‘Get lost,’ said the cat.
I gave up. She would just have to lump it.
An hour later Miss Birdle returned and when she saw me sitting there she shook her head. I gave her my most appealing smile.
‘You are a bad boy,’ she scolded, but there was no anger in her voice.
She let me go into the cottage with her and I made a big fuss of licking her heavily stockinged legs. The taste was horrible, but when I decide to smarm, there are no limits. I was sorry not to have the dignity of Rumbo, but there’s nothing like insecurity to make you humble.
Well, I stayed that night. And the following night. But the third night – that’s when my troubles started all over again.
At nine-thirty in the evening Miss Birdle would turn me out and I would dutifully carry out my toilet; I knew that was expected of me and had no intention of fouling things up (excuse the play on words – couldn’t help it). She would let me back in after a short while and coax me into a small room at the back of the cottage which she used to store all sorts of junk. Most of it was unchewable – old picture frames, a pianoforte, an ancient unconnected gas cooker, that sort of thing. There was just enough room for me to curl up beneath the piano keyboard and here I would spend the night, quite comfortable although a little frightened at first (I cried that first night but was okay the second). Miss Birdle would close the door on me to keep me away from Victoria, who slept in the kitchen. The cat and I were still not friends and the old lady was well aware of it.
On that third night she neglected to close the door properly; the catch didn’t catch and the door was left open half an inch. It probably wouldn’t have bothered me, but the sound of someone creeping around during the night aroused my curiosity. I’m a light sleeper and the soft pad of feet was enough to disturb me. I crept over to the door and eased it open with my nose; the noise was coming from the kitchen. I guessed it was Victoria mooching around and would have returned to my sleeping-place had not those two agitators, hunger and thirst, begun taunting my greedy belly. A trip to the kitchen might prove profitable.
I crept stealthily from the room and made my way through the tiny hallway into the kitchen. Miss Birdle always left a small lamp burning in the hallway (because she was nervous living on her own, I suppose) so I had no trouble finding the kitchen door. It, too, was open.
Pushing my nose round it, I peered into the gloom. Two slanting green eyes startled me.
‘That you, Victoria?’ I asked.
‘Who else would it be?’ came the hissed reply.
I pushed in further. ‘What are you doing?’
‘None of your business. Get back to your room.’
But I saw what she was doing. She had a small woodmouse trapped between her paws. Her claws were withdrawn so she was obviously playing a fine teasing game with the unfortunate creature. His reddish-brown back was arched in paralytic fear and his tiny black eyes shone with a trance-like glaze. He must have found his way into the cottage in search of food. The absence of housemice (undoubtedly owing to Victoria’s vigilance) would have encouraged him and he must have been too stupid (or too hungry) to have been aware of the cat’s presence. Anyway, he was well and truly aware of it now, and paying nature’s harsh price for carelessness.
He was too scared to speak so I spoke up for him.
‘What are you going to do with him?’
‘None of your business,’ came the curt reply.
I made my way further into the kitchen and repeated my question. This time a wheezy snarl was the reply.
It’s not in an animal’s nature to have much sympathy for his fellow creatures, but the plight of this defenceless little thing appealed to the other side of my nature; the human side.
‘Let him go, Victoria,’ I said quietly.
‘Sure, after I’ve bitten his head off,’ she said.
And that’s what she tried to do, there and then, just to spite me.
I moved fast and had Victoria’s head between my jaws before she had a chance to dodge. We spun around in the kitchen, the mouse’s head in the cat’s mouth, and the cat’s head in mine.
Victoria was forced to drop the terrified woodmouse before she had done any real damage and I saw with satisfaction the little creature scurry away into a dark corner and no doubt down a dark hole. Victoria squealed and pulled her head from my jaws, raking my brisket as she did so. I yelped at the stinging pain and lunged for her again – very, very angry now.
Round and round that kitchen we ran, knocking chairs over, crashing against cupboards, shouting and screaming at each other, too far gone with animal rage to concern ourselves with the noise we were making and the damage we were doing. At one point I snapped my teeth round Victoria’s flailing tail and the cat skidded to a forced halt, a scream of surprise escaping her. She wheeled and drew her sharp claws across my nose and I had to let go, but her tail was now bald near the tip. I sprang forward again and she leapt upwards on to the draining-board, knocking down the pile of crockery left there to dry by Miss Birdle. It came crashing down, shattering into hundreds of pieces on the stone floor. I tried to leap on to the draining-board myself and almost succeeded, but the sight of Victoria diving head-first through a pane in the closed window amazed me so much I lost my concentration and slipped back on to the floor. I’d never seen a cat – or any animal – do that before!
I was still half lying there, perplexed, and a little delighted, I think, when the white-gowned figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. I froze for a second at the apparition, then realized it was only Miss Birdle. Then I froze again.
Her eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. Her white hair hung wildly down to her shoulders and the billowy nightdress she wore crackled with static. Her whole body quivered with a rising fury that threatened to dismantle her frail old body. Her mouth flapped open but coherent words refused to form; she could only make a strange gargling sound. However, she did manage to reach up a trembling hand to the light switch and flick it on. The increased light suddenly made me feel very naked lying there among the smashed crockery.
I gulped once and began to apologize, ready to blame the cat for everything, but the screech that finally escaped the old lady told me words would be wasted at that particular moment. I scooted beneath the kitchen table.
It didn’t afford me much protection, unfortunately, for one of those dainty slippered feet found my ribs with fierce accuracy. It found my ribs a few more times before I had the sense to remove myself. Out I shot, making for the open doorway, scared silly of this dear old thing. This dear old thing then threw a chair at me and I yelped as it bounced off my back. She came at me, arms and legs flailing, stunning me into submission, terrifying me with her strength. My collar was grabbed and I found myself being dragged back to the cluttered ‘guest’ room. I was thrown in and the door slammed shut behind me. From the other side of the heavy wood I heard language I’d been used to in the Guvnor’s yard but hardly expected to hear in a quaint old cottage and from such a sweet old lady. I lay there trembling, fighting desperately to keep a grip on my bowels and bladder: I was in enough disgrace without that.
Another miserable night for me. I must be unique in knowing the full meaning of the expression ‘a dog’s life’. I know of no other animal who goes through so many highs and lows of emotion as the dog. Maybe we make trouble for ourselves; maybe we’re over-sensitive; or maybe we’re just stupid. Maybe we’re too human.
I hardly slept. I kept expecting the door to swing open and the ancient demon to appear and deal out more punishment. But it didn’t swing open, in fact, it didn’t swing open for another three days.
I whined, I howled, I grew angry and barked; but nothing happened. I messed on the floor and cried because I knew it would get me into trouble. I starved and cursed the mouse who’d got me into this predicament. My throat grew sore because I had nothing to drink and I cursed the malicious cat who’d caused this situation. My limbs grew stiff because of lack of exercise and I cursed Miss Birdle for her s
enility. How could she change from being a charming, delicate old lady one moment into a raging monster the next? All right, I know I was to blame to some extent – her cat had gone headfirst through the window – but was that enough reason to lock me up and starve me? Self-pity sent me into a sulk that occasionally welled up into anger, then receded into a sulk again.
On the third day the door handle rattled, twisted and the door slowly opened.
I cowered beneath the pianoforte hardy daring to look up, prepared to take a beating with as little dignity as possible.
‘There, there, Fluke. What’s the matter then?’ She stood smiling down at me, that sweet granny smile, that gentle innocent which only belongs to the very old or the very young. I snuffled and refused to be lured out.
‘Come on then, Fluke. All’s forgiven.’
Oh yes, I thought, until your next brainstorm.
‘Come and see what I’ve got for you.’ She left the doorway and disappeared into the kitchen, calling my name in her enticing way. A meaty smell came my way and, tail drooped between my legs, I made my way cautiously after her. I found Miss Birdle pouring a whole tin of dogfood into a bowl on the floor.
I might be unforgiving but my stomach has a mind of its own and it insisted I go forward and eat. Which I did of course without too much inner conflict, though I kept a wary eye on the old lady all the time. The food soon went and so did the water that followed, but my nervousness took a little longer to disappear. Victoria watched me all the time from her basket in the corner, flicking her tail in a slow, regular movement of cold fury. I ignored her but was actually pleased to see she’d come to no real harm by diving through the window. (I was also pleased to see the bald tip of her tail.)
I shied away when Miss Birdle reached down to me, but her calm words soothed my taut nerves and I allowed her to stroke me and soon we were friends again. And we remained friends for at least two weeks after that.
Victoria made a point of keeping out of my way and, I confess, I made a point of keeping out of hers, too. I would scamper down to the town with Miss Birdle when she went shopping and always did my best to behave myself on these occasions. The temptation to steal was almost irresistible, but resist it I did. I was reasonably well fed and the dreadful incident of my fight with Victoria was soon forgotten. Miss Birdle introduced me to all her friends (she seemed to know everybody) and I was made a great fuss of. In the afternoons I would romp in the fields behind the cottage, teasing the animals living there, inhaling the sweetness from the budding flowers, revelling in the growing warmth from the sun. Colours zoomed before me, new smells titillated my senses: life became good once more and I grew healthier. Two weeks of happiness, then that rat of a cat managed to upset everything again.
It was a sunny afternoon and Miss Birdle was in her garden at the front of the cottage tending her awakening flowerbeds. The front door was open and I trotted backwards and forwards through it, enjoying the luxury of having a home where I could come and go as I pleased. On my third or fourth trip, Victoria wandered in after me, and I should have realized something was going to happen when she slyly started a conversation with me. Being a fool and eager to make friends, I readily laid my suspicions to one side and answered her questions, settling down on the rug, prepared to have a good natter. As I said before, cats, like rats, aren’t much given to conversation and I was pleased Victoria was making the effort on my behalf, thinking she had accepted me as a permanent guest and was trying to make the best of things. She asked me where I came from, if I knew any other cats, if I liked fish – all sorts of inconsequential questions. But all the time her yellow eyes were darting around the room as though looking for something. When they rested upon the huge dresser with all its fine crockery she smiled to herself. Then came the insults: What was a mangy-looking thing like me doing here, anyway? Were all dogs as stupid as me? What made me smell so? Little things like that. I blinked hard, startled by this sudden change in attitude. Had I offended her in some way?
She came closer so we were almost nose to nose, and stared intently into my eyes. ‘You’re a dirty, snivelling, flea-bitten, worm-riddled mutt. You’re a thief and a scoundrel!’ Victoria looked at me with some satisfaction. ‘Your mother was a jackal who coupled with a hyena. You’re vulgar and you’re nasty!’
Now there are many insults you can throw at a dog and get away with, but there’s one we will not put up with, one word that really offends us. That’s right – dirty! (We often are, of course, but we don’t like to be told so.) I growled at her to be quiet.
She took no notice, of course, but ranted on, throwing insults not worth repeating here, but some quite ingenious for one of her limited vocabulary. Even so, I would probably have borne all these insults had she not finally spat in my face. I went for her, which is exactly what she had wanted all along.
Up into the dresser she went, spitting and howling. I tried to follow her, shouting at the top of my lungs, finding some nice insults of my own to call her. Victoria backed away along the dresser as I tried in vain to reach her and, as she moved her body backwards, so the ornamental plates which stood balanced upright on the first shelf came tumbling down.
A shadow fell across the doorway but the half-wit (that’s right) carried on barking at the wailing cat. I only became fully aware of Miss Birdle’s presence when the rake came down heavily on my back. I scooted for the front door, but the old lady had sprung wings on her heels and reached it before me. She slammed it shut and turned to face me, the rake clutched in her gnarled old hands like a lance, its iron-toothed end almost touching my nose. I looked up at her face and gulped loudly.
It had gone a deep purple, the tiny broken veins seeming to explode like starbursts across her skin, and her once kind eyes pressed against their sockets as though about to pop out and roll down her cheeks. I moved a fraction of a second before she did and the rake crashed into the floor only inches behind me. We did a quick circuit of the room while the cat looked on from her safe perch on the dresser, a huge smug smile on her face. On our third lap round, Miss Birdle spotted her and took a swipe at her indolent body with the rake (I suppose the frustration of not being able to catch me had something to do with it). It caught the cat a cracking blow and she shot off the dresser like a ball from a cannon and joined me in the arena. Unfortunately (more so for us), Miss Birdle’s sweeping blow at Victoria had also dislodged more plates, together with a few hanging cups and a small antique vase. They followed the cat but of course refused to join us in our run; they lay broken and dead where they had fallen.
The anguished scream from behind told us matters had not improved. Miss Birdle was about to run amok! Victoria chose the narrow cave formed between the back of the settee and the wall below the front window to hide. I pushed my way in behind her, almost clinging on to her back in my haste. It was a tight squeeze but we managed to get halfway down the semi-dark corridor. We trembled there, afraid to go further because that would lead us out again.
‘It’s your fault!’ the cat snivelled.
Before I had a chance to protest, the long handle of the rake found my rump and I was suddenly pushed forward in a most painful and undignified way. We became a confused tussle of hairy bodies as we now struggled to reach the other end of the narrow tunnel, violent pokes from the rear helping us achieve our goal. We emerged as one and the old lady dashed round to meet us.
Being the bigger target, I came in for the most abuse from the rake, but it pleases me to tell you the cat received a fair share. The chase went on for another five minutes before Victoria decided her only way out was up the chimney. So up she went and down came the soot – clouds and clouds of it. This didn’t improve Miss Birdle’s humour one bit, for the soot formed a fine black layer on the area around the fireplace. Now it was the old lady’s habit to lay that fire every morning and light it when she settled down in the afternoon, even though the warmer weather had arrived, but for once she decided to bring her schedule forward. She lit the fire.
I ga
zed on in horror as the paper flamed and the wood chips caught. Forgetting about me for the moment, Miss Birdle settled down in her armchair to wait, the rake lying across her lap in readiness. We stared at the fireplace, Miss Birdle with grim patience, I with utter dismay. The room around us was now a shambles, all cosiness gone.
The flames licked higher and the smoke rose. A spluttered cough fell down with more soot and we knew the cat was still perched there in the dark, unable to climb any further. Miss Birdle’s rigid lips turned up at the corners into a rigid smile as we waited, the silence broken only by the crackling of burning wood.
A knock at the door made us both jump.
Miss Birdle’s head swung round and I could see the panic in her eyes. The knock came again and a muffled voice called out, ‘Miss Birdle, are you in?’
The old lady burst into action. The rake was shoved behind the settee, overturned chairs were righted, and broken crockery was swept beneath the armchair. Only the soot-blackened carpet and a slight disarray of the room gave evidence that something out of the ordinary had happened. Miss Birdle paused for a few seconds, tidied up her clothing, rearranged her personality, and went to the door.
The vicar’s hand was raised to knock again and he smiled apologetically down at Miss Birdle.
‘So sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘It’s about the flower arrangements for Saturday’s fête. We can count on your wonderful assistance again this year, can we not, Miss Birdle?’
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