I went around saying fond farewells to all the things I’ve loved so long.
‘Goodbye, dear Pot Plant,’ I said. ‘I expect that you’ll miss me scratching around in your soil when it’s too cold and wet for me to bother to go outside to do my business.’ I brushed away a tear. ‘And I shall miss you too.’
I went into the kitchen.
‘Adieu, my beloved Frying Pan,’ I sighed. ‘How many times have I stood beside you on the counter, licking your leftover bacon fat when no one else was about! We have been friends for so long, Frying Pan. But this is the end.’
I went upstairs.
‘This is the parting of the ways,’ I told Alarm Clock. ‘But we have shared so many happy moments. How often I have crept in here by moonlight when Mr I-Must-Not-Be-Late has set you carefully for seven o’clock. How often I have braved his rattling snores to jump on the bedside table and reach out a silent paw to push your ON button to OFF. And how the two of us have enjoyed his desperate shrieks of panic when he wakes late in the morning. Oh, I shall miss you, Alarm Clock!’
I slid under Mr I-Do-Not-Snore-I-Just-Breathe-Heavily’s side of the bed.
‘So long, Bedroom Slippers,’ I said. ‘If I had a single tear for every dead mouse I’ve slipped into your toes to frighten Mr Oh-My-Lord-What’s-This?, then I could weep a river to say goodbye to you. Please don’t feel lonely and neglected without my little gifts. Goodbye! Goodbye!’
I went downstairs to the piano.
‘Adios, my musical friend! After today I shall walk up and down your keys no more, making you plink and plunk and driving everyone mad. Our happy hours are over. I’m off into the world, and we shall sadly never finish our masterwork: The Tuffy Piano Concerto for Four Paws.’
I thought it would be nice to leave with that sweet tune still ringing in my ears. So I walked up and down the keys a bit. (I like to stick to the black ones. They sound more plinky-plunky. And every time one of my paws slides off onto a white key, I tend to get a little cross, and stamp.)
‘What is that dreadful noise?’
Whoops! Mr Not-At-All-Musical poked his head round the door. ‘You! Well, you can get off that piano at once!’
He pushed me off. I hate that, so I spun round in the air on my way down and scratched him hard.
‘Yeee-ouch!’
He glared at me, and I glared back at him.
That is one person in this house to whom I won’t be saying any fond farewell.
6 So Spank My Bum
So spank my furry little bum, I didn’t say goodbye to Ellie. I meant to. That’s why I went back up the stairs and into her bedroom. That’s why I jumped up at her side and started to purr in her ear.
Then I saw what she was looking at on her computer screen.
Kittens!
Cute baby fluff-balls. Sweet little winsome things with huge eyes staring out. You wouldn’t believe their names. Sugar-Pie. Binty-Minty. Pansy-Wansy. Prissy-Missy. (Excuse me while I stick a paw down my throat.)
Ellie stopped at the photo of a kitten called Titania. (I ask you! Titania! For a cat!)
‘Look, Tuffy. Isn’t she cute?’
Sometimes I think it’s a good thing that I can’t speak. Because if I could, I would have told young Ellie just what I think of idiotic, brainless balls of fluff that can’t clean their own fur or creep up on anything taking a quick nap in a nest. Why, some of them can’t even find the way to the litter tray on their tenth day.
So it’s a good job I don’t talk. I wouldn’t have liked the last few words that I exchanged with Ellie to be unpleasant.
So I never said goodbye.
7 Dead Mice and Birds?
Eee-yuk!
Out on the wall, the gang were waiting.
‘So,’ Bella said. ‘You’re really off?’
‘Yes,’ I said proudly. ‘I’m not going to stay where I’m not wanted.’
They were still anxious. ‘But, Tuffy, if no one in Ellie’s family is there to put your food in front of you, what are you going to eat?’
I had a think. In the end I said, ‘I am a cat, so if I don’t find anything else, there’s always the old traditional stand-by.’
They all looked blank.
‘Dead mice and birds,’ I said.
I don’t think I have ever seen three faces look more disgusted.
‘Dead mice and birds? Eee-yuk!’
‘You’re joking!’
‘What, pick off all that hair and fur and feathers and stuff, and actually eat the things?’
‘Revolting!’
‘Horror-show idea!’
‘Full gross-out!’
‘What a sick plan! You must be off your head.’
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Dead mice and birds is what cats used to eat.’
They weren’t convinced. ‘Yes. Back in the Stone Age!’
‘Before cat food was invented.’
‘About a million years ago.’
‘Don’t be such wimps,’ I told them. ‘Why, I can remember my mother telling me proudly that my own great-grandfather was known as a splendid mouser.’
‘I bet he didn’t eat the things he caught.’
‘I bet he did,’ I argued.
Tiger was determined. ‘No way. He’d have been sick.’
‘I’d have been sick just watching him,’ added Snowball.
I wasn’t going to hang around and argue. It was getting dark. So I got Bella and Snowball to hold my collar tight while I slipped out of it.
Then, ‘Farewell, gang!’ I said. ‘I’m off to seek my fortune. Wish me luck!’
They all came further along the wall to watch me go. Tiger waved a forlorn paw. ‘Don’t you forget us, Tuffy!’
‘No, don’t forget us. We won’t ever forget you.’
‘No, never.’
8 Tuffy the Busker
I thought it best to go where no one knew me. After all, I didn’t want nosy people peering down at me. ‘Aren’t you that cat from Acacia Avenue that dug up all my petunias? I’m going to take you home.’
So I went further into town than I do usually. It was quite busy. There were a lot of people standing at bus stops and hurrying across the streets. I wandered up and down till, from round the corner, I heard someone playing a tune I like on a mouth organ.
I stopped to listen. Whoever was playing began to sing the words:
‘Scooby-scooby, swish-swish
Fishy in a dish-dish
Make a little wish-wish
That it tastes delish-lish.’
Just the thought made me feel peckish. I turned the corner, and there in a doorway stood a young man. He’d put a paper plate on the pavement, and passers-by were putting down their shopping bags and fishing in their pockets to toss in coins.
A busker!
He had been given quite a lot of money. I watched for a while, and every few minutes he’d scoop up a few coins and put them in his pocket. Then he’d start singing again.
I could do that! I could sing too, and maybe some of the shoppers would open their bags and drop me a tiny chunk of chicken from their ready-cooked suppers, or peel a slice of smoked salmon off the top of their pack.
Yum, yum. Delish-lish!
So I went round the next corner to find a doorway for myself, and to collect the little gifts that I expected to get I dragged a fairly clean takeaway dinner tray out of the gutter.
And then I sang.
I sang my little heart out. First I tried charming them with that forlorn old song about the kitten whose paws get frozen in the snow.
Then I sang that song that makes soft people weep about the tabby cat who starves to death up a tree. (Per-lease! How old are you? And how many cats’ skeletons have you seen dangling from high branches so far in life? None. That’s right. None.)
And then I gave my all to my own favourite, The Wild Cats’ Chorus.
None of them worked. Not one. People just clutched their heads and hurried by. Some of them even glowered. Nobody bothered to stop to say, ‘What charming melodies! And what a lovely voice!’
In fact, they were quite rude. I kept hearing snatches of what they said as they rushed past.
‘. . . horrible yowling noise . . .’
‘. . . shouldn’t be allowed . . .’
‘. . . perfectly ghastly . . .’
‘. . . clearly in misery. Ought to be put down . . .’
Then one man had the cheek to pick up my collection tray and drop it in the litter bin along the street.