I woke up starving. Back at my old house, when I was hungry I simply parked myself on my big furry bottom somewhere really inconvenient and stared at Ellie’s mum till she remembered to feed me.
Sadly, that does not work with strangers who are hurrying by. I had to keep stepping in their path and wrapping myself round their ankles (the way I used to do with Ellie when I was getting bored).
But strangers are so clumsy. I got tripped over and stumbled into several times. And snarled at quite a lot. Some people were quite rude. In the end I gave up and went to check what had been thrown out by the nearest pizza place. (Don’t you adore pepperoni?)
Just as I came round the corner, who should I see stamping past in a tantrum but Mr I’ve-Been-Sent-Out-To-Look-For-Our-Cat.
I didn’t fancy being carried back by him, so I slunk out of sight.
‘Puss, puss!’ I heard him calling to the wind. ‘Tuff! Tuff-eee! Where are you? Come home so I can strangle you! Come home so I can boil you in oil! Tuff-eee! Do you know what’s on telly at this very moment? Yes! The Best-Ever Penalty Shoot-out Show! And am I sitting watching it? No, I am not! Partly because the television is ruined. And partly because I’ve been sent out to find you! So come home, Tuffy! Puss, puss, puss! Come home so I can spoil your life the same way that you spoil mine!’
I ask a simple question. If you heard that, would you be stupid enough to pad out from the shadows and show yourself?
No, you would not.
I wouldn’t, either. All thoughts of going home had vanished once again, so I turned round and slunk off fast the other way.
12 I Did Not Kill It!
(Here is a warning. Those of you who are ‘of a nervous disposition’ – and that means wet – had better skip this chapter. It isn’t nice.)
I tramped the streets. The hours went by. And I got hungrier.
And hungrier.
And hungrier.
Everyone’s wheelie bin lids were fixed on tight. I went through one garden after another on the prowl, hoping that someone had at least put out a dish of milk for a hedgehog to keep me going.
But there was nothing.
I made my way right to the end of a row of gardens.
Nothing.
Sighing, I made my way back again. That’s when I saw it lying on the grass under my feet.
A baby bird.
I did not kill it! Understand? It must have fallen out of its nest after I went by the first time. (Possibly from fright.)
But it was dead. (And fresh.)
And I was hungry.
I gave the thing a little poke. ‘Come on!’ I told myself. ‘Don’t be so mimsy! It’s meat. It’s fresh. It’s nice and traditional. And you are very hungry.’
Alas! Nowhere near hungry enough, my friend. Nowhere near hungry enough.
Bella and Tiger and Snowball were right.
Eeee-yuk!!!
13 ‘A Photo of My Beautiful Tuffy!’
So there I was, still trying to persuade myself that baby bird would taste as good as pepperoni, when a shadow fell over me.
A woman had come out of the house.
I stared at her. She stared at me. I stared at her because she’d done her hair so that it looked like one of those whippy ice-cream cones.
She stared at me as though she thought I were a gift from heaven.
‘A cat!’ She looked at the sad little mess between my paws. ‘And clearly a hunter! Are you a mouser too? Because there’s a rustling somewhere near my kitchen door. I think I might have vermin!’
You could tell she was fussy just from the way she said ‘vermin!’. But I was tired and hungry, so I thought – why not? Some cats do earn their keep. I could give it a go.
And I was right to try. Because life there could have been perfect bliss! Ms Whippy thought that she was keeping me hungry enough to eat mice, but what she didn’t know is that I’m good with kitchen bins. Every time she went out, I’d step on the pedal, and when the lid flew up I’d reach inside to hook out some half-eaten chop, or the last of the chicken. After I’d had enough, I’d carry the leftovers out into the garden and kick them out of sight behind her precious lupins.
She didn’t get suspicious because the rustling stopped. (It only came from some dried leaf trapped under the kitchen door. I poked that out and – hey, presto! – all the vermin gone.)
For three nights in a row, she sang my praises. ‘You’re brilliant, Pusskins. I could do with a mouser like you in my villa in Spain.’
Her villa in Spain? Was she a millionaire?
You’d think so. First she bought me a fancy jewelled collar and a swansdown cat bed. (Purrrrr!) Then she bought me a classy water bowl. On the next day she even took me into town to have my photo taken. Yes! None of that cheap, ‘Hold still while I fetch my mobile!’ stuff that I’d been used to back in Ellie’s house. Ms Whippy took me into town to get a proper studio portrait! The photographer sat me on a cushion and asked me most politely to face the camera. ‘Pusskins! Please look this way! Yes! That’s much better.’
A dozen different shots were taken, and I must say they came out very nicely indeed. (Much better than those horrid ‘lost cat’ posters.) I was so pleased I thought I’d take one round to show my old ungrateful family what they were missing. I picked one up by the corner and (trying not to drool) carried it carefully across town to my old home.
Ellie was sitting on the doorstep, weeping bitterly.
I shot behind a bush.
‘Oh, Tuffy!’ she was whimpering. ‘Oh, Tuffy! You’ve been away so long! And how I miss you! Oh, Tuffy, I wish you’d come home!’
Home? Ha! Excuse me, but I have a new home now. A much, much better home where I dine on the finest foods, and people truly know how beautiful I am.
I spat the photograph out of my mouth and watched it slither in the breeze up the path towards Ellie.
Curious, she picked it up, dashing away her tears so she could peer at it more closely. Then she began to wail. ‘Oh, no! A photo of my beautiful Tuffy! And it’s not one I’ve ever seen before!’
Too true, it wasn’t. It was far smarter and glossier than any photo they’d ever had of me.
Ellie rushed into the house. I jumped up out of sight behind the laurel bush and peered in through the window. Ellie was waving the photo in her parents’ faces. ‘Mum! Dad! Look! Tuffy must have been catnapped! See? The catnappers have sent a photograph to prove it.’
I will admit that Ellie’s mum looked most concerned. But Mr Don’t-Expect-Me-To-Put-My-Hand-In-My-Pocket just muttered something most unpleasant along the lines of, ‘If that pesky cat’s worth even a handful of loose change, I’m a banana.’ If I’d not been in hiding, I’d have spat at him. Right in the face.
Ellie burst into tears again, and I jumped down. Don’t you feel sorry for Ellie! Don’t you dare! It’s her own fault! She should have thought about how much she would miss her precious Tuffy before she started mooning over soppy kittens on the computer screen.
So don’t you get your knickers in a twist worrying about Ellie.
You worry about me.
That’s what I did. I suddenly thought, If I don’t get back quickly, fussy Ms Whippy will have emptied the pedal bin before I’ve had time to rescue my supper.
So I hurried off.
14 Nightmare Stuff!
Ms Whippy talked a lot on the phone to her friends about her villa in Spain. It sounded horrible. I’d find the weather far too hot, I am not overly fond of garlic, and I hate walking on tiles because they make my claws click.
Also, why would I care about her lovely private pool? I’m not a swimming cat. No, every time I heard her talk about that villa of hers, I shuddered quietly and thought how glad I was that I live here.
That’s why finding the papers was such a shock.
I wasn’t snooping. It’s just a well-known fact that, if there is a bit of paper lying on a table, that’s what a cat will sit on.