The Kitten Hunt

by Anna Wilson

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, waving a hand at her. ‘Go on.’

  ‘And sometimes you have a memorial service – you know, you say beautiful poems and things about the person who’s died. We did it for Nan. She had always loved the sea, so when she died we had a day trip to her favourite beach in Kent and we said poems and sang songs. It – it was a n-nice way to remember her,’ Jazz hiccuped.

  ‘Yes, lovely,’ I said. ‘But you’re forgetting one small yet important fact: Kaboodle isn’t dead. At least, we don’t know he is. He’s only been missing a few hours. You can’t give up on him that easily.’

  Jazz sniffed again and wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘It can’t do any harm having a little service for him,’ she said. ‘And if he comes back, it’s not like he’ll know or be offended or anything.’

  I shook my head. ‘What is wrong with you?’ I snapped, suddenly fed up with the whole conversation. Jazz jumped like a startled deer. ‘The cat’s gone away for a day and you immediately leap to the conclusion that he’s dead? If he’d been run over we’d have seen a body –’

  But Jazz was in full flow with the memorial idea, and once she’s in full flow, there is no stopping her.

  ‘Can’t you just think of it as a lovely symbolic thing to do?’ she wheedled. ‘We could write our own poem or song, and then we’ll go out into the garden and say some words in memory of Kaboodle.’

  I huffed. This sounded like just another excuse for Miss Jasmeena Brown to take centre stage in an Oscar-winning performance. But more big fat tears had started rolling down her cheeks. She was getting really emotional so I thought I’d better agree quickly to her loony-brain plan so that we could get it over and done with.

  Jazz perked up when I told her I liked her idea (even though it would’ve been pretty clear to even the doziest dormouse on the block that I really didn’t) and she suggested we have the service right there and then.

  ‘I’ve just had a poptastic idea!’ she said, bouncing around the house with all her previous tragic misery miraculously forgotten. ‘Let me just get some paper and a pen . . . right.’ She started scribbling on a pink notepad she’d filched from a drawer. ‘We could sing that mega song from Cats – you know, the musical? And we could write out an order of service.’

  Hmm. She was getting really carried away now.

  ‘Look – what about this?’ She showed me what she’d sketched out:

  ‘What does “RIP” mean?’ I asked.

  ‘“Really Important Person”; you always find it on gravestones and so on to show how important that person was to their family,’ Jazz said, her eyes shining with enthusiasm.

  ‘Shouldn’t we put RIC, then?’ I said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You know, Really Important Cat?’ I insisted. A voice in my head was saying, ‘I cannot believe you are even having this conversation.’

  Jazz shook her head. ‘No, no. It’s always RIP . We can pretend in this case that it stands for Really Important Pet, if that helps?’

  Jazz always has an answer for everything.

  ‘Do we have to sing “Memory” from Cats?’ I asked, feeling very squirmy at the thought. I seemed to remember that the music went very high and screechy and I didn’t think I’d be able to reach the top notes. And what if Pinkella’s next-door neighbours heard and wanted to know what we were doing?Then the cat really would be out of the bag. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

  But then I noticed that Jazz had put on one of her huffy faces so I said quickly, ‘Actually, I think it’s going to be fab – don’t listen to me.’

  At last Jazz agreed that we had done enough preparation and that we could go ahead with the service. I think the fact that I kept glancing at my watch and pacing up and down had something to do with it.

  ‘Dearly beloved . . .’ she began in a droning, deep voice. She sounded like she was a grey and wrinkly ninety-year-old priest instead of my best friend. We ird bubbles of inappropriate laughter started to fizz up inside my nose.

  ‘We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of our much-loved brother Kaboodle—’

  ‘Brother? ’ I squeaked. ‘But he’s a kitten!’

  Jazz shot me a dirty look and carried on: ‘. . . much-loved brother, Kaboodle the kitten. Kaboodle was a kitten above all others. He will be sorely missed. In his memory, we will now sing the song printed on the order of service.’

  And then, solemn as anything, she started to sing, ‘Mem-ry, not a sound from the pave-ment . . .’

  I couldn’t help it, the laughter just burst out. You couldn’t blame me. She sounded how I imagined Kaboodle would if he’d got his tail trapped in a door, or if Pinkella had stepped on him by accident in her high-heeled spiky pink shoes.

  Very soon I was howling. I just couldn’t stop. I had to sit down on the bench, otherwise I would have fallen over.

  Jazz was furious. ‘Thanks for nothing!’ she ye lled at me. ‘I was only trying to make you feel better. Isn’t that what mates are for?’ And when in response I shook my head with silent laughter, trying in vain to get my breath back, she spun on the heel of her trainers and marched out of the garden, leaving me there, gasping for breath.

  Deep down inside I felt one hundred per cent horrendous for laughing at Jazz like that. But it was no good. I had got to that stage of laughing when you are panting hard, trying to get your breath back while vaguely hoping you are not going to be sick. I had lost control of every one of my senses. The sight of Jazz flouncing off in a huff just made it worse. I wiped the tears from my eyes and struggled to get up from the bench, and was just about to call out to her when a smooth, suave voice beside me said, ‘I’m glad you find the situation so amusing.’

  7

  A Bad Dream?

  I whizzed round so fast my head nearly flew off.

  There on the garden bench beside me, washing his paws slowly and carefully large as life and twice as kitten-like, was Kaboodle.

  ‘Ka-ka-ka.’ I stammered. No other noise would come out. I was sure all the blood had drained right out of me.

  ‘Is that all you’re going to say? I thought you might be pleased to see me You two were making enough fuss a moment ago when you thought I’d disappeared for good.’

  ‘Ka-ka-ka . . .’ I was having serious problems with my voice box. I stared at the kitten wildly. Was he really talking? I couldn’t see his lips moving.

  His whiskers twitched as if in amusement and his primrose-yellow eyes twinkled.

  ‘Ye-es,’ he said, talking to me as if I was a certifiable fruit-and-nutcase, instead of a very shocked and on-the-verge-of-a-nervo us-breakdown eleven-year-old girl. ‘I – am – Ka – boodle. Or at least, that’s what Ms Pinkington chose to call me. My mother, Samirah, named me Obadiah de la Chasse. But we cats don’t believe in biting the hand that feeds us, so we put up with the frankly idiotic names you humans choose for us. When you’re as sophisticated as we are, you can carry off any name really. So, to put it succinctly, I won’t be offended if you want to call me “Kaboodle” too. I think that poor woman thought it was a clever name – you know, a play on the expression “kit and caboodle”?’ He yawned in an exaggerated fashion and examined one neat little paw, as if the whole conversation was about as exciting as a dead beetle.

  I looked around, panic-stricken. This must be Jazz playing a trick on me, I thought. She was furious with me for laughing at her singing and now she’d gone and found Kaboodle and was doing that voice-throwing thing that those guys do with a puppet on their knee to make it look as if the puppet is really talking. I had no idea whether or not this was one of Jazz’s many talents but at this point in my life I was beginning to believe that anything was possible.

  Anything except a kitten appearing out of nowhere and talking to me, calm as custard.

  As I continued to stare with my mouth wide open, Kaboodle stopped yawning and laughed at me. At least, I think it was a laugh. It was a sort of shaky, long-drawn-out miiia-oow, and he threw his head back like a human would, as if
he was having a good old chuckle.

  ‘Your face!’ he said, still miaow-chuckling. ‘I can see you’re impressed with the way I’m expressing myself . . . ’

  ‘Er, I – oh wowsers!’ I gulped and stuttered and got up off the bench, edging my way nervously towards the garden gate.

  This was all Dad’s fault. I had spent so much time thinking and dreaming about having a pet of my own that I had succeeded in persuading myself that there was such a thing as a talking cat who could be my friend. It was official: I had flipped. Call the men in white coats, someone, please.

  ‘Firstly,’ I said slowly, trying to calm myself down, ‘cats don’t talk. Secondly, we – that is, Jazz – thought you were dead. So that means that thirdly . . . I must be imagining all this,’ I finished up, thankful that I was alone with Kaboodle at that particular moment in time. Kaboodle looked as if I’d just waved his silver plate of prawns in his face and then run off with it and eaten the lot myself. He opened his eyes wide and flattened his ears. ‘I take huge offence at what you have just said,’ he hissed, arching his back angrily ‘I am very much alive and well – no thanks to you, I might add.’

  I shook my head and stammered, ‘O-OK, I believe that you’re alive . . . Hey! What do you mean, “no thanks to me”? What have I done? I’ve spent all day looking for you.’

  Kaboodle backed up on to his hind legs, waving his forepaws at me as if preparing for a fight. ‘Don’t I know it,’ he spat. Then he seemed to pull himself together and sat back down. ‘I was trying to catnap in that tree over there after my first night of er . freedom,’ he said, vaguely waving a paw in the air And then you and your little friend come crashing into the garden, screeching my name in voices fit to wake the dead (no joke intended), and then, to cap it all, that girl starts up with her hideous racket. “Memory” is my least favourite song from Cats. Ms Pinkington is always playing the ro tten thing. Why she’s so fond of it beats me. The whole performance is laughable. Humans dressed up as cats – I ask you! I mean, it’s understandable that you are jealous of our sleek and alluring feline beauty, but as if dressing up as us could make you poor, skinny, furless creatures attractive!’

  He sat up tall and flicked his tail in a way that made me think he was getting very irritable indeed. I was still in shock and did not know what to say or think. I pinched myself hard on the arm.

  ‘Ow!’ I cried. Not dreaming then.

  ‘Tell me this,’ said Kaboodle, considering me closely. ‘If I’m not here, as you seem to think – if you are only imagining this – then how do you explain this conversation we are having?’

  ‘I – I don’t know,’ I said, blushing and feeling very stupid. What if Jazz came back? I decided to try and take control of the situation.

  ‘OK, so you’re real. How come you can talk then?’ I asked, pulling my shoulders back.

  Kaboodle looked me straight in the face, cool as a salamander. ‘I’ve always been able to talk. It’s you that has never bothered to listen properly,’ he said carelessly.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘That first time you took a close look at me,’ he continued. ‘Remember? Those occasions when we met on the street? And what about that time you were walking past, pushing those leaflets through the door? I stared at you, and you knew exactly what I was trying to tell you.’

  I thought back to that morning only a few days ago, when my life was a lot less complicated – no Pet-Sitting Service to hide from Dad, no talking kitten to hide from my best mate – and a lot more boring, I realized, a grin spreading across my flushed features.

  ‘Yes, I do remember,’ I replied. ‘You we re sitting in the window of Pink . . . Ms Pinkington’s front room and I felt kind of – shivery. And, er, you looked . . .’ I tailed off.

  ‘Go on,’ Kaboodle prompted.

  ‘Well, you looked a bit – lonely,’ I finished.

  Kaboodle nodded slowly. ‘Then you did understand me.’

  ‘But how can you be lonely when you’ve got an owner who lavishes love and attention on you and feeds you all that yummy food and loves you so much she can’t bear to be parted for you while she goes away for only two weeks?’

  Kaboodle wr inkled his nose. ‘And how can you be lonely when you’ve got a best friend who sticks to you like glue? Not to mention a dad who works insanely hard to look after you and loves you so much that he’s worried sick about you when he has to leave you on a Saturday to write an article for that newspaper he doesn’t even care two hoots about?’

  ‘How did you know about all that?’ I gasped.

  ‘You humans are so noisy,’ Kaboodle said, stretching out his front paws and sticking his bottom in the air ‘It’s all too easy to eavesdrop on conversations.’

  I shook my head disbeliev-ingly ‘But you would’ve had to be inside our house to hear about that.’

  Kaboodle smiled again. ‘No. You told Jazz all about it, and I was on the prowl in the bushes at the time You humans are always so caught up in your own lives that you never notice what’s right under your nose.’

  I bristled. Up until then I had thought kittens were joyful bouncy bundles who spent their days chasing butterflies and snoozing happily on cushions. In fact, if anyone had asked me to imagine what a kitten would talk about, I would have said, ‘Oh, probably just cute things about flowers and cuddles.’

  How wrong could a girl be?

  Kaboodle had made an idiot out of me and Jazz, skulking about in the shadows while we charged around the place, yelling his name and getting our knickers in a twist about his whereabouts. I felt my shoulders tense in annoyance.

  Kaboodle laughed in that mewling way of his. ‘Are someone’s whiskers ruffled?’ he asked. ‘You even give away what you are feeling in your body language, my dear. Don’t get so uptight. As it happens, I rather like you and I’m delighted that my little plan has worked out so well.’

  ‘What little plan?’ I asked sniffily.

  ‘To get you on your own,’ he purred, closing his eyes slowly and opening them again to fix them on me with a gaze that was almost hypnotic. I felt that shivery sensation trickle down my back again. My previous moodiness immediately melted away.

  I bent down to stroke him.

  Kaboodle flicked out of reach. ‘Never do that without asking,’ he said sharply. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s being touched or picked up like some common little moggy.’

  I started back in surprise. ‘But Ms P is always cuddling you!’ I protested. ‘And you didn’t mind when she put you in my hands the other day.’

  ‘Yes, that was all right,’ he admitted, washing a front paw absent-mindedly, ‘but how would you like it if your father picked you up and swung you round the minute you walked in the door without so much as a by-your-leave?’

  I bit my lip. Secretly I would have loved it. Dad had never been a big one for hugs.

  Kaboodle noticed my hesitation and put his head on one side. ‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘But what about all those times Ms P has ruffled your hair and called you “sweetie”?’

  This little cat knew me far too well.

  Kaboodle waved his paw at me as if he were getting bored again and swiftly returned to the subject in hand. ‘I had to get you on your own so that I had a chance of getting a word in edgeways. That friend of yours – what’s her name? Jazzie-some-thing? She does go on a bit, doesn’t she? Never mind. Now that you are actually paying attention to what I am saying, I think it’s only fitting that we should get some ground rules established. First of all, never touch me without asking. Secondly, I’m really not that keen on that so-called “gourmet kitten” muck that Ms Pinkington has left for me. I would prefer fresh tuna or sardines – can you manage that? Although I wouldn’t say no to a bit of salmon or some more of those prawns,’ he said, purring more loudly at the thought. ‘Lastly, if that friend of yours sings one note in my vicinity ever again, I shall scratch her eyes out.’

  I thought that was quite harsh. Jazz’s singing wasn’t going to win that
Who’s Got Talent? show on the telly, but still! Then something occurred to me and I drew a sharp breath. ‘But Kaboodle, how on earth am I going to explain to Jazz that you can, er, talk? She’ll think I’ve gone loopy and probably send for the doctor and have me locked up.’

  ‘Why ever would you want to tell her? Can’t it be our little secret?’ Kaboodle asked. If he had had eyebrows I’m sure he would have raised one.

  ‘Well, I kind of . . . I sort of thought that if she heard you say something when we’re together . . . well, she’d be pretty shocked,’ I ended lamely.

  Kaboodle gave a miaow that sounded a bit like Dad yelling ‘Aaargh!’ at me when he’s so outraged at what I’ve done that he can’t find the words to describe how completely exasperated he is. Like the time I put my trainers in the oven to dry out after getting caught in the rain, and then forgot that I’d put them there. ( The trainers melted and turned into black glue. Luckily they were ve ry old and I’d almost grown out of them. Makes you wonder what they put in trainers, is all I can say. )

  ‘You don’t think that idiot friend of yours will actually be able to hear me, do you? In fact, if I’d turned purple, grown wings and started singing the National Anthem she wouldn’t bat an eyelid. The only thing she is interested in is getting her precious money for those disgusting shoes she wants so badly,’ he hissed.

  Holy Stromboli!

  Kaboodle was shaking his head at me. ‘Listen. Mother told me that the feline species has been trying for years to get through to humans about the way we are treated, but most people are just not on our wavelength. When it comes to cats, most humans are as deaf as a scratching-post.’

  I managed a shaky laugh. ‘Well, OK, I suppose that makes sense,’ I said at last. Then something occurred to me. ‘What about Ms P though? Can she understand you?’