever she’d travelled she’d had adventures. She’d chopped chillies with children in the chillier parts of Chile. She’d played a pongy bongo wrongly in the Congo. She’d used a loudhailer to bail a whaler in Venezuela, and she’d had a seizure of amnesia in breezy Indonesia. She’d even been a world-famous street fighter. In fact, when she wasn’t pining for her lost love Major, or counting all her bellies (she had a total of six), Ginger spent a lot of her time being amazed at how clever and experienced she was. The trouble was, as well as making her a bit arrogant, this also made her think of all the adventures she was now missing out on. Ginger liked life on the farm—most of the time—but it was rather quiet and boring for such an adventurous cat as herself. Unfortunately, for reasons which will soon become clear, she felt she couldn’t leave.

  Tuck, on the other hand, absolutely loved living on the farm. He was a very handsome black cat and could run faster than any other cat you’ve ever seen in your life anywhere in the world ever. As a result, he was an amazing hunter. Tuck’s ability to catch food had helped him and Ginger survive previous adventures and—no matter what Ginger might say—it was thanks to his talents that the two cats had once crossed the Great Dark Forest and arrived at the farm in the first place.

  Unfortunately, though, Tuck wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, if you know what I mean. For example, Tuck was convinced he’d been to the moon, although because he couldn’t spell, he normally thought, ‘Woww, I’ve beeeen to the moooon.’ Also, it has to be said, Tuck (with all due respect) was the biggest scaredy-cat you’ve ever met. He would have loved to have been a brave hero, but he was afraid of his own shadow, afraid of the dark, and even afraid of his own poo (really!). Tuck believed in King Rat, the Bogeyman and the Cookie Monster and he was terrified of all three of them.

  Nowzen, Tuck’s girlfriend, Minnie, couldn’t have been more different, either in looks or in personality. Whereas Tuck was a model of manly monochrome magnificence, Minnie was a crazy confusion of all the colours a cat can be. Her mixed cultural heritage was reflected in the countless tones of her extremely long hair. If you met Minnie in the mall you might think, ‘Far out sister, that’s one brave choice of highlights!’ unless of course you were thinking, ‘Goodness, what inappropriately long hair!!!’ For Minnie’s fur did lead to a lot of exclamation marks. It was long all over, not only on her body, but also coming out of her ears, protruding from between her toes and sticking out all along her tail. And don’t start me on the length of her whiskers. They were so long they drooped, so long they—No, I said don’t start me!

  Minnie had four favourite things she loved to do, and the most favourite of all of these in the world ever was eating. Oh boy, was this a cat that liked a snack! Minnie didn’t just eat all the normal things cats like to eat, like fish and milk and cream and cat food. Oh confusing culinary concoctions, no! Minnie liked to eat anyfink. At least anyfink which could be eaten, plus a few extra things besides. She liked lime leaves and liquorice, peanuts and periwinkles, eels and erasers and, once, she even ate a piece of Tuck’s tail, but we won’t go into that.

  Minnie’s second most favourite thing to do in the world ever was watching television. The farmhouse had no front wall left and gaped open to the elements like a doll’s house. But what it did have, amongst the dusty and dirty furniture on its open-fronted second storey, was an ancient black-and-white television. Oh, how Minnie loved that television! You didn’t want to get between her and the screen when the Press Paws Network was showing I’m A Cougar, Get Me Out Of Here, or if Cattyday Night Live was on the Feline Broadcatting Company. But most of all, you didn’t want to make a sound when Minnie was watching Kitten’s Got Talent. For Kitten’s Got Talent was the highpoint of Minnie’s week. Oh, how she loved that show! She would watch it avidly, shuddering her bottom jaw at the screen and pointing out all the performers’ mistakes. In fact, the nights on which Minnie watched Kitten’s Got Talent were the quietest on the farm. Can you imagine the scene? The only noise or light for miles around coming from a black-and-white screen flickering high in the open-fronted farmhouse, making the ferrets flee and the weasels worry and the bunnies in the fields wonder what was on the sports channel.

  Minnie’s third most favourite thing to do in the world ever was taking care of her long and lustrous fur. She plaited it and braided it and cleaned it and licked it and flattened it and admired it all day long (when she wasn’t sleeping or eating or watching television). It was extremely unlikely that Minnie was a princess, for she had been born under a house in a horribly rough town, but that didn’t stop her behaving like one when she was doing her hair.

  ‘Ooh, Tucky,’ she might miaow in a very girly tone, ‘I want some mossy mouse mousse to muss up my messy mane.’

  Or, ‘Tuck, darl, run and fetch me a pine cone to use as a curler.’

  Or, ‘Tuck, baby, I need a bit of broken mirror to check out this weave.’

  It was, ‘I want this,’ and, ‘I want that,’ all day long.

  And Minnie’s fourth most favourite thing in the world to do ever was sleeping. And why did she love to sleep? Minnie loved to sleep because she loved to dream. It was the same dream every time she slept: a dream of herself as an
all-singing, all-dancing entertainment superstar. Fame! Glory! Mirrors with light bulbs around them! Sometimes Minnie dreamed so hard she sang and danced in her sleep, imagining crowds screaming her name and begging for a pawtograph. Oh, poor Minnie. Every day she awoke to find herself on a dirty, deserted and derelict dairy farm was a dreadful and dreary disappointment.

  As you can see, the three cats who lived on the farm each had very different personalities and, as a result, they didn’t always get along. In fact, on the day this story starts, Minnie and Ginger had the most terrible fight. Soon afterwards they forgot all about it, what with all the other craziness going on. Later, however, when they looked back, they realised this fight was the start of all the adventures that followed.

  WHAT A FIGHT!

  Now, before I tell you about Minnie and Ginger’s big fight, I have to explain to you the importance of the smokehouse. The smokehouse was Ginger’s idea, and she had it during the first winter the cats spent on the farm. Oh dicey icicles, what a terrible time that had been! It was a horribly long and cold winter with deep, deep snow and the cats had all gone very hungry. Tuck might be the best of hunters, but when winter comes and the ground is covered in snow, a black cat is not at an advantage. He knew where the squirrels hid their winter stores, but, being a polite cat, he knew never to touch anyone else’s nuts. So that winter, the poor pussies had to resort to dreadful measures to survive. They took turns licking an old can of cooking oil they found in the barn. They nibbled on a dead bat that had fallen to the floor of the stables. They even lived off the whiff of an oily rag for a few days. But, on other days, there was nothing at all and the cats had to satisfy themselves with sniffing each other’s bums.

  ‘Next winter,’ Ginger had promised them, when even Minnie was as skinny as a long, thin thingy, ‘we’ll be better prepared.’

  As ever, Ginger was true to her word. She realised that every winter would be as bad unless they found a way of preserving some of the food they caught over the warmer months. There was no freezer on the farm, and so the cats couldn’t preserve their food that way. But did you know that smoke, if handled carefully, preserves meat just as well?

  Ginger got the idea of what to do from sniffing around the only building on the farm that wasn’t a ruin. It was a small round brick building with a slate-grey roof, and it stood on the edge of the farmyard beside the stables. Ginger could tell by its smell it had once been used for smoking meat and—bingo!—that’s when she had her idea. As soon as spring came, she convinced some hard-rocking fireflies to hold a party over some kindling she’d prepared inside the little building. And boy, did those fireflies like to party! They were mad, bad, and dangerous to glow. They buzzed and shone and sparked until the whole place was smoking. From that day on, the ‘funny, round brick building’ became ‘the smokehouse’, always chuffing away and leaking a thin trail of smoke into the sky. All Ginger had to do after that was make sure every time any of the cats caught some food, there was always a portion put aside and preserved for winter. All through spring and summer the system worked well, but in the last days of autumn, Ginger began to grow suspicious. Every so often, she would hear a noise from inside the smokehouse which sounded like someone moving around in there. Who else would it be, she thought, but Minnie? She could just imagine Minnie mooching for a munch of mouse mortadella, or rustling away a rabbit rarebit. She had even discovered a loose brick in the smokehouse wall. The only trouble was, by the time Ginger had ever trotted her six bellies over and opened the door, there was never anything to see. Nothing, but all the food stored for winter, smoking nicely and sending off a lovely aroma which even she found difficult to resist.

  But then, on the day this story starts (which—thank you for your patience—is right now!), Ginger figured she’d caught Minnie red-pawed. Or, as cats like to say, with her head stuck in the cat-food tin.

  It was the very last day of autumn, when a cold wind was blowing, and all but the stubbornest leaves had fallen from the trees. Late in the afternoon, Ginger was walking between the smokehouse and the ruined stables when she heard, yet again, a noise from the round brick building. This time there was no doubt about it. That noise was Minnie.

  ‘Mm, push, two, three, four,’ Ginger heard. ‘Mm, push, six, seven, eight.’

  ‘Jumping junipers,’ thought Ginger. ‘I’ve caught her at it at last!’

  And without a second thought (which is always the better one in my experience), she ran around the building. There, on the other side, she found Minnie, leaning with her two front paws against the warm brick wall.

  ‘Gotcha!’ shouted Ginger. ‘I knew you were nipping in and nicking num-nums. Just try and deny it!’

  ‘You what?’ gasped Minnie, who was clearly out of breath. ‘Deny what?’

  Well, the innocent look on Minnie’s face would have befuddled almost anyone who thought they’d caught her doing something naughty. Unless, of course, they’d met her before. For, as anyone who has met Minnie will tell you, the wide-eyed innocent look is her speciality: ‘Me? Lick that trifle? Oh no, officer.’ Ginger was unimpressed.

  ‘You’ve been stealing from the winter stores,’ she growled.

  ‘How dare you?!’ said Minnie. ‘I haven’t been takin’ any food, akcherly.’

  As you will have noticed, Minnie’s spelling became somewhat haphazard when she was upset.

  ‘Oo put you in charge, any’ow?’ she continued. ‘You’re such an arrogant, ‘orrible old moggy, I’m surprised any of us ever listens to you at all.’

  Ginger flicked her tail and stared at Minnie.

  ‘So what were you doing, then?’ she asked with a gingery smirk on her face. She was looking forward to Minnie trying to talk her way out of this one.

  ‘I was exercising, innit? Working out. Unlike you, Ginge, I take pride in my appearance. This might surprise you, but I was Miss Junior Slums 2014, the bestest-looking cat in my school.’

  ‘What surprises me,’ growled Ginger, ‘is that you went to school at all. Do you really expect me to believe you ever do any exercise? Is that the best you can come up with?’

  ‘Aggh!’ screamed Minnie, with the ‘G’ pronounced. ‘Nag, nag, nag, you make me want to gag, you craggy old scrag-bag. You’re just a sad saggy dag, like a hag in raggedy-drag.’

  Across the farmyard, in the open-fronted farmhouse, Tuck was cleaning the television for that night’s viewing of Minnie’s favourite show.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ he thought, as the noise of the argument reached him. ‘I better go and break that up.’

  And he wasn’t wrong. By the time he had taken off his apron, gone downstairs, remembered what he was hurrying off to do, started hurrying again, crossed the farmyard, gone past the stables and remembered where the smokehouse was, Ginger and Minnie were having a proper old catfight, spitting and scratching and tumbling through the windblown leaves in a screaming furry ball.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Tuck quietly.

  He was, after all, a rather unassuming cat. Minnie and Ginger ignored him.

  ‘That food's for the winter,’ Ginger screeched as she and Minnie tumbled past Tuck one way.

  ‘Please stop it,’ said Tuck a little louder.

  But he was drowned out by Minnie snarling, ‘’Oo made you the boss?’ as she and Ginger tumbled back the other way.

  ‘Stop it now!’ Tuck said a little louder still.

  ‘I could be off travelling and having adventures if I didn’t have to make sure your ugly face got fed over winter,’ Ginger spat as she and Minnie tumbled back the first way again.

  ‘I could be a star if I didn’t have to live on this boring farm with boring you and your boring rules,’ miaowed Minnie as she and Ginger tumbled back towards Tuck again.

  ‘STOP IT!!!’ Tuck yelled.

  Well, that surprised all three of them. It wasn’t often you heard Tuck yell anything, let alone in capital letters. Minnie and Ginger stopped fighting and, panting and feeling grotty all over, sat glowering at each other.

  �
��Enough,’ said Tuck. Then he couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he said ‘Enough,’ again because it had sounded quite good the first time.

  ‘It’s ‘er fault,’ said Minnie. ‘Accusing me of all sorts.’

  ‘It’s—’

  But Ginger never finished her sentence. Instead she put her head on one side, pricked up her ears and listened carefully. Then she sat up straight, the wind blowing her fur up from behind as she stared down the overgrown driveway. Tuck followed her stare and gasped. And, then, last of all, Minnie also turned and saw what had left Ginger lost for words.

  WHATEVER NEXT?

  Old MacDonald had a farm, ee-ay ee-ay oh!

  Then Old MacDonald lost an arm, ee-ay, ee-ay, eugh!

  With a spurt-spurt here,

  And a spurt-spurt there,

  Old MacDonald died of blood loss, ee-ay ee—aw, that’s sad.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’ve lost the plot and started making up gruesome versions of nursery rhymes instead. But fear not, dear reader. The plot is still exactly where I left it (unless it’s down the back of the sofa again), and it wasn’t I who changed the nursery rhyme, it was the nasty children who, years before, had lived near the farm. And why did they do this? Because what they described in their horribly insensitive manner was the truth.

  The farmer who had once farmed the farm was, indeed, called MacDonald and he was, indeed, old. But he was not old and wise. Oh dimming dementia, no! Old MacDonald was a bit stupid actually, and he believed you could operate farm machinery without taking due precautions. This is how he lost his arm, and it is also—I hasten to add—how he came to die. I’d love to tell you all the gory details, but it’s a long and gruesome tale which we really don’t have time for. You’ll just have to make do with the moral of the story: never keep your phone in a pocket you can only reach with one hand.