Cats on the Run

by Ged Gillmore

  ‘Er …’ said Ginger. ‘Ooh, look, there’s another piece of rat’s tail which you haven’t eaten yet.’

  Then, before Tuck had time to finish swallowing the tail end of the meal, she asked him how he’d found her.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I knew you were following the road. So I ran and ran and ran until I could see you. That took about ten minutes, so I thought I’d follow you and make you jump. Then it started raining and you came in here, and then I saw the mice and I thought you’d be hungry. Ha ha. I scared you, didn’t I?’

  ‘What?’ said Ginger. ‘Scared? Me? What on earth gave you that idea?’

  ‘You told that fat pig in there that a huge, big monster was out there.’

  ‘How rude!’ said Mildred, who’d started listening again. ‘Beryl, that cat called you fat, did you hear?’

  ‘But there is a big monster out there,’ said Ginger.

  ‘What?’ said Tuck, his eyes huge and yellow again. ‘Oh no! Oh no, really! Oh how absolutely teddifying. How awful. Die! We’re all going to die!’

  ‘Is this to do with the moon again?’ said Beryl.

  Ginger managed to calm Tuck down. She told him she’d look after him all night. All he had to do was lie still and let her use him as a pillow, and they’d both be fine.

  ‘Oh, thank you ever so much,’ said Tuck as he curled up tight to his tail. ‘For the moon and the protection and everything.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Ginger. ‘Nothing at all. Except, Tuck, about the sauce …’

  But Tuck was already snoring, deep in dreams which, given his tenuous grasp on reality at the best of time, are ideally left undescribed.

  YET ANOTHER BIT

  The next morning dawned bright and early. Well, not that early. Just before sunrise really, which if you think about it, is neither early nor late but pretty much bang on time. Lord, imagine if dawn had an opportunity to be early or late. You’d be up and ready for school, and it might not even be midnight yet.

  Bennyway! The next morning dawned bright and bang on time. Cocks crowed, other birds chirped, and the two pigs snuffled and scuffled and scratched themselves. The cats rose early, and before the sun had properly squeezed itself up into the sky, they were back on the road. At a little before ten o’clock they reached the Great Dark Forest. Here the road veered to the right as if the trees were too ominous to drive through, but a faint path continued straight into the dark green shadows. A huge sign stood over the path. It said: ‘Great Dark Forest’. And underneath it was written: ‘Scary Path’.

  ‘Ooh,’ said Tuck. ‘Isn’t there another way?’

  ‘No,’ said Ginger. She said it so quickly and curtly that if you didn’t know her better, you might think she was a bit scared herself and was just summoning up her courage before it ran back down the road, past the barn, into the city and jumped into the tiger-striped taxi and drove them both back to the apartment.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  And so they strode on, the tarmac below their paws replaced by rough ground still soft from the night’s storm. Then, as they entered the forest proper, the soft ground was replaced by dry, dusty soil that the rain hadn’t even reached, so thick was the canopy overhead. Even the daylight struggled through the thick treetops, and soon the air around them was as dull as a winter’s evening. On either side of the path wild vines and rough ferns covered the forest floor, and here and there ominous holes appeared, homes to strange animals the cats could only guess at. They found huge spiders’ webs and dusty snake tracks, the fallen corpses of once majestic trees, and the skeletons of long-dead birds. When a breeze blew, the whole forest moved with it, one part after the other, the way the ocean responds to a wave.

  But mostly the forest was silent, dark, and waiting, and the two cats had the constant impression that they were being watched. Still they padded on. The path died out after a while, but the cats had no need of it. Cats have a sense of direction which is beyond the understanding of humans, so that even if I explained it to you, you still wouldn’t get it. As senses go, it’s not perfect but it is very good. Ginger knew where she wanted to get to, and so she followed her instinct. And Tuck knew he didn’t want to be alone in the G.D.F. so he followed Ginger.

  At noon they had a little rest, the sun directly overhead but barely detectable through the thick green roof of the trees. They found a puddle and lapped at it, but the water was stagnant and something about that place unnerved them, and so they walked on. On and on, past endless watchful trees, timeless and placeless and nameless, only the cats’ instinct telling them they were moving in a line and not a circle. All too soon the light inside the forest began to fade, and the cats realised it was evening. It was that time of year when nights draw in more quickly than you expect (daylight savings had just ended), and before Ginger and Tuck were really aware of it, they found they were walking in the dark. It was then that they discovered the forest wasn’t empty at all.

  Back at the apartment Major was feeling grumpy. He’d tried weeing in all the corners of the living room to see if that made him feel any better, but it didn’t. He sprayed all over the dishes drying in the rack, and that didn’t help either. He scratched the carpet by the front door again, chewed the corners of a few coffee-table books and even did a poo on the kitchen benchtop, but none of it improved his mood. There was nothing for it—he was going to have to find something precious and break it.

  But could he find something precious and breakable? Could he buffalo! There were no knick-knacks, vases, or lamps in sight. He was ten years too late, you see. Had Janice kidnapped him before she met Rodney, for example, Major would have had a dense display of delicates at his disposal. As a single woman, Janice had been more than partial to small figurines, and her collection had included chinaware from all over the world. But in the early years of the Burringos’ marriage she had thrown them all at Rodney. Few had hit their target but all had smashed. Now there was little left for Major to break. Or so he thought, until on the desk near the window he spotted the computer. ‘Aha!’ he thought. ‘That’s definitely breakable.’ He decided to spring up onto the desk so he could squeeze himself between the computer and the wall. A good heave-ho, shove-oh, give it all you’ve got-oh ought to do it.

  But as Major jumped up, he accidentally trod on the keyboard and the monitor flickered to life. And what did he see there? He saw Janice Burringo’s screensaver photograph. It was a particularly irksome family photograph which the Burringos had used for their Christmas cards the year before, not realising this was an incredibly cheesy thing to do. Oh yes it is. The photograph showed Janice and Rodney dressed up in Santa outfits, and on their laps, also dressed as Santas, were their two cats. Tuck on Rodney’s lap, Ginger on Janice’s. Major shook his head and looked again. That looked like his Ginger in a Santa outfit. He put his nose close to the screen, then jumped down and ran to the other side of the room to get some perspective. That was his Ginger. ‘Owemjee!’ he thought. ‘Owembuffalojee!’

  It took Major only twenty-two goes to guess Janice’s password. After trying all the names he’d heard her call Rodney, he tried the two local football teams, her date of birth, and what he already knew to be her favourite food (chocolate-dipped baby). Then he tapped ‘warts’, all lower-case one word, and ta-da, the screensaver was replaced by the last thing Janice had looked at: a rather racy picture of her favourite boyband, Mirrorsplatter.

  Major used his nose and his paws to type as quickly as he could. This still wasn’t very quick—it would be like you or me typing with grapes—but it was quick enough. He went into Janice’s Spookle search history to see what he could find. And what did he find? He found searches for commingling of cats, pictures of Purraris, and the location spell. You see, Rodney and Janice shared a profile, so it was all in there, no holds barred, nothing hidden.

  Still, for Major it raised more questions than it answered. What was he doing there if they had Ginger? Where was Ginger? What were they wanting to commingle?
What Major thought was this: ‘Mm-hm.’ And then, ‘Mm-hm-hmm.’ He jumped down and sniffed the whole flat through again. Now he knew why he had dreamt of Ginger all day when he’d thought he’d got over her years ago. The whole place carried her scent.

  Well, poor old Major. Can you imagine the emotions of sadness and loss this stirred in him? All the years he’d been missing Ginger and wondering what he could have done differently, and she’d been here all that time. Against her will? He couldn’t imagine her liking this place. But … well … maybe … oh … He pushed his feelings to one side. The point was, Ginger had been here, and so had another cat. It must be the stupid-looking one in the screensaver picture. But they’d escaped. What had Janice said about an experiment?

  So on and so forth Major went, asking himself lots of questions which you know the answers to so I won’t bore you with them. He thought and thought and thought and searched and Spookled and did some sums, and suffice to say by the time it grew dark outside the apartment windows, he’d worked it all out: the experiment, the attempt to make a Purrari, all of it. All except one thing: How had Ginger escaped? And how had she ended up in the flat in the first place? OK, that’s two things. But everything else Major had worked out. And boy, did it make him grumpy.

  ‘What was that noise?’ said Tuck. He sat up and looked around him. There was very little light on the forest floor, for only the thinnest of moon rays could make their way through the treetops. In their frail silvery light the forest looked like a crackly old black-and-white movie.

  ‘It was nothing,’ said Ginger through her tail, which she’d wrapped over her face to keep warm.

  ‘That’s what you said last time.’

  ‘And what was it last time?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘Tuck, it was nothing. Go back to sleep.’

  Tuck lay down again and snuggled closer to Ginger. As night had fallen, the air in the forest had grown colder, and despite their recent outdoor adventures, neither cat had a full winter coat yet. Ginger closed her eyes and seemed to sleep again, but poor Tuck thought he’d never been so cold or so frightened. Five minutes later he miaowed again.

  ‘What was that noise?’ he said.

  Ginger opened her eyes so she could roll them and ignore him. But then she heard a noise too. It was a slow shuffling, which a minute before she’d thought was a breeze in the trees. But now it was closer, and when she put her ear to the ground (not something you see cats doing very often), she could hear it was footsteps. Footsteps coming their way. She stood up and looked in the direction of the noise.

  ‘Look!’ said Tuck. ‘Look! There’s something over there!’

  Ginger looked, her eyes less sharp than Tuck’s, and soon she made out a skinny figure with a big fat tail.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’ said Tuck.

  But by now the animal, whose ribs were showing through his fur and was looking very hungry, was close enough to answer for himself.

  ‘I’m a fox,’ he said, in a velvety English accent. ‘Crosby Snarlsgood, to be precise. How the devil do you do?’

  ‘Hiya!’ said Tuck. ‘We’re very well, thank you. Phew. We thought you were something scary.’

  Ginger elbowed Tuck in his ribs, but Tuck just carried on talking.

  ‘We’re going to see Ginger’s old boyfriend and get some mushroom sauce on the way. Are you a flying fox?’

  ‘Only when I’m happy,’ said the fox. ‘Are you lost?’

  ‘No,’ said Ginger, her voice level and low. ‘We’re fine, thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure? I’d be more than happy to help you. Maybe you’d like to come back to my lair. I’m sure my family would be delighted to have you over for dinner.’

  ‘Ooh, yes please!’ said Tuck. ‘What’s on the menu?’

  ‘Mushroom sauce,’ said the fox, who, being a fox, was quick on the uptake and singularly sly. ‘We have so much of it in our house we barely know what to do with it. Ladles and ladles of it.’

  Well, you can guess what colour Tuck’s eyes went when he heard this. Greener than a seasick and jealous emerald in a lush field of grass.

  ‘This way,’ said the fox. ‘As I said, Snarlsgood’s the name. And you are?’

  ‘Am I?’ said Tuck, walking after him and then wondering why he couldn’t walk any further.

  ‘I mean what’s your name?’

  But Tuck was too preoccupied to answer. He wanted to know why he couldn’t move forward. He turned and saw Ginger had sat her full weight on his tail. The fox seemed to have forgotten he’d asked Tuck his name and carried on walking forwards, talking softly to the big black cat, who he thought was right behind him.

  ‘Tuck,’ said Ginger sternly but almost in a whisper. ‘Do you know what a fox’s favourite food is?’

  ‘Owee, get off my tail, Ginger. It hurts.’

  ‘Answer the question and then I’ll get off. What do foxes like to eat?’

  ‘Mushroom sauce.’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Ginger. ‘If foxes love mushroom sauce so much, why are they giving it away? Tuck, what is a fox’s favourite food?’

  ‘Oh, hang on,’ said Tuck. ‘I know this one. How does it go? Ooh, ooh, I haven’t heard it in ages. Oh, I remember:

  ‘Spiders eat lice,

  Cats eat mice,

  Birds eat spiders

  Without thinking twice.

  Dogs eat bones

  And live in big boxes.

  Witches eat children

  And men hunt foxes.

  Foxes eat cats,

  Cats eat rats,

  Rats spread disease,

  And that’s about that.’

  ‘Ha! I remembered it, Ginger. Bet you thought I wouldn’t. A fox’s favourite food is—oh! Oh, oh! Oh let me go, Ginger! We have to—’

  ‘What is it?’ said the fox, who had turned at the noise Tuck was making and suddenly realised Tuck was no longer behind him. He stood about three metres away from the cats, his narrow eyes sparkling in the thin moonlight. ‘What the devil are you two doing back there?’

  ‘Just one second, Mr Snotgood,’ Ginger called out to him. Then in a very hushed tone she said to Tuck: ‘Listen to me. You have to do precisely what I say, do you understand?’

  But Tuck didn’t seem to understand anything. He was snivelling and whimpering and trying with all his might to pull his tail from under the weight of Ginger and her six bellies.

  ‘Tuck.’

  ‘It’s a fox!’ he hissed at her. ‘A nasty, evil fox.’

  Ginger sighed heavily and tried to ignore the fox, who was clearly getting impatient. ‘Do hurry up, people,’ he was saying. ‘Mrs Snarlsgood does so hate to eat late.’

  Ginger leant slightly, not wanting to take her weight off Tuck’s tail, and gave Tuck a full sideswipe across his whiskers. Biff. Just like that. Now he was listening.

  ‘You must do exactly as I say,’ she repeated. ‘Do you understand?’

  Tuck nodded.

  ‘Repeat it.’

  ‘It,’ said Tuck.

  ‘No, I mean, oh don’t worry. Listen, when I say go, you must run as fast as you can around that tree.’

  She pointed at a tired, old gum tree fifty metres away. Tuck stared after her paw into the gloom and didn’t see the suspicious fox edging nearer. ‘And then,’ Ginger said, ‘around that one over there’. She pointed to the left to a huge fallen oak and watched over Tuck’s shoulder as the fox got closer still. ‘And finally,’ she said, miaowing more quickly now, ‘over-to-that-one-and-straight-back-here-as-fast-as-you-can. Faster than you’ve ever run. Are you ready?’

  The fox was really close now, and Ginger could see him jostling his haunches ready to pounce. She lifted her weight off Tuck’s tail and shouted, ‘Go! Run, Tuck! He’s right behind you!’

  Do you remember earlier in the story that I said Tuck would run far faster than he did down the corridor outside the Burringos’ apartment to the lift? You don’t? Well, I did, and this is the bit wher
e he does it. And so would you if you were a cat and you had a big posh fox on your tail! Tuck jumped over a log and around a root and past a puddle and under a twig and over a mound and all of it faster than you could say, ‘Je suis perdu à Paris sans une parapluie’.

  On and on Tuck ran, the first tree much further in the twilight than he’d thought, even though he was running faster than he’d ever run in his admittedly not-very-long life. The details of the forest blurred either side of him, parallel streaks of brown and darker brown and maybe green, but all of it in the pale half-light looking a bit dark-browny. Faster and faster and faster. But foxes have longer legs than cats, and hunger can make you run faster than you’d think, especially when you see your dinner running away from you. Put a burger on a pair of legs and see how you react. No sooner was Tuck over that first log than Crosby Snarlsgood was after him, teeth champing only centimetres from Tuck’s tail.

  By the time Tuck got to the first tree, the fox was little more than five centimetres behind him. Tuck could feel the fox’s hot, hungry breath, the foul smell of flesh-tearing teeth, the evil, rabid violence of carnivorous intent. ‘Noooo!’ he miaowed, and ran even faster because fear is the greatest accelerator of all, even greater than hunger. Tuck zoomed into warp speed, whizzing between tree trunks, bypassing bushes, racing over dead leaves that flew up behind him in a cloud of, well, leaves. Whoosh! He was around the fallen tree trunk Ginger had pointed out, but still Snarlsgood was close behind, having cheated slightly and not gone all the way around the full trunk.

  And where was Ginger during all of this? You remember that very first log Tuck jumped over? Come on, it was only ten lines ago. Well, Ginger jumped over it too, but then she stayed on the other side. She was one clever pussy, and she knew that the fox wouldn’t resist chasing his dinner down, focusing 100 per cent on Tuck and forgetting about her completely. How right she was.

  She sat with her back to the log with a big stick in her paws and watched the hunt. Watched with wide eyes as Snarlsgood nearly caught Tuck by the tail and then, with wider eyes still as they turned into the final straight, and it’s Tuck on the outside by a nose and Snarlsgood’s coming up to meet him, and no, Tuck has got away again, and there’s only twenty metres in it, and they’re on the final few metres of the most amazing race of the year, folks! Closer and closer they came, far faster than Ginger had even expected, and Tuck jumped straight over her and over the log behind her, and then Snarlsgood jumped too, and she shoved the stick she’d been holding high into the air above her.