The Kitten Hunt

by Anna Wilson

  I should have felt bad for yelling at Dad like that, especially when deep, deep down I knew he was right to have a go at me. And I’d lied to him. But I couldn’t hear any of those little voices in my head telling me to calm down and apologize. There was a louder voice drowning them out, telling me I had every right to be livid with everybody and everything. Including myself.

  Why hadn’t I told Dad about the Pet-Sitting Service when I’d first had the idea? He might have given me marks out of ten for initiative. Better than that, he might have realized the reasons behind it and started acting like a real dad for once. But it was too late now . He was furious with me. If I went downstairs and told him the truth, he’d probably only go on about how irresponsible it was to go ahead and start up the business without his permission, and then he would rant and rave about how unsafe it was to be going into other people’s houses on my own. So I did the only thing a girl can do in such circumstances – I climbed the ladder up to my bed, buried my head in my pillow and finally let the tears loose, sobbing until my face ached.

  I heard Dad come and knock gently on my door at one point, but I couldn’t bear the thought of having to talk to him, so I pulled my pillow over my head and snuggled down into my duvet. It was getting dark outside now. I just wanted the day to end and for sleep to creep over me so that I didn’t have to think about cats or hamsters or best friends. Or dads.

  Eventually my tear-sore eyes started to feel heavy, and the thoughts racing around my head slowed to a numb, cotton-woolly feeling. I was almost asleep when a soft thud on the foot of my bed jerked me fully awake again. I jolted from the duvet and saw the silhouette of something pacing near my feet. I went cold and felt a scream rising in my throat when I heard:

  ‘Purrrrr – don’t get stressy, it’s only me.’

  ‘Kaboodle!’ I gulped at the dryness in my mouth. ‘You frightened the life out of me.’

  ‘The window was open.’ The kitten walked up the bed and nuzzled his soft little head against my arm.

  I pushed him away roughly. ‘I’m cross with you,’ I snapped.

  Kaboodle mewed indignantly. ‘Why? I gave you a perfectly good explanation about that tailless rodent, didn’t I?’

  ‘This isn’t about the hamster,’ I said. ‘Well, it is – but it’s mostly about Dad getting cross with me, and he wouldn’t have done if I’d been with Jazz, and I wasn’t with Jazz because – OOH!’ I shook my head. My brain was a nest of wasps.

  Kaboodle sidled up to me again and purred loudly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll fix it,’ he announced. ‘Isn’t that what friends are for?’

  ‘All right,’ I said reluctantly, and slid back down under the duvet. Then I remembered that I hadn’t bothered getting out of my jeans before leaping into bed and bawling my eyes out earlier. ‘Are you staying tonight?’ I asked Kaboodle, as I got changed into my Snoopy PJs.

  ‘I’ll stay for a bit. Got things to do, places to go, people to see,’ he replied cryptically. ‘I’ll wait till you go to sleep, though.’

  ‘That’d be nice.’ I stretched and yawned and then hopped back into bed. Kaboodle nestled into the crook of my knees and curled into a tiny ball.

  ‘Night, then,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yeah. Ni-night,’ I answered.

  I woke up, my heart pounding. It was Monday and I would have to face Jazz at school. I really hoped she had gone out and done something nice with her family last night so that she would have forgotten about our row. I also had to face Dad, of course. I wished I had let him come in last night so that we could have made up.

  I climbed down from my bed feeling a bit shaky and poked around in the half-light to find my purple furry slippers that are kind of like little boots and are super-snuggly. Kaboodle hadn’t been able to close the window after him during the night, of course, so the room was like an igloo now. October was just around the corner, and the mornings were getting a lot nippier. I wasn’t about to pad around in bare feet, that was for sure.

  At last I found the slippers, under a magazine I’d forgotten about. I picked it up and leafed idly through the photos while I slid my feet into the slippers.

  ‘AAARGH!’

  There was something small and squidgy in the end!

  I shrieked and kicked the offending slipper across the room, and out flew something small, grey and furry with a very long tail.

  ‘A MOUSE!’ I screamed. ‘A MOUSE! THERE’S A MOUSE IN MY SLIPPER!’

  Dad threw my door open and ran over to me. ‘What? It’s all right, Bertie. Stop screaming!’ he said, putting his hands firmly on my shoulders. ‘That’s it, deep breaths. My word, I thought someone had got into your room. Why’s your window open?’

  I breathed heavily in and out, and held on to Dad’s arms to stop myself from falling over. I had never fainted before in my life, but then I’d never found a mouse in my slipper before either.

  ‘There – was – a – mouse – in – my – slipper,’ I panted, pointing to the corner of the room where the small grey rodent lay, its eyes wide open, its paws held up to its face. It actually looked more frightened than me, but I wasn’t yet in a fit state to start feeling sorry for it.

  ‘Good grief!’ said Dad, bending down. And then he did something so gross – he picked it up by its tail!

  I screamed again.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Dad, holding out his free hand in what he must have thought was a calming gesture. ‘This little guy isn’t going anywhere any more.’ He didn’t sound convinced, though, and he was grimacing as if he wasn’t entirely sure that the mouse wasn’t about to wriggle back to life in his hand.

  ‘I’ll just get rid of it, and then I’ll have a look round your room and check there aren’t any others,’ he said, walking out of the door.

  I sat down heavily on the edge of my bed and put my head in my hands. Could things get any worse? I wondered. First Mr Smythe’s hamster, now this. What would that cat think of next?

  ‘Kaboodle?’ I whispered, going over to the window. ‘Are you out there?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Kaboodle – was that mouse from you?’ I said a bit louder. ‘Because if it was I’ll—’

  ‘Who are you talking to, Bertie?’

  I jumped and swivelled round like a cat on hot coals. Dad had come back into the room, and was brushing his hands together as if he was trying to get rid of something dirty. He half smiled, half frowned at me.

  ‘Hey, I know the mouse was a shock,’ he said soothingly. ‘But it’s gone now. Maybe a cat got in through your window—’

  ‘No!’ I cut in.

  ‘OK,’ said Dad slowly. He turned his head slightly and looked at me with a concerned expression. ‘You look a bit grey around the gills, Bertie. Listen, I’m working from home today. Why don’t you stay off school and have a rest?’

  Wow, that sounded tempting. But I had to face Jazz sooner or later.

  ‘No, no, it’s OK. I was just shocked. It’s all right,’ I said hastily. ‘But – er – could you just check to see there are no more mice, like you said?’

  Dad smiled and nodded. I waited until he was on his hands and knees, looking under the bed, and then I turned back to the window. I peered out into the garden, but it was still quite dark and misty. I tried looking in the treetops too, but I couldn’t see anything. Certainly not a little black and white kitten.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Dad. ‘So. Any more?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Dad cautiously. ‘Maybe it was just the one. Do you want to sleep in my room tonight, though – just in case?’

  Sleep in Dad’s room? What a nightmare! For a start, I knew he snored, and anyway, what would Kaboodle do if he came in and found I wasn’t in my bed?

  I laughed shakily. ‘No thanks, Dad. .’spect you’re right. Anyway, if I find another one, I’ll probably scream again, and then you can come and sort it out!’

  ‘Cheeky!’ said Dad, punching me gently on the shoulder. ‘Well, if you’re going to school, you’d better get a move on
– it’s seven thirty already. I suppose I’m going to have to give you a lift.’

  Only seven thirty. I had a feeling it was going to be a very long day.

  13

  The Cat Is Out of the Bag

  It wasn’t until I’d been taken to school in the comfort of Dad’s car that I remembered something – in the excitement of finding the mouse that morning, I had completely run out of time to feed Kaboodle and the hamsters. Would they be OK with no breakfast? There was no way I could get to them before the end of school now

  I was so anxious about this as I walked in through the school gates, that I forgot to look out for Jazz and prepare for a sticky conversation, and instead I narrowly missed walking straight into her.

  ‘Hey! Watch it,’ she said, whirling round and pulling a face at me. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Yeah. S-sorry, Jazz,’ I mumbled.

  ‘About thumping into me or about shouting at me yesterday?’ she asked, hands on hips. Then she flicked her head quickly and blinked at me like she was doing a double take and burst out laughing. ‘Holy cow, Bertie – you look like a right muppet!’ she shrieked. ‘What’s happened to you this morning?’

  I looked up at her through my hair, which was being about as mad as it is possible for my hair to be, thanks to the mouse episode and not having enough time to even run my fingers through it that morning, let alone wash it or brush it. Ta lk about Bed Head. Mine was more like Return-of-the-Living-Dead Head. I looked as though I’d been brought back to life by being plugged into an electric socket.

  I should have thought of something witty and cutting to say back, but instead, I’m ashamed to say, my bottom lip actually started wobbling.

  Luckily for me Jazz is my best mate, and even in one of her strops she is not totally immune to me being upset. The grin on her face melted into a creased-up concerned look, and she immediately dropped her bag and flung her arms around me.

  ‘Hey! Hey! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. You don’t look that bad, honest! Listen, you know I hate it when we fight.’

  ‘I-it’s not you,’ I hiccupped.

  Just then the bell rang, so we had to go in, which was just as well, as it had started raining, which would play ultra-frizzoid havoc with my non-hairstyle. I quickly filled Jazz in on what had happened after she’d stomped off and left me with the hamsters and then I told her about the mouse.

  We filed into the classroom, me stuffing my hair into a spare scrunchy Jazz had shoved at me, with Jazz exclaiming, ‘Guh-ross!’

  ‘Jasmeena Brown – sit down and be quiet,’ said our grumpy teacher, Mrs Steep. ‘And Roberta Fletcher – finish your ablutions before class in future.’

  Jazz and I rolled our eyes at each other and flumped into our seats. Boy, it felt good to be friends again!

  The next time we got a chance to talk was at first break.

  ‘I reckon it was definitely Kaboodle,’ said Jazz, as soon as the bell went.

  ‘What?’ I asked. It always amazes me how Jazz can pick up a conversation that was left off hours or even days before.

  ‘The mouse!’ she said impatiently as she grabbed her coat from her peg. ‘Kaboodle must have left it for you – it’s what cats do. I t’ll be like a present from him to say thank you for looking after him. And no wonder – the way you talk to him, he’s probably decided you’re his new owner!’

  I grimaced. ‘I hope not.’ I couldn’t help thinking Pinkella would have a word or two to say about that.

  ‘Cats are like that though,’ said Jazz knowledg-ably. ‘My aunt had one that was always bringing her dead mice and birds and stuff. A untie Jo said it was the cat’s way of showing her it liked her or something.’

  I couldn’t help smiling at that. It made me feel warm inside, thinking Kaboodle actually liked me. Then it occurred to me – maybe he’d been trying to say sorry!

  ‘What about us?’ I asked Jazz. ‘Are we friends again?’

  ‘Of course, you doughnut!’ she said, nudging me with her elbow, her bangles jangling on her wrist.

  ‘And you’ll come and feed the animals with me after school? I forgot them this morning – they’ll be starving!’

  ‘You bet,’ she said. ‘Sounds like you need another pair of hands with those hamsters.’

  As things turned out, I needed more than one pair of hands to cope with the events that unfurled that eve ning . . . .

  ‘I’ll walk you back to yours,’ Jazz said, as we got off the bus.

  ‘OK,’ I giggled. ‘But only if you let me walk you back to yours after!’

  We walked down the road, arms linked, chattering, shrieking and gossiping about our ultra-annoying science teacher – in other words, everything was back to normal. I was so relieved, my heart felt like it was inflated to ten times its normal size and might actually burst right out of me and float off into the sky like a helium balloon.

  Then as Jazz and I went into my house, the balloon popped.

  Dad was standing in the kitchen. He did not say hello, and he did not look happy to see me. In fact, he was glar ing at me. Then he raised one hand and dangled . . . a dead mouse in my face!

  ‘AAARGH!’ I screamed.

  ‘EEEEK!’ Jazz screamed.

  ‘And that’s not all,’ said Dad, as if in answer to a perfectly serious question. ‘This one was by the back door, but I’ve also had one on my laptop keyboard, one in the kitchen sink and one in my jacket pocket!’

  I had stopped screaming and was staring at the mouse in total and utter horrified silence. What was Kaboodle up to?

  ‘It’s that cat!’ Jazz blurted out. ‘I told you, Bertie.’

  I shook my head at her quickly and mouthed, ‘No!’ but she didn’t get the hint.

  ‘I told you he was bringing you presents!’

  ‘What?’ Dad asked, in his slow and dangerous voice that he reserves for occasions when I am in so much trouble, I don’t know how much. Occasions such as this, for example.

  ‘Remember that cat you saw me with the other day, Mr Fletcher? And you thought it was mine? Well, I say cat, but it’s more of a kitten really, and the thing is, it’s not actually completely mine . . .’ Jazz was babbling now, and backing away from the mouse that Dad was still waving in our faces, as if he was trying to hypnotize us with it. Meanwhile I was waving my hands violently at Jazz and mouth-ing, ‘NOOO!’

  But Jazz wasn’t looking at me. She was looking at the mouse and wibbling, ‘Yeah, it’s definitely not my cat. Mum doesn’t like them, you see. Her sister used to have one and . . . anyway—’

  DRIIIING!

  The doorbell. I grabbed Jazz by the hand to stop her from saying anything more to Dad,and ran to answer the door.

  ‘Hello, sweetie!’

  Pinkella!

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked rudely. I couldn’t help it – the words came out of their own accord.

  Pinkella’s mouth crumpled. ‘You might well a-a-ask,’ she sobbed.

  Holy Stromboli! This was all I needed right now.

  I would have slammed the door in her face,had she not already walked right into my house uninvited and dropping big fat mascara-coated tears all over the carpet.

  Dad came through at the sound of the weeping and wailing and said, ‘What on earth . . . .’

  Pinkella blinked at him through her melting make-up and waved a hand in front of her face as if to hide her distress. ‘I-I’m so s-so-sorry to descend on you like this,’ she stammered. ‘I’m afraid I’m having a terrible day.’

  ‘Join the club,’ Dad muttered.

  I might have said the same, had I not been in full-on panic overdrive. How was I going to get out of this one?

  ‘If it’s your kitten you’re worried about, Ms P, it’s OK. He’s probably here somewhere,’ said Jazz unhelpfully.

  ‘No, it’s not that. Wa it a minute – why would Kaboodle be here?’ Pinkella asked, her voice suddenly dangerously under control and her finely plucked eyebrows meeting together in a scary frown.

 
By now my levels of panic had risen to completely unmanageable proportions and I could not do anything other than stare at the disaster unfolding before me, my mouth open like a frightened frog.

  Dad put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Bertie?’

  I turned to look at him, willing myself to come up with a plausible and brilliant explanation, when I felt something soft and warm wind itself round my legs.

  ‘Miaow? Anything the matter?’ asked Kaboodle.

  ‘You could say that,’ I hissed at him, glancing nervously at the two grown-ups who were waiting for an answer from me. ‘The cat is, as they say, well and truly out of the bag.’

  14

  Stranger Things Have Happened

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ Dad said, sitting across from me at the kitchen table and fixing me with a you’d-better-be-telling-me-the-truth-this-time stare ‘You set up a Pet-Sitting Service without telling me, and Jazz has been in on this from the start?’ He glared at Jazz as he said this.

  ‘Yeah, I, er – actually I was the brains behind all this, Mr F, Jazz mumbled, staring at the table-top.

  I shot her a questioning look, but she ignored me. From the look on Dad’s face, I don’t think he believed her anyway. What was he going to do? Stop me and Jazz from hanging out together? Make me give up seeing Kaboodle? Put me under house arrest? Silence reigned as I struggled to think of anything to say to defend myself.

  Thankfully Pinkella came to my rescue. ‘I don’t think you should be too hard on the girls, Mr Fletcher,’ she said. ‘Your daughter has actually been very resourceful, if you think about it. And her rates were really quite reasonable—’

  ‘Her WHAT? You were CHARGING MONEY?’ Dad bellowed, making all of us, Kaboodle included, jump in our seats.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Pinkella said, a bit nervously. ‘I offered to pay Roberta. It’s only a pound a day, which is incredibly cheap – especially compared with the cat hotel.’

  ‘I told you we should have asked for more,’ Jazz muttered.

  I held my breath, waiting for another explosion from Dad.