I’m a Chicken, Get Me Out of Here!

by Anna Wilson

Ned went straight to the kitchen in search of help. He stopped only once to try to lick himself clean, but the taste of the make-up and paint was dreadful.

  ‘How am I going to get this disgusting stuff off me?’ he panicked. ‘I need Wilf. He is the only one who will be gentle enough. Not that I can bear the thought of being washed . . .’

  But the only creature in the kitchen was Ringo, for both Wilf and Grandma were still busy with Titch, and Mum had not yet returned. Ned decided against waking the snoring dog.

  ‘The last thing I need is that dreadful hound leaping at me and licking me all over,’ muttered Ned. ‘He would be sure to be sick from the effects of swallowing so much paint.’

  Ringo was twitching and moaning as he dreamed of catching the squirrel that had got away up a tree. In his dream, Ringo was a superhero. He could levitate up to twenty feet. No squirrel was safe. He sighed a happy sigh and turned over in his basket.

  Ned froze when he saw Ringo move, but when he realized the daft dog still had his eyes closed he knew he was safe.

  I shall have to take matters into my own paws and have a dip in his water bowl, Ned thought. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And I need to clean up and go back to stalking the girl as soon as possible. This is war!

  Ned glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then he took a running leap at the dog’s bowl and performed a perfect belly-flop. His aim had been to splash about in the water for as long as he could bear it, and then to roll around on the doormat to dry himself off, as he had seen Ringo do after many a wet and muddy walk.

  Unfortunately he had yet again failed to make allowances for his size, and rather than going for a quick dip he had managed to get himself well and truly wedged into the bowl so that now not only was he soaking wet but he was also stuck.

  ‘Miaaaaoooooow!’ he groaned. ‘Help! Somebody, help!’

  ‘Roooff?’ Ringo said sleepily. Then, ‘Raaaaaoooooouuu!’ he yelped in delight, leaping from his basket and hurling himself at the poor cat.

  ‘Will you get off me, you brainless hound!’ Ned shrieked, pedalling his claws wildly at Ringo, who was bouncing excitably at the cat, slobbering over him and trying to pick him up in his jaws. ‘This is not a game! It’s me, Ned. I’M STUCK AND I NEED YOUR HELP, NOT YOUR TONGUE IN MY FACE!’

  ‘What on earth . . . ?’ Grandma had come in to see what the noise was all about. She took Ringo by the scruff of the neck and threw him out into the garden. Then she came back for Ned.

  ‘How did you get in there?’ she exclaimed. ‘You are the limit! I put you outside, and that is where I want you to stay!’ And she scooped him up unceremoniously and held him at arm’s length. ‘You can dry off out there with the dog. Honestly. I thought cats hated water!’

  ‘Miaaaaoow!’ said Ned indignantly.

  At least, thanks to the water and Ringo’s enthusiastic slobbering, he was back to his original colour.

  Grandma let out a giggle. ‘Actually, the wet look suits you – it’s quite slimming!’

  Ned hissed crossly, but Grandma had opened the back door again and dropped him on to the patio. He hissed again and stalked off, his tail high in an attempt to preserve his dignity.

  ‘And stay out of the way while we finish with Titch, do you hear?’ she said, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘What is you doin’, Gran’ma?’ Meena lisped.

  She had watched the whole scene with considerable delight. Ned had got an awful lot more than even she had bargained for that morning. She let slip a satisfied grin.

  Grandma eyed her granddaughter cautiously. ‘Meena dear, don’t creep up behind people. It’s not nice.’

  Meena immediately stopped grinning and put on her wide-eyed look. ‘Meena didn’t creep, Gran’ma. Meena was lookin’ for you. What is you doin’ with Wilfie anyway? Can Meena play?’

  Grandma chewed her lip as she thought of the careful and loving way Wilf was grooming the hen and then considered the state in which she had just found Ned. She scrutinized Meena’s face again, but the little girl looked as innocent as a kitten.

  ‘No, dear, it’s all right,’ she said. ‘I don’t think Wilf needs any more help. He’s nearly finished. I know, why don’t you make something with Grandma?’ she suggested.

  Meena shrugged. ‘OK.’

  Grandma began rummaging in the cupboards, looking for ingredients to make a cake. ‘Ooh, what’s this?’ she said, picking up some brightly coloured packets. ‘This is perfect – nice and easy and quick to make. Meena dear, come and wash your hands while I get some bowls and things out.’

  Ned was extremely put out by the treatment he had received at the hands of Meena and Grandma.

  ‘I will watch them while they are in the kitchen to see if I can pick up any clues,’ he told himself. ‘They may let slip some piece of information that could be useful in my War on the Terror.’

  He found his way around to the French windows and sat, pretending to wash himself very thoroughly.

  He was rewarded by the sound of Meena whining as Grandma began to explain what they were going to do.

  ‘Meena doesn’t want to do borin’ stuff with Grandma,’ she was saying.

  ‘But it won’t be boring, darling,’ Grandma assured her. ‘I’ve found some lovely things for us to have a play with – look.’

  Ned crept closer to the glass to catch a glimpse of what the old lady was showing the girl. He could not make head nor tail of what he saw.

  At first glance, the kitchen table appeared to be covered with a jumble of red plastic shapes. But as Grandma picked each shape up in turn and showed it to Meena she said, ‘Look, here’s a lovely pussy cat, just like Ned . . .’

  It’s nothing like me, Ned thought. It’s red and hollow and it has horrible, staring, vacant eyes!

  ‘. . . and this is a chicken, like Titch,’ Grandma went on, ‘and a doggy, like Ringo. Shame they don’t make moulds in the shape of guinea pigs, but we have got a bunny one, look.’

  ‘Meena don’t like bunnies,’ Meena muttered.

  ‘Moulds? In the shape of animals?’ Ned said to himself. ‘No idea what this is all about, but it is intriguing. I must remain calm, think logically and observe very, very closely,’ he murmured.

  He hid behind a plant pot and watched.

  Grandma was holding one of the strange animals in one hand and a small packet of something in the other. ‘I thought we could make a surprise for Mummy and Wilf,’ she was saying. ‘Let’s have some fun with these.’ She waved the cat jelly mould at Meena.

  Meena shrugged. ‘S’pose,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll use the microwave – you can push the buttons, if you like,’ Grandma told her. ‘And then we put the moulds in the fridge and wait for a few hours.’

  ‘Few hours?’ said Meena. ‘BORING! Meena don’t wanna wait few HOURS!’

  Grandma sighed. She picked up a packet of jelly and handed it to Meena. ‘Can you open this for Grandma, please?’ she asked.

  Meena sulkily snatched the packet from Grandma and ripped the packaging off. And immediately let the contents drop to the floor.

  She had gone rigid. Her face was drained of all colour and stretched into a mask of horror. She reached up on to the tips of her toes and seemed to grow to twice her normal size.

  ‘URGHHH!’ she cried.

  Ned was now pressed up to the window, entranced by the performance. ‘At last! Something has upset her! I must watch closely,’ he muttered.

  ‘URGHHH!’ The little girl was yelling and screaming now, throwing her hands in the air. Then she lunged across the table and swiped at the animal jelly moulds, sending them clattering on to the floor. ‘Yucky, sticky, wobbly, HORRID!’ she shouted. ‘It’s jelly – JELLY! Grandma knows Meena HATES JELLY!’

  Ned’s eyes opened wide with interest.

  Grandma paled. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, I didn’t know that!’ she said. Then, ‘Oh!’ She tottered backwards in shock, losing her balance. ‘OH!’ She knocked into the kitchen table, sending the rest
of the moulds skittering across the tiles.

  The ruckus brought Ringo crashing back into the house through a gap in the door.

  ‘Horrrouu?’ he said as he gazed around him.

  He took one look at Meena, who was now in full tantrum mode, stomping and screaming, and bounded up to her bravely.

  Then, ‘Raaaaoooooooo!’ he cried, leaping up and barking ferociously like the superhero he had been in his dream.

  Typical, thought Ned.

  ‘Waaaaaaah!’ said Meena.

  ‘Rrrrroo?’ asked Ringo.

  He saw that Meena was yelling and pointing at something on the floor at her feet. It was something red and sweet-smelling and sticky. Something delicious.

  Ringo pounced, swallowed, chewed – and was immediately sick all over Meena’s shoes.

  That was when Mum came home.

  ‘OUT, RINGO!’ she shouted, opening the French windows. ‘GET OUT! NOW! YOU STUPID, STUPID DOG!’

  Ned used the confusion to his advantage and slunk in through the open doors as Ringo was booted outside, whimpering, with his tail between his legs.

  ‘Not so clever now, eh?’ Ned sniggered as he slipped past.

  He hid behind a chair and watched and waited as Meena was comforted by Mum.

  She pulled her daughter on to her lap and held her tight while the child worked her way through her tantrum. ‘Meena, that’s enough,’ said Mum. ‘Why don’t you go and play outside while Mummy clears up this mess?’ she suggested.

  ‘MEENA DON’T WANT TO!’

  ‘Meena . . .’ said Mum. She twisted her daughter round on her lap and fixed her with a look that had an immediate effect.

  The little girl’s angry red face immediately calmed. It was as though someone had flicked a switch in her brain, and with one shuddering sob she made herself look small and vulnerable once more.

  ‘Yes, Mummy,’ she said in her soft, lisping baby voice. ‘Sorry, Mummy.’

  And she slid off her mother’s lap and tottered out into the garden, hiccuping softly as her sobs subsided.

  Ned breathed a sigh of relief that he was safely indoors. He did not hold out much hope for Ringo’s safety with Meena in that mood, but told himself he had more important things to think about, as he listened to Mum and Grandma arguing about the mess in the kitchen.

  ‘What did you think you were doing?’ Mum was shouting again. ‘You know she doesn’t like anything sticky! She has hated it ever since that horrible incident at the party when that child stuffed jelly down her neck. She took weeks to recover from it. We had nightmares and tears – it was dreadful! I cannot cope with a replay of that. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I didn’t know. Or – well, I must have forgotten,’ said poor Grandma. ‘I thought I was helping by keeping her out of the way—’

  ‘And where is Wilf?’ Mum butted in.

  ‘He’s – he’s getting ready for the show,’ Grandma stammered.

  ‘What show?’

  ‘The chicken show – oh, it doesn’t matter. We’ll be out of your hair for the rest of the day,’ Grandma said. She was beginning to feel cross at being shouted at.

  ‘Chicken show?’ Mum scoffed. ‘Whatever next. See if you can’t lose the blooming thing while you are there, can’t you?’ she snapped as she scooped up the jelly moulds and put them in a bag. ‘Chicken shows, fat cats, mad dogs, biting guinea pigs, internet disasters, screaming children. No wonder I need anti-wrinkle gel,’ she muttered to herself. ‘I’m a nervous wreck. It’s no joke looking after you lot.’

  ‘And it’s no yolk taking care of Titch!’ Grandma laughed.

  ‘Oh, stop it!’ Mum snapped. She dumped the remaining packets of jelly together with the animal moulds into the bin and banged the lid shut with a flourish. Then she flashed a look of triumph at Grandma and swept out of the room.

  Grandma huffed, turned on her heel and left the room as well.

  Ned waited to make sure that he was truly alone at last, then he came out from behind the chair.

  ‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ve never seen Meena get so upset about anything before. I think there could be something in this. I believe we could use this jelly stuff to teach that girl a lesson.’

  He jumped up on the work surface and stalked along, sniffing at utensils and chopping boards and cookery books. Then he noticed one of the colourful packets which had not made it to the bin along with all the others.

  He could see it was orange jelly. He glanced quickly at the instructions on the packet. ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘Chop up into cubes, pour on boiling water . . . Hmm, that part sounds tricky, but perhaps with some help . . . Top up with cold water . . . Leave to set.’

  He sat back on his haunches and washed each paw and preened his whiskers as he pondered. ‘I think we could do this,’ he said to himself. ‘I would need a little help from my friends, but yes, yes, I can feel a plan forming.’

  And with a sinister smile he leaped down and slunk away to do some proper thinking.

  Wilf was over the moon with the results of his poultry-pampering.

  ‘Look, Grandma!’ he cried as his grandmother came into the utility room. She was frowning, but Wilf was too excited to notice. ‘Doesn’t Titch look beautiful?’

  Grandma sighed. ‘She does. Come on, let’s go. Before any more disasters happen.’

  ‘What disasters?’ Wilf asked.

  Grandma smiled at her grandson’s face, a picture of simplicity and innocence. ‘Nothing, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m sure the next few hours will be blissful.’

  They drove to the show in silence. Wilf spent the time day-dreaming what it would be like to win first prize. Grandma spent the time rerunning the argument with Mum and wishing she had come up with some better one-liners to shut Mum up for a change. Titch spend the journey with her head under her wing, plotting feverishly how she would escape once she was let out of the cat box.

  ‘I will never have to share living quarters with that smelly guinea pig ever again!’ she was thinking. ‘And I will be able to spread my wings and I may even start laying eggs again once I get some peace and quiet. All I have to do is flap very hard the minute Wilf opens this cage. He will not be able to hold on to me and I will be FREE!’

  Unfortunately for Titch, such an opportunity did not present itself. It was not Wilf who got her out of the box. It was not Grandma either. It was a pair of very large, very strong hands, which did not seem to flinch when she tried to scratch and peck them. Her eyes were covered by the fleshy fingers too, so she could not make out her surroundings.

  ‘Feisty little fowl, ain’t she?’ said a deep voice. ‘Luverly plumage though. Bootiful colour.’

  The speaker had to shout above the racket around him. It sounded to Titch as though every chicken and cockerel in the world had been put into this place and they were all talking and shouting and complaining and showing off at the tops of their voices. She strained to make out what any of them was saying, but it was impossible to make one voice out from the crowd.

  And then she was tipped upside down and realized that her bottom was being inspected!

  ‘Oh, the shame!’ she squawked, adding to the pandemonium. ‘I am very glad indeed that cat is not here to witness this. Or the guinea pig, for that matter.’

  ‘Very good, very good,’ said the deep voice.

  Titch felt herself flipped up the right way, but before she could struggle she was put straight into another cage.

  ‘Leave her here for now, young ’un,’ said the voice, which Titch could now see belonged to a very large man in a flat cap. ‘We’ll take a look at all the others. Prizes in a couple of hours. Why don’t you take a look around?’

  ‘Come on, Wilf,’ said Grandma. ‘Titch will soon settle down.’

  ‘No, I will not!’ Titch clucked.

  She warbled and flapped, but no one took any notice. She watched as Wilf and Grandma walked away.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ she said.

  Wilf turned to gi
ve her a cheery wave.

  ‘Get me out! Get me out of here!’ she cried in a desperate last attempt to get his attention. But he simply grinned, turned away from her and was gone.

  ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no!’ clucked Titch.

  ‘Oh, do shut up,’ said a voice, strong and proud against the background of the other birds’ nervous clucking.

  ‘What? Who? Where?’ said poor Titch, turning round and round in fright.

  ‘I’m in the cage next door,’ said the voice. ‘You won’t be here for long. Just sit tight until the judging. It’s a foregone conclusion anyway. I usually clean up when it comes to the prizegiving.’

  Titch tried to look through to the next cage, but that wall was solid. She could only see out of one side of the cage. ‘I can’t see you. Who are you?’

  ‘You can’t see me because they don’t trust us not to peck each other through the walls, so they block them off. Of course, some of the poultry here are so common, that is exactly what they would do. Not I. I am a Barbu d’Uccle bantam cockerel. My name is Napoleon and I always win, due to my magnificent, richly coloured plumage. It is a shame you can’t see me really. I saw you when they put you in your cage and I am sorry to say you’ve had a wasted journey. I don’t think you stand a chance with your rather – er – grey little feathers,’ he crowed.

  Titch clucked irritably. ‘It’s a good job I’m not interested in winning then,’ she said.

  ‘Cock-a-doodle-doooo me a favour!’ laughed the cockerel. ‘Everyone here is interested in winning. Why else would you be here?’

  Titch gave a loud squawk. ‘Beeeeruuuuck! If you must know, I am here to do something marvellous. I am going make a break for freedom. I am going free range! I am going to ESCAPE!’ she shouted.

  At that, the racket in the room stopped abruptly. There was a pause and then a small voice said, ‘Escape?’

  ‘Escape?’ said another.

  ‘ESCAPE?’ chorused some more.

  Then, ‘HAHAHAHAHAHAAHAAA!’ came a volley of sneering laughter.