Kitten Smitten

by Anna Wilson

  Also by Anna Wilson

  Kitten Kaboodle

  Coming in March 2010

  Kitten Chaos (for World Book Day)

  Puppy Love

  Pup Idol

  Puppy Power

  And chosen by Anna Wilson

  Fairy Stories

  Princess Stories

  First published 2010 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  This electronic edition published 2010 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-52110-9 in Adobe Reader format

  ISBN 978-0-330-52109-3 in Adobe Digital Editions format

  ISBN 978-0-330-52111-6 in Mobipocket format

  Text copyright © Anna Wilson 2010

  Illustrations copyright © Moira Munro 2010

  Anna Wilson and Moira Munro to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  For Lucy and Thomas,

  who are very happy you’ve

  come back to us, Jet!

  1

  A Change of Heart

  First of all, let me get one thing straight. My dad never liked cats. And when I say ‘never’, I mean ‘never ever’. He was the sort of man who would hiss, spit and shout if a cat had the audacity to enter our garden.

  ‘Nasty creatures,’ he’d say. ‘And they dig up the bulbs and do their business everywhere.’

  Not that Dad was much of a gardener, as I was constantly pointing out whenever a cat dared to use one of the plant pots on the patio as a public loo.

  ‘You’re not exactly into gardening, Dad, so what does it matter?’

  ‘It matters, Bertie, because I’m never going to get the chance to be “into gardening”, as you put it, if every time I plant so much as a single puny snowdrop, a cat comes along and chucks the bulb over its shoulder and pees in the hole it’s left behind.’

  I gave Dad my usual response to anything ridiculous that he said: I rolled my eyes. As if cats went around chucking things over their shoulders! Anyone with half an ounce of brain knew that this kind of thing never happened.

  Even someone like me, who had once been friends with a cat who talked.

  Yes, OK, so now you’re thinking I’m the loony in the family. Well, that’s where you’d be wrong, because I was able to talk to this particular cat. Or rather, he was able to talk to me … What I mean is, no one else seemed to be able to understand him the way I did. His name was Kaboodle and he was quite a character – and that’s putting it mildly. From the day he catapulted into my life to the day he softly padded away, he created nothing short of chaos wherever he went.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself here. The thing is, Dad had always disliked cats so much that I had to come up with the brainwave of setting up a pet-sitting service, so that I could at least look after someone else’s cat even if I wasn’t allowed one of my own. And that’s how I met Kaboodle. His owner, Fenella Pinkington (an actress and lover of all things pink) lived opposite us and asked me to look after Kaboodle whenever she was away. In fact, Pinkella (as I called her, but only in my head – I’m not that rude) was my first ever pet-sitting customer. And thanks to Kaboodle trying to eat the only other pets I got to look after, she was pretty much my last. So I suppose you’d be forgiven for thinking that my dad must have been right about cats all along and they were nothing but trouble.

  Wrong.

  As Kaboodle was always fond of telling me, ‘You humans will never understand the feline species.’

  Even though he seemed to leave disaster in his wake, in the end Kaboodle made sure that Dad and I were much better off than when we’d first met the crafty little cat. Kaboodle turned out to be the friend I needed while my dad was too busy stuck in his dead-end job to pay me much attention, and it has to be said that it was thanks to Kaboodle that Dad eventually landed the job of his dreams: writing plays that actually got performed on a real, live stage!

  In fact, Kaboodle and Pinkella became so much a part of our lives that when they decided to move away, Dad had been as sad as I was. Which is possibly why he didn’t immediately throw a wobbly about Kaboodle’s leaving present: a tiny, fluffy, orange and white kitten. For me. To keep.

  So that’s how Jaffa came to live with us. Pretty little Jaffa Cake: my very own marmalade cat.

  When Kaboodle arrived with the tiny bundle and plonked her down on our front step I held my breath for so long I nearly stopped breathing altogether.

  ‘I know how much you are going to miss me,’ he drawled airily, while Dad and Pinkella exchanged their fond farewells. I couldn’t help grinning through my tears. Dear little Kaboodle, as immodest as ever. ‘So I thought you might appreciate some company. Her name is Perdita but you will no doubt want to change that …’

  She was, apart from Kaboodle, of course, the cutest, most heart-scrunchingly gorgeous kitten I had ever imagined, let alone actually seen in real life. She looked up at me with her alarmingly clear light blue eyes and frowned in a worried sort of way, as if she knew there might be a possibility of Dad telling her to get lost. Those eyes could melt icebergs, I’m telling you.

  In fact they managed to melt something even more immovable – Dad’s heart. Before I could think of any arguments to persuade him to say ‘yes’ to me having a cat of my own, Pinkella was cooing, ‘Isn’t it sweeeeeeet – Kaboodle’s brought you a goodbye present!’

  Dad winked at me as if to say, ‘What a loony!’ and said aloud, ‘It’s very kind of you, Fenella. Bertie’s always wanted a cat of her own. So, Bertie, what are you going to call her?’

  ‘I – sorry, what was that you just said?’

  ‘What are you going to call the kitten Fenella’s brought you?’ Dad repeated.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or start crying again. I felt as though I could do both at once. Kaboodle had well and truly got one over on Dad. He wasn’t going to say no to the kitten now he thought it was from Pinkella. I shot her a quick look just to make sure she wasn’t about to blow it, but she just smiled.

  Could it be that I was really seeing my biggest dream come true?

  I scooped up the little orange ball, whispered a quiet thank you to Kaboodle, thanked Pinkella out loud and carried the fluffy creature indoors while Dad said a final
round of farewells to Pinkella.

  The first thing I did once I was on my own with the kitten was to lift her up to my face and say softly: ‘Welcome to your new home! I hope you and I are going to be friends.’

  The kitten stared back at me with those huge, crystal-clear eyes.

  I tried again, ‘So, Kaboodle said you were related. Said you were called Purr-something? But he was right – I think I’m going to have to change that, I’m afraid. I can’t even remember it properly. Do you mind if I choose you a new name?’ I remembered how grumpy Kaboodle had been about humans just ‘assuming that they could do what they wanted with us felines without asking’.

  But the kitten gave only that unnerving wide-eyed innocent stare as an answer.

  I was feeling a bit stupid now. ‘I – er – I guess I was thinking that if you and Kaboodle are related, you can probably talk too. I know cats don’t talk unless they’ve got something really important to say, and I know we humans are not that great at being observant, cos Kaboodle was always telling me that …’ I tailed off. I was babbling now and starting to feel embarrassed as well as stupid. I glanced at the kitten in desperation.

  Stare, stare, stare.

  ‘Oh well, I s’pose it’s a bit freaky, being taken away from your mum and dumped on a stranger’s doorstep. Maybe you’d like something to eat?’ A surge of panic hit me as I realized I had no idea what tiny kittens ate. Kaboodle had not exactly given me a list of instructions like the ones Pinkella had when I’d been left in charge of him.

  The marmalade bundle gave that worried frown again, then opening her tiny mouth she showed a full set of needle-like teeth and made as if to mew. But no sound came out. It was unbearably sad to look at, as if she were frantically trying to tell me something but just couldn’t. It was all there in her eyes: anxiety, and a lost look that tugged at me dreadfully.

  I stroked her gently and made soothing noises. ‘There, there, little one. Don’t worry. You’ll be safe with me. I’ll get you something nice to eat.’

  The front door banged; the kitten and I jumped. She sank her claws into me and clung on while I winced and tried hard not to yelp so I didn’t frighten her even more.

  Dad burst out laughing when he saw us. ‘Ha! Making her mark already, is she?’

  I scowled. ‘Very funny, Dad. I think she thinks I’m a pincushion.’

  ‘She’s cute though, isn’t she?’ His face crumpled and his eyes went shiny.

  My jaw dropped and it had nothing to do with the fact that the kitten was giving me acupuncture. Something weird had happened to Dad. His face had that gooey expression on it that normal people reserve for babies and small furry creatures. No surprise there then, seeing as I was holding a small, furry baby animal. Except that this was DAD, for goodness sake – the same Dad who had always made it quite clear that the day a cat moved in to live with us would be the day he moved out.

  ‘Er – are you feeling OK?’ I asked him, finally succeeding in prising the kitten’s claws from my skin and settling down in a chair so that I could hold her more comfortably. She immediately leaped from my lap and bounced over to Dad.

  He scooped her up in his big square hands and cooed, ‘I’m feeling just fine. And how are you feeling, little kitty?’

  My eyeballs rolled so far back I could almost see the inside of my brain. Great. Dad had gone loony and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I had finally been given a cat of my own only to discover that she preferred my dad to me.

  Dad glanced up. ‘So, like I said – what are you going to call her? I guess it has to be something to do with her colour. She’s really gingery, isn’t she? Not many other colours in her fur … You know, I think it’s quite unusual to get a ginger female. They’re normally tomcats. Hey! What about “Ginger Snap”?’

  I bristled. Dad was not going to name her! ‘No way! That’s too, er, snappy.’ I frowned. ‘She’s too soft for a name like that.’

  ‘You’re right. And anyway, she’s more marmalade than ginger, like Orlando the Marmalade Cat,’ Dad said wistfully. ‘I used to love that story.’

  ‘I am not calling her Orlando.’ My voice rose with irritation. ‘Imagine shouting that down the road! Jazz would never let me get away with it.’

  ‘All right. So … something orangey,’ Dad mused. ‘What about Tango?’

  ‘Listen,’ I said sternly. ‘She’s my kitten – I get to choose the name. Kaboodle said— I mean,’ I interrupted myself hastily. ‘I – I was thinking of Jaffa Cakes and Jaffa oranges – so maybe just … Jaffa?’

  ‘Jaffa,’ Dad repeated, trying it for size. ‘Yes! I like it.’ He laughed and stroked the little kitten’s head as she re-emerged from her self-made hidey hole in his elbow. ‘I think she likes that too – she’s smiling!’

  I jumped up and ran over. Her mouth was turned up a bit at the edges. Was she really smiling?

  ‘So, little one, you like the name? Little Jaffa,’ I whispered, putting my face close to hers. But however eager I was to hear something, it did not look as though this little kitten was going to talk to me. She wasn’t even purring. She was completely silent.

  Dad and I spent the next couple of hours playing with Jaffa, cuddling her and watching her sleep. And she sure liked to sleep. One minute she’d be charging around the living room floor, chasing a bit of string, the next she’d be collapsed in a heap, fast asleep on the spot.

  ‘This beats working any day!’ Dad chuckled, as he let Jaffa run up and down his arms. She seemed to have decided that Dad was a giant playground and that his shoulders were the safest place to sit.

  I know it sounds weird, but even without being able to talk to her, I could tell she had a completely different personality from Kaboodle. He had been pretty self-contained: the sort of cat who was very sure of himself and absolutely certain that everyone other than him was not worth bothering with. He didn’t really need me at all. In fact, it was more like the other way round.

  Jaffa, on the other hand, seemed to love cuddles and attention and couldn’t get enough of us – especially Dad. He seemed so besotted, I thought I had better take charge of practicalities, so I brought up the question of Jaffa’s food. ‘I’ll have to go and buy some,’ I told him. ‘But I’ve no idea what to get.’

  Dad fished in his pocket, took out a tenner and looked at it. ‘Wonder how much cat food you get for ten pounds?’ He sighed and a flutter of nerves caught in my throat. What if reality was about to sink in? What if Dad was going to say a cat was too expensive to keep or something and tell me to take Jaffa to the Cats’ Home?

  I needn’t have worried. ‘Tell you what, I’m not going to get anything done now workwise, so why don’t we pop into town to the pet shop and pick up some kitten stuff?’

  Yay! My heart surged and my eyes sparkled. A huge grin split my face in two. It looked as though I was a fully fledged pet owner at last.

  2

  Paws for Thought

  It wasn’t until w e were driving out of our road that I realized I didn’t know if it was OK to leave a small kitten on its own.

  ‘Dad, I think you should take me back and I’ll stay with Jaffa while you go and get the food and stuff,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, what could possibly happen to her?’ Dad said. ‘We haven’t even got a cat flap yet, so she can’t exactly go anywhere. And she’s far too small to cause any mischief

  ‘S’pose so,’ I said reluctantly, but somewhere deep in my head a little voice was niggling. After all, Dad and I knew absolutely zilch about kittens. Jaffa was much smaller than Kaboodle had been when I first met him. Pinkella had told Dad that it looked as though Jaffa’s mum had only just weaned her, she was so tiny. And I knew that was true because of what Kaboodle had told me before he left. ‘She’s too young to go outside on her own,’ he had warned me. ‘You will have to keep her in for a few more days – a couple of weeks if you can. She needs to get used to her new home.’

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ Dad said, glancing across at me while we stopped at some t
raffic lights. ‘I’ll find out about a local vet and we’ll get her booked in as soon as possible. They’ll be bound to have some helpful hints about how to look after such a tiny cat.’

  I smiled weakly. Dad was right. And there was always the internet – I’d googled stuff about cats before when I was looking after Kaboodle. Still, I wished I had stayed behind with the kitten. I could have got Jazz to come round to help.

  Jazz! My hand flew to my mouth. She would be mad when she discovered I’d been the owner of a brand new kitten for four whole hours without calling her. Jazz and I told each other everything. Well, she was my best mate.

  I could text her, I decided … but then I remembered I’d left my phone on charge in my bedroom.

  Dad was concentrating on the road and hadn’t noticed my panicky behaviour. He was still talking about finding a vet. ‘Fenella didn’t mention whether the little thing has had any jabs or been wormed or anything,’ he was saying.

  ‘Jabs?’ I said anxiously. I was not sure I liked the sound of that. Jabs meant needles. Jaffa was too small to have needles stuck in her! And ‘worming’, whatever that was, sounded one hundred per cent totally gross.

  Dad shot me a kind smile. ‘Don’t worry. All animals have jabs.’

  That did not make me feel any better.

  ‘Listen, have you got a pen and paper? Why don’t you make a list of things we need to get,’ Dad said, thankfully changing the subject.

  I rummaged in my bag and in amongst the screwed-up sweet papers, iPod headphones and other random stuff that I never got round to sorting out, I found a stub of pencil and a scrap of paper.

  ‘Erm, “Things to Ask Pet Shop Person”,’ I muttered. Then I scribbled down some questions:

  I was soon so absorbed in thinking up things to buy or ask about that I forgot to worry about the vet.

  We parked right outside the pet shop, Paws for Thought – cheesy name, I know, but what a place! I’d often wished I had an excuse to go in there, as I could see through the window that it was full of wonderful things to buy for the pet I’d never had. (Till now, that is!) Whenever the shop was open the owner put a cute wooden kennel outside, sometimes with a toy puppy in it. The kennel was painted green with pink pawprints all over it and it had this funny little sign beside it which said: