by Anna Wilson
‘Huh—!’ I was about to protest that I hadn’t been the one planning memorial services and singing freaky songs, but I bit the words back before they had a chance to escape. I didn’t want to fall out with her all over again. ‘Yeah,’ I added flatly, changing my pout to a grin as Mr Smythe answered the door and let us in.
As we followed him into his incredibly neat and tidy house and he started chatting about his pets, I confidently repeated to myself that hamsters would be the simplest of pets to look after. They were tiny, they didn’t eat much, they didn’t need to be taken for walks and they lived in small cages so they were safe and sound in the same place all of the time.
However, after the list of instructions Mr Smythe gave us, I was beginning to have my doubts.
8 a. m. Feeding time: one small scoop of hamster mix, small pieces of carrot and cucumber in white pot.
8.05 a. m. Check water bottle is full. Do not leave too much fresh food – hamsters will hide it or stuff too much in pouches. May cause health problems.
8.10 a. m. Playtime in large cage. Clean out loo corner.
5.00 p. m. Water and food restocked.
5.10 p. m. Check for remains of food.
5.20 p. m. Feed again.
5.30 p. m. Bedtime. Tuck up tight. Avoid nightmares.
Ensure cage is shut at all times!
Nightmares? I thought. If anyone’s going to be having nightmares, it’s me. This guy was turning out to be more bonkers than Ms Fenella Nut-brain Pinkington.
‘Why do we have to do all this at these exact times?’ Jazz asked Mr Smythe,reading the notes over my shoulder. She stood back and put her hands on her hips, tossed her braided black hair, in what can only be described as her bored-and-totally-not-amused pose, and raised her eyebrows at me in our secret code language, which can mean any number of things, but which in this case most definitely meant, ‘What kind of weirdo are we dealing with here?’
I stifled a laugh. Obviously I agreed with her, but I did not want Mr Smythe to have second thoughts about letting me look after his pets.
‘It’s because animals need routine, don’t they, Mr Smythe?’ I said, in the most sucking-up way imaginable.
At this, Jazz rolled her eyes so dramatically I was worried that they would disappear into the back of her head and never come back.
‘That’s correct, Bertie,’ said Mr Smythe, twitching his nose and blinking at me through his little round glasses. He looked a bit like a hamster himself, I thought, although not as furry and definitely not as cute. ‘I can see that you are just the person for the job. I am glad to know that I’m leaving Houdini and Mr Nibbles in such safe hands.’
He took his glasses off and cleaned them for about half an hour while I wondered what was supposed to happen next. Then he smoothed his small moustache carefully and thoughtfully with the tips of his long fingers. I half-expected him to reach for a carrot and start nibbling at it. What with this guy’s bizarre behaviour and Jazz’s freakoid zombie eye-rolling I was in danger of being completely weirded out.
Then just as I was thinking maybe I should make my excuses and leave, Mr Smythe put his glasses back on and blinked at us as if he’d only just noticed we were there and said, ‘Ah. Yes. Let’s go and see the little chaps, shall we?’
He took us into a room at the back of his house and showed us the cage – or should I say the Hamster Play Park and Activity Area.
‘Whoa!’ shouted Jazz. ‘That is some hamster home!’
‘It’s ginormous!’ I agreed. ‘This looks like some kind of Marble Run game. What are all those tunnels and things for?’
Mr Smythe chuckled and wrinkled his nose at me. ‘It’s rather fun, isn’t it?’ he giggled, blinking rapidly. ‘The little chaps like to scurry around, so I bought them the tunnels and tubes and things to play in. And the wheel,’ he added, pointing to a large hamster wheel about the size of a football in the middle of the cage, ‘we ll, that’s their favourite bit, I think.’
Jazz was staring, her mouth so far open she probably could have swallowed the wheel. I guessed she must have been thinking what I was thinking: all this for two tiny furry creatures the size of golf balls?
‘Can you see the little chaps?’ Mr Smythe asked. He pointed to a pile of shredded paper, which I had noticed was rustling gently. A tiny pink nose popped out and two shiny black eyes blinked at me. Then a brown nose appeared next to the pink nose and another pair of black eyes emerged.
‘There you are, my little chaps!’ cooed Mr Smythe. ‘Busy bees, aren’t you, with all your yummy paper? Now I should tell you how to hold them,’ he went on.
In spite of all the nonsense Mr Smythe was spurting out, my tummy did a small flip and I beamed at Jazz. This was the whole reason I had thought up the pet-sitting idea. I was dying to hold one of these teeny creatures. Mr Smythe opened the top of the cage and told me to put my hand in.
‘Mr Nibbles can be a bit nervy,’ he warned me. ‘He’s the sandy one.’
I put my hand in the cage and tried to reach for one of the hamsters, but he scuttled away. I imagined Kaboodle laughing at my clumsiness.
‘Try gently stroking them while they’re still in the cage,’ Mr Smythe was saying. ‘Why don’t you offer the little chaps a piece of car ro t? They’ll soon work out they have nothing to fear.’
I did as Mr Smythe said, while Jazz huffed and puffed and tried various unsubtle attempts to get my attention. She had obviously recovered from the shock of seeing the hamster penthouse and was now rubbing her thumb and fingers together in a very obvious we-need-to-talk-money gesture. I shook my head at her firmly and fixed my attention squarely on the hamsters.
‘Oh!’ I cried as Mr Nibbles scurried over and let me touch him while he snatched the small chunk of carrot and nibbled away at it. ‘Oh! He’s so cute!’
And so soft! That sounds bizarre – after all, what did I think he was going to be – spiky? But I guess I just hadn’t been prepared for quite how soft he really would be. Much softer than Kaboodle, even.
Mr Smythe chuckled, showing an alarmingly large set of front teeth. ‘Now gently scoop him up in both hands. Don’t hold him too tightly or squeeze him! He might get frightened. That’s right, you’re doing fine.’
‘Oh, Jazz, it’s so cool! You should have a go,’ I said.
Jazz sighed noisily and came over and rather limply held out her hand.
‘Just remember, girls, don’t get excitable when you’re holding them,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘The little chaps need you to stay calm, or they’ll get nervous and they might try and run away.’
‘I’m not sure I can remember all that stuff about how to get them out of the cage without frightening them,’ I said, trying to distract Mr Smythe from Jazz, who was jumping about and squeaking while Mr Nibbles ran up and down her sleeves and over her hands.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve left you another note about how to handle them – it’s with the food. We’ll put Mr Nibbles back now and I’ll show you where I keep the food and sawdust. The sawdust is for their bedding. Here is the note about how to handle them – just in case you forget,’ he twittered.
He did go on a bit, I thought. Talk about Attention to Detail. I read the note:
Sit down while handling hamsters – that way they won't have far to fall. No squealing or squeezing. You will frighten or hurt them.
I saw Jazz was already negotiating payment with Mr Smythe. I wondered how she was going to cope with all these instructions, especially the ‘no squealing’ part. I read through the notes one more time and checked I knew where all the food was.
‘Our basic minimum rate is two pounds per day,’ she was saying.
I shot her a horrified look. But she just shrugged at me and went on, ‘I hope that will be acceptable to you, Mr Smythe. It’s because there are two hamsters, you see.’
Mr Smythe beamed and twitched and fiddled with his glasses and smoothed his moustache. I couldn’t for the life of me think what was amusing about Jazz fleecing him for two pounds a day and
talking to him as if she was the Queen and he had come to polish her boots. Mr Smythe swallowed his smile when he caught me looking, but gave me a wink and said, ‘I see you have a very organized partner in crime here, Bertie.’
I grimaced. ‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I think two pounds a day sounds reasonable,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay you when I get back, if that’s all right. As I said on the phone, I’ll only be gone for a couple of nights. In fact, if you do a good job, I’ll round it up to a fiver. How ’s that?’
I grinned weakly as Jazz said, ‘Great!’
‘So, have you got any final questions?’ he asked as he showed us out.
I shook my head.
‘Fine. So you’ll pop in and see the little chaps this afternoon, will you?’ he asked.
I nodded. Then Jazz piped up in a pushy way which was becoming a bit of a habit, ‘Actually, I’ve got a question.’
‘Fire away,’ said Mr Smythe.
‘What exactly was the thinking behind the names “Mr Nibbles” and “Houdini”?’ she asked, with a slight sneer, I was embarrassed to notice.
Mr Smythe smiled and tapped the side of his nose. ‘That would be telling,’ he said.
Jazz raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, obviously. That’s why I’m asking,’ she said.
I pulled her by the elbow and said, ‘Come on, Jazz. Your mum will be wondering where we are. Thank you, Mr Smythe. I’m really looking forward to looking after the hamsters. Have a lovely time at your daughter’s.’
‘Why did you have to be like that?’ I muttered as we left.
‘Sorreee,’ said Jazz,not sounding it at all. ‘But that man is seriously weird. What’s with all that twitching and calling the hamsters his “little chaps”? He’s nuts! Either that or he’s a freaking hamster himself. And don’t you think they’ve got stupid names? Mr Nibbles and Houdini. Huh! Hamsters are usually called cuddly things like Fluffy and Munchy and Hamhead,’ she said.
‘Ham-what?’ I guffawed.
‘Well,’ Jazz muttered, scuffing her trainers along the pave ment, ‘if I had a hamster, I’d call it Hamhead. At least it’s original.’
I couldn’t really argue with that.
Jazz wouldn’t stop going on about the names, though, so once we got back to her house, I agreed that we should look up Houdini on the Internet.
‘Maybe he’s named after someone famous,’ Jazz suggested.
It turned out she was right.
Harry Houdini (24 March 1874–31 October 1926) Hungarian American escapologist and stunt performer, widely regarded as one of the greatest ever to have lived.
Escapologist? I didn’t like the sound of that, somehow.
10
The Claws Are Out
After we had checked out the Internet, I remembered we still had to go and feed Kaboodle, who was probably waiting hungrily for us at Pinkella’s. I’d been so caught up with the hamsters, I’d almost forgotten about him, I realized guiltily
‘I think we should go and check on Kaboodle right now’ I blurted out.
‘Hey don’t get stressy!’Jazz said. ‘We don’t have to do everything exactly the way Ms P set it down – she won’t know whether pussy-kitty-catkins gets fed at nine o’clock or at half past ten, will she?’
I pursed my lips. ‘If we’re going to do this – and get paid for it –’ I broke off and looked at Jazz meaningfully – ‘then I reckon we should do what we’ve been asked, don’t you?’
‘OK, OK,’ said Jazz. ‘Let’s go.’
I jumped up and grabbed my jacket. Then I hesitated. ‘What’ll we tell your family?’ I asked. ‘I’m s’posed to be hanging out with you here.’
‘Say we’re going out on our bikes for a bit, I don’t know,’ said Jazz impatiently. ‘Mum’s got to take Ty to football in a minute, Leesh’ll be out and Sam’s never around these days, you know that. And since when has Dad ever asked me what I’m up to?’
I loved that about Jazz’s parents. They were so relaxed.
We ran downstairs and Jazz shouted over her shoulder that we were going out. I opened the front door and immediately tripped over Kaboodle who, it seems, had been sitting in the porch. He flicked his tail at me as I bent down to try and stroke him.
‘Hello,’ I said, nervously. He really did look quite cross. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Kaboodle hissed irritably. ‘I’m starving.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Kaboodle,’ I said. ‘We went round to Mr Smythe’s and then we’ve been on the Internet—’
Jazz flapped her hands at me and shrieked with laughter. ‘You kill me! Listen to you, talking to that little kitty-cat like he’s your best mate!’
I gulped. ‘Oh, yeah, I guess I’m supposed to do all that “pussy-wussy-catkin” rubbish, aren’t I?’ I mumbled. ‘So, er, here, puss-puss. Here, little kitty,’ I called to Kaboodle and, making a tight-mouthed kissing noise I’d heard Pinkella do, I bent down and held out my hand to stroke him. ‘Shall we go and get your breakfast?’
‘That’s the general idea,’ Kaboodle said through gritted teeth.
Jazz sighed. ‘You’ve got no idea, have you?’ she said. ‘Here, watch me.’ She bent down and scooped Kaboodle up into her arms.
And promptly dropped him.
‘Ow! You beast!’ she squawked. ‘Put those claws away!’
‘Tell her,’ Kaboodle commanded.
‘OK,’ I whispered, then looking at Jazz I said, ‘I, er, I don’t think he likes being picked up like that. Anyway, he must be starving. Let’s take him home.’
Jazz was frowning and rubbing her arm. ‘He can whistle for his breakfast if that’s the way he’s going to behave,’ she snapped.
‘Just think of the money,’ I reminded her. She grimaced, but followed me as I turned to go back up the road to Pinkella’s.
But then I remembered something: ‘I don’t have the key or my notebook. I’ll have to go home and get them.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Kaboodle purred, rubbing his head against my legs, ‘I can get in without a key.’
‘Yes, but how will I get in?’ I asked him.
‘You just said you were going to get the key,’ Jazz pointed out, sounding confused.
I’d done it again.
‘Yeah, that’s what I meant,’ I said, frowning.
‘Trust me, you don’t need a key,’ said Kaboodle. ‘There’s a cat flap.’
‘Yeah, but I can’t fit through a cat fl—’ I broke off.
Jazz was shaking her head at me. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked. ‘Cos once again, if it weren’t a totally bonkers thing to even imagine, I’d say you were actually having a conversation with that kitten!’
‘That’s because she is,’ said Kaboodle, a flicker of a smile wafting across his whiskers.
‘OH SHUT UP!’ I shouted at him.
‘Well, that’s nice,’ Jazz snapped at me. She crossed her arms and said, ‘I’ve only been trying to help you. But if you’re going to be like that, you can forget it. First you laugh at my singing and tell your dad about it, then you tell me off for my so-called “behaviour” at Mr Smythe’s, and now you’re acting freaky and telling me to shut up. Well, stuff you and your pathetic Pet-Sitting Service, Roberta Fletcher. I’m out of it.’ And she spun on her funky-trainered heel, went into her house and slammed the door. In my face.
‘Thanks, Kaboodle,’ I sighed.
He purred, looking up at me with those golden pools of honey that served for eyes. ‘Miiiaooow,’ he said, making himself look cuter than ever, ‘you’re not going to get cross with me now, Bertie. Are you?’
My heart did a jerky leap and I bent down to pick up the tiny black and white cat. ‘I’m not cross with you,’ I said, rubbing my face in his fur as he purred with delight. ‘I just don’t know how to handle talking to you while Jazz is around. She thinks I’m going loopy. Maybe I should tell her the truth—’
‘No!’ Kaboodle cut in swiftly. ‘No, no, that wouldn’t be a good idea at all,�
� he said. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to this morning while you go and fetch me some breakfast?’
I had the distinct impression that Kaboodle had managed to bamboozle me somehow.
Confused, I shook my head and said, ‘OK – but let me go home and get the keys. I don’t like the idea of trying to break in to Ms P’s, whatever you say.’
Kaboodle was on his own doorstep, having a thorough wash, when I emerged from my house.
‘Mffffuggggle?’ he said.
‘Pur-leeese!’ I protested. ‘You could at least stop washing your – er – private parts before you start speaking!’
Kaboodle removed his head from his tail region and looked at me coolly. ‘Have you never seen a cat wash before? We cats are extremely clean creatures, you know. Cleanliness is next to godliness. We always think before we act, and we never think before we wash—’
‘All right, all right, I get the picture,’ I interrupted. I was not keen to be seen hanging around outside chatting like this. I fumbled with the key and nearly tripped over the doormat in my hurry to get into the house.
Kaboodle padded softly behind me as I went through to the kitchen and quickly read through Pinkella’s notes again. He jumped and landed neatly on the work surface next to where I had put my notebook.
‘So, are you going to tell me what you and your irritating friend were up to this morning?’ he purred.
I decided to ignore his comment about Jazz and said, ‘We went to number two – you know, Mr Smythe’s?’
‘Ah, yes, Rodent Man,’ sneered Kaboodle. ‘Half man, half mouse. Shame he’s too big for me to sink my teeth into, really.’
‘Ye-es,’ I said. ‘Although I’d say he was more like half hamster, myself.’
Kaboodle gave a funny snort, midway between a laugh and a sneeze. ‘Yes, I heard you droning on about hamsters yesterday. What on earth is a hamster?’
I giggled. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘No, that’s why I asked,’ he replied sniffily. ‘I’m only six months old, you know. I haven’t exactly seen the world in its magnificent entirety.’
