And off we went. First I pranced around in my mittens to show I was wearing them. Then Ellie, Lancelot and Lucilla started on the first verse:
‘Three little kittens, they lost their mittens.’
They tugged the paper off the toy cats’ feet while I slipped behind the sofa to kick my own off by myself.
The trouble was, I kicked my mitten booties off so hard, they slid under the sofa.
All the way under. Where I wouldn’t be able to get at them later, when I needed them back.
No time to stop the show, so I came rushing back in time to rub my eyes with my paws as Lucilla and Lancelot and Ellie sang, ‘And they began to cry.’
Now it was Ellie’s turn to act the Mother Cat, scolding us.
‘What? Lost your mittens? You bad little kittens!
Then you shall have no pie.’
Time to get back in my mittens. I scuttled round behind the sofa. But it was hopeless. Even if I stretched, I couldn’t reach them.
So go on, all you big-heads out there, reading this. So what would you have done? Just given up?
Not me! I wasn’t going to spoil the show. All that I needed was four white mittens. And there beside me was the bowl of icing for the cake.
Snow-white. Not too shallow. Not too deep.
And I was Star of the Show.
(Unlucky) 13: The fairy on the Christmas tree
OKAY, OKAY. SO I went paddling in the cake icing. Brilliant idea, I thought. When I walked into the show, I looked exactly as if I’d put the white woollen mittens back on perfectly, all by myself.
Nobody noticed at first. Ellie, Lucilla and Lancelot were busy singing.
‘Three little kittens, they found their mittens.’
I pranced about. That was my big mistake, for Ellie’s mother couldn’t help noticing that I was leaving footprints – snow-white icing footprints – all over the carpet.
She pointed. ‘Look!’
The singing stopped.
‘Look at the mess Tuffy is making!’ said Ellie’s mother. ‘What’s that all over his paws?’
‘It looks like –’ Aunt Ann stood up and hurried round behind the sofa. We heard a shriek. It sounded like an express train screeching to a halt when a green light turns red.
Aunt Ann picked up the bowl and held it out for all to see. ‘Look! Look at my icing! It’s ruined! All churned up, and full of paw marks!’
Ellie’s dad went mad. ‘That pest of a cat! This time he’s gone too far! I warn you, the moment the vet’s office opens up again after Christmas, I’m taking Tuffy down there to –’
‘No!’ Ellie hurled herself towards her father but, blinded by tears, she bumped into Lancelot. He knocked his sister, who fell in the well. I knew that, if Ellie’s dad got hold of me, he’d have my guts for garters. So while Ellie’s and Lancelot’s legs and arms were madly flailing about, getting tangled, I tried to make it to the door.
But Mr I-Have-Had-Enough was blocking the way. So I rushed out of sight behind the sofa. Then, while Ellie pulled herself free and started to shout at her father – ‘You leave poor Tuffy alone! You’re always picking on him!’ – I slid away, under the tree. There were no glittery balls to hide me in the bottom half, so I climbed up the back, branch by branch, higher and higher, while everyone was busy picking themselves up, and comforting Aunt Ann, and rushing off for cloths to clear up the icing footprints.
Now I was almost at the top. Only Ellie’s fat cardboard fairy was higher.
And then I suddenly thought of a brilliant way to hide myself. I looked up at Ms Tomato-Face on top of the tree. ‘This is the end for you, Sunshine!’ I muttered to her. ‘You have had your days of glory. Now move over. I am going to be the new Christmas fairy.’
I poked a paw up through her big fat cardboard roll. Her stupid red tomato face fell off and bounced a few branches down.
Creepy!
But I’d no time to hang about shivering. Hastily I shoved my head up through the space she’d left, and tried to put on the same snooty simpering look she’d worn for years.
Personally, looking back, I think the white frills probably suited me, and I looked nice in them. I rather wish they’d had the time to take a proper photo of their dear Tuffy as the new fairy at the top of the tree. I would have liked to show it to my friends.
But Ellie’s dad was right. The tree was not just bare at the bottom; it was overloaded at the top.
Too overloaded.
What they call ‘top heavy’.
It started toppling. It was far worse than being in the welly boot because I was much higher. It was like being in the crow’s nest of some ancient galleon when it keels over in a storm.
It took a long time for the tree to fall. They were all fussing and yelling. ‘Step back!’
‘The tree is crashing down!’
‘Watch out!’
‘Look at this mess!’
‘Our lovely well! Totally squashed!’
‘There’s not a single decoration left! Smashed! Every last one of them!’
‘I’m bruised all over.’
‘Where is that damn cat?’
Well, I was on the floor, of course. Pretty well splatted flat, still trying to be the Christmas fairy. It was the ears that gave me away. Christmas-tree fairies don’t have pointy little furry ears like mine.
So that explains how I ended up spending the rest of that day, and the next, locked in the garage. Ellie was only allowed to have me in her bedroom overnight, and then I was put back in here until the visitors go this afternoon and Christmas is over.
I don’t mind. In fact, I think I’ve come out of this spat with her father quite well. After all, when you consider that Mr Let’s-Take-Tuffy-Down-The-Vet’s is stuck behind in the house, still picking bits of Christmas decoration out of the carpet, and doing all the washing up, I think I’ve got it easy. Popped hoppers are quite comfortable to laze around on. And now that moth’s come back, I even have someone to play with. Certainly it’s been a whole lot better than being in the house.
But, still, I won’t be counting the days till 25th December comes round again. Remember that question you asked me at the start? ‘Dear, dear Tuffy, why was your Christmas so horrible?’
Well, you won’t have to ask again, will you?
Because now you know.
6_The Killer Cat Runs Away
About the Book
Tuffy no longer feels loved. All the family ever seems to do is fuss about his tiny mistakes – like spitting at next door’s baby and knocking over the new TV. Even Ellie’s too busy cooing over fluff-ball kittens to pay him any attention.
Who wants to hang around where they’re not wanted? There must be somewhere in town where Tuffy will be treated properly . . .
1 Silly Pink Babies
OK, OK. So twist my tail. I spat at the stupid baby. But it was annoying me, lying there in its frilly basket, chuckling and gurgling. The thing was laughing at me. And no one likes being laughed at. Especially not me. I’m not called Tuffy for nothing. And I didn’t earn the nickname of ‘the killer cat’ from sitting purring on a cushion.
And then this baby poked its finger in my eye. For heaven’s sake! It could have hurt me. So it was lucky, really. I could have bitten it. Or scratched it. But I only spat. Spit doesn’t hurt at all, so why’s everyone picking on me?
‘Tuffy!’ said Ellie. ‘Get away from the baby at once!’
She rushed to scoop it up. I don’t know why. It wasn’t even yelling. The baby didn’t mind. It was still laughing as if the whole thing was a giant joke. And there was only a tiny bit of dribble running down its face. Nobody in this house has any sense of humour at all. They all go mad about the slightest thing.
‘That cat is not to be trusted,’ said Ellie’s father. ‘He’s the most jealous creature under the sun.’
I like that! Jealous? Me? Of something that can’t even walk or feed itself? I gave the man the slit-eyed stare. But he just stared right back and said to Ellie, ‘Remember poor Tinkerbell?’