The Killer Cat Runs Away

by Anne Fine

  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.

  Even if it’s as small as a bus ticket, that’s where we’ll sit.

  And this paper was full-size. I sat on it for quite a while. (OK, OK! So dip my paws in soap suds! I had been trying to spread the leftovers of my supper out a little bit behind her lupins and my paws were still chickeny. I made a mess.)

  That’s why I glanced down at the paper I was sitting on – to see if there were any more tiny scraps of chicken that had dried enough to be flicked onto the floor.

  That’s when I saw the word PASSPORT.

  I looked a little closer and saw PET.

  I lifted my bum and stepped back so that I could read the whole thing. TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR PET PASSPORT APPLICATION.

  Aha! The truth was out! Ms Whippy hadn’t taken me to get a photo simply because of my good looks. She wanted it for a passport so she could take me to her villa in Spain to be a mouser there!

  I read the small print. It was nightmare stuff! First, there was a rule about carrying a letter from the vet that proved your pet was up-to-date with injections. (Injections! In case you live on Mars, I’ll have you know that that means needles. Not my favourite things. And vets! Not my favourite people.)

  Then came a rule about the size of the wire cage. ‘Cage’, you notice. Not ‘comfy basket’ or ‘cosy box’. Wire cage!

  There was a bit about how long your pet would spend in the baggage hold. The baggage hold! Like some old suitcase!

  There was a rule about the photo of your pet having to be full-face.

  A full-face photograph? Well, didn’t all that sweet-talking, ‘Pusskins, please look this way. Yes, that’s much better,’ sound a bit different now!

  And then I read the last line, just above Ms Whippy’s flowery signature.

  The date of travel.

  5th May, she’d written.

  5th May? I looked up at the calendar.

  It was the 4th!

  15

  A Blur of Fur

  Ever seen a tornado?

  Even if the answer’s yes, you’ve not seen anything as fast as me getting out of that house. I was a rocket. I was a blur of fur that shot through that open window and up the garden path in less than half a blink. I moved so fast that I looked back to see myself pretty well still leaping out.

  That was my big mistake. I should have kept my eyes ahead because, before I could even catch my breath, I felt myself being snatched up and heard a man’s voice. ‘Aha! Trying to make a getaway, are you, Pusskins? Well, tough luck! Gotcha!’

  I swivelled my head round to look. Yee-ow! The man was dressed in one of those short white coats our vet wears at her surgery.

  I wriggled frantically, but all he did was hold me even more tightly. ‘Stop struggling, Pusskins! No point in my driving all the way here for a special home pick-up if my patient has fled.’

  Patient? Victim, more like! I’ve had my shots already! I don’t need any more. So I kept struggling madly. I scratched. I hissed. I yowled. I put up a tremendous fight. But this guy was clearly a master at hanging onto squirming animals. Before I even realized what was happening, he’d carried me round to Ms Whippy’s suntrap patio, and used his teeth to pull a towel down from her rotary washing line to wrap me up in it.

  Me! Held fast in a roll of fluffy pink! I looked like a struggling sausage.

  Small wonder I hate vets. They’ll get you every time. I bet they even take classes in rolling harmless little pussy cats up in old towels so they can shove pills down their throats and stick needles into them.

  He carried me back to the front of the house and rang the bell. Ms Whippy must have torn herself away from packing all her fancy clothes because she came to the door.

  My captor held me up. ‘Your cat’s a smart one. He was trying to get away.’

  Ms Whippy clasped her hands under her chin. ‘Oh, no!’ she said. ‘Thank heavens you stopped him. If he doesn’t have his shots we can’t go, and the flight is tomorrow.’

  ‘No problem,’ smarmed our most unwelcome visitor. ‘I’ll have him back to you tonight with all the paperwork you need.’

  I tried to tell them I had had my shots. All of them. Way back in March. But it came out as one enormous yowl.

  And then a ghastly thing happened.

  Ms Whippy leaned forward suddenly and kissed me on the nose.

  Me! Tuffy! On the nose! A sloppy kiss!

  Only one word for that. ‘Yee-uk!’

  16

  No Hope of Rescue. None.

  Whistling cheerfully, the vet carried me back down to his van and unfurled me out of the fluffy pink towel into a cage. He dumped the cage down on the passenger seat.

  So boil me in bunny juice. I hissed and spat.

  ‘Temper, temper,’ he said reprovingly.

  We drove a mile or two and then his mobile rang. The vet pulled off the road and rang the number back. I only heard his side of the conversation. ‘Hi, Arif. What’s the problem?’

  Arif must have explained because the next words were, ‘You need a cat?’

  Excuse me? Was he talking to a madman? Who on earth needs a cat? I mean, we don’t do anything useful. We cost a lot to feed. We ruin the furniture. We do exactly what we want.

  I ask the question again. Who needs a cat?

  But clearly this Arif did, because when I tuned in again it was to hear the vet ringing Ms Whippy to check she didn’t mind if he lent me to some other vet he knew. ‘It’s only for half an hour, and I must say your Pusskins would be perfect for the job.’

  Hear that? ‘Perfect’.

  Obviously Ms Whippy agreed. So I admit that, by the time we met Arif somewhere around the park five minutes later, my head was already swelling.

  ‘Watch him!’ the vet warned as he handed my cage to Arif. ‘He’s in the foulest mood. But he’s the only cat booked into the surgery this evening. I have to give him all his shots tonight, so he can fly to Spain tomorrow.’

  ‘If the plane gets off the ground!’

  I didn’t get the joke, but they still shared a laugh and then the vet climbed back in his van. ‘Be careful,’ he warned Arif, just before driving off. ‘That cat is horribly fierce so, whatever you do, don’t let anyone open his cage!’

  Oh, thanks a bunch! What happened to my being ‘perfect’, I wondered as we set off down the street. I can’t say that Arif was the most considerate cat-cage carrier. He swung it till I was slipping from side to side like someone on board a ship in a gale. I paid him out by spitting through the bars and reaching out a paw to pull so many woollen threads out of his fancy jumper that I was practically hidden behind the tangles.

  But my heart wasn’t in it. I was miserable. You know me. I am not one to wallow in despair and live my life in fear of what might lie round the next corner. But I admit that I was feeling really glum. I had set off with such high hopes: a better life, a nicer home and more appreciative company. People who recognized my true worth. People who saw me for the handsome, valiant, resourceful cat I am.

  Now look at me. Stuck in a cage. Halfway to getting a heap of horrid injections I didn’t need, then lent out for all the world as if I were some rusty loft ladder, or a set of car jump leads.

  Not to mention the insults. Ellie had never in all her life called me ‘horribly fierce’ or ‘in the foulest mood’. (She called me ‘spirited’ instead.) She’d never lent me out, or swung me in a cage, or wrapped me up like a sausage in a fluffy pink towel. Or threatened to take me off to Spain for ever, far away from my old friends.

  My friends! Dear Tiger! Fun-loving Bella! Sweet Snowball! Where would they be right now?

  Mucking about, no doubt,
as happily as usual on Acacia Avenue.

  Having a good laugh.

  Without me.

  Oh, how I wished I’d never got all huffy and run away! Why had I let that grumpy Mr Glad-To-See-The-Back-Of-That-Cat drive me away? How silly of me to have allowed myself to become jealous of that tiny fluff-ball Tinkerbell, and even that tiny human baby.

  A baby! Why, the sweet little poppet had probably not been laughing at me at all. She had probably been laughing with me.

  That is so different.

  I had been so wrong! And I had nobody to blame but myself and my own foolishness. And now there was no hope of rescue. None.

  17

  ‘Haven’t You Heard?’

  Suddenly, through the tangles of unthreaded wool covering half the cage, I thought I saw somewhere I recognized.

  Yes! Mrs Patel’s grocery shop. (She hates me napping on her vegetables.) Arif kept walking and I thought I recognized the pizza parlour. (No need to ask. My order’s pepperoni.) And then I reckoned that we must be getting near to Ellie’s school because I saw the crossing guard. (Since that fur fight in the playground, she’s tried to shoo me off each time we’ve met.)

  Behind me, I heard voices. Children were gathering to cross the road, all chatting merrily.

  ‘What’s in that box you’re carrying?’

  ‘That’s Harry, my stick insect. What’s in your jar?’

  ‘Bertha, my beetle.’

  ‘I saw George bringing his rabbit.’

  ‘Surina is bringing her mice.’

  My heart leaped. Thursday! ‘My Wonderful Pet Show’ evening. So maybe Ellie would be walking along the street. I could yowl really loud, and maybe she would recognize my voice. I might be rescued after all!

  Almost at once my hopes were dashed. The very next thing I heard was, ‘Isn’t it a shame about poor Ellie?’

  ‘Poor Ellie? Why? Isn’t she coming tonight?’

  ‘No. Haven’t you heard? Her pet’s been catnapped.’

  ‘Who, Tuffy? That wonderful cat she used to talk about all day?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’

  ‘So beautiful, she told us.’

  ‘And strong.’

  ‘And clever.’

  ‘She misses him so much! She’s spending all her pocket money on “lost cat” flyers, and hands them out everywhere she goes.’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll come tonight so she can give a flyer to everyone in the audience.’

  ‘Maybe she will. But I don’t think so. How could she bear to watch us all walking out of the hall so happily with our own pets? Surely she can’t do that? Not even for her most beloved Tuffy!’

  ‘Poor Ellie. Oh, poor Ellie!’

  My heart sank in my boots. If Ellie couldn’t bear to come, then it would be ‘poor Tuffy’ too!

  18

  All the Usual Rubbish

  The children all rushed off into the school. Then, through the tangles of woolly bits, I saw Ellie’s head teacher. She was hurrying out to greet Arif.

  ‘There you are! I was just getting worried. Everyone’s here, with their pets. I’ve even brought my parrot Gregory to be part of the display. And all the children are keen to listen to your little talk about how important it is to care for animals properly.’

  Yes, I thought bitterly. Care for them properly. Not swing them about in a cage.

  Arif only grinned. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It took a bit of time to lug this great big lump all the way from the park.’

  Did you hear that? ‘Great big lump’. Nice!

  The head teacher was in too much of a hurry to bother to peer through the strands of tangled wool and take a look at me. So we went into the school hall together. Arif the Insensitive, Ellie’s parrot-loving head teacher. And me.

  Arif dumped my cage on the table, beside a few other pets. I took a look along the line. Pathetic! A couple of scaredy-baby mice who cowered in their cage. (I only looked at them. I did not pretend to grab.) A bowl of brainless fish scooped out of the garden pond by that rough carrot-top gang. (The boy who’d tried to catch me was still sucking his scratches, I was glad to see.) A rabbit so old it was nearly dead. Gregory the Parrot. (At least, I guessed it was him. His cage was covered with a cloth.) A guinea pig or two. A snake. A family of hamsters. Some stupid dog that wasn’t even half my size. Two whimpering gerbils.

  All the usual rubbish.

  Well, I consoled myself, at least I’m bound to be Star of the Show. After all, Arif was giving the talk and he’d brought me. He must have thought that cats were something special.

  And then Arif started, lifting up each cage and bowl and box in turn along the line. He praised the fish: ‘Nobody’s overfed these so they’re in quite splendid condition.’ He cooed over the gerbils: ‘Lovely cuddly things, but you must handle them gently.’ Dogs: ‘It is so important to train them properly.’

  Bleh, bleh, bleh. On and on and on about how to care for your pets. (Try this, Arif! Don’t swing them in a cage!) His talk was so, so boring. All that stuff you’ve heard a million times before about keeping the cage clean, and making sure all these pathetic pets who can’t look after themselves have nice, fresh water. (Tip from myself. Save all the trouble. Get a cat!)

  I could have yowled. But I was determined not to make a single kittenish mew in case he got annoyed and shoved me under the table, out of sight. You see, I hoped that, even though Ellie wasn’t there, when Arif finally got to my cage and pulled off the tangles of wool, someone else from Acacia Avenue would recognize me and shout, ‘Catnapper! That is Ellie’s cat! You have to give him back!’

  Then I’d be rescued.

  At last it was my turn. Arif tugged all the bits of wool away from the wires of the cage so everyone could see me better. And then he held me up.

  ‘See?’ he said, shaking his head in sorrow. ‘See what can happen if you aren’t careful?’

  I blinked. Sorry?

  He kept on. ‘Take this cat here. He’s obviously been brought up in a good family. His fur is thick and glossy. His eyes are bright. His paws are in excellent condition.’

  Well, thank you, Arif. Thank you for pointing out the obvious. I am a fine, fine specimen of a cat.

  ‘But,’ said Arif.

  Excuse me? But?

  I turned my head to stare. Would you believe it? He had the nerve to carry on.

  ‘But this pet is the perfect example of what we all want to avoid in our pets. This cat has been allowed to let himself go. Recently he has been horribly, horribly overfed, and doesn’t it show?’

  He swung the cage around so that everyone could gawp at me! Cheek! I know Ms Whippy’s pedal bin is a fine cornucopia of splendid grub; but surely no cat can put on that much weight in a few days . . .

  Surely . . .

  You wouldn’t think so to listen to Arif. He was still swinging me about. ‘Look at the size of him! Just look! No doubt this feline fellow has always teetered on the edge of getting tubby. But take a proper look. The cat inside this cage is a dire warning of what can happen if you don’t keep tabs on your pet’s diet. I hate to say it, but this cat is downright fat.’

  19

  Reprise

  OK, OK! So put on your crossest face and shake a finger at me. I scratched him. Very hard and deep. While he was busy going on and on about how fat I’d let myself become, and how I’d get an early heart attack if I did not slim down to what I’d been before, I sneaked my paw through the cage bars and raked my claws right round his wrist.

  That was a laugh. He yelled his head off. ‘Yee-oww, yee-oww, yee-oww, yee-oww, yee-oww!’

  He dropped the cage. That hurt. I bumped my head on the bars. So naturally I did exactly what you would have done.

  Scratched him again. On the ankle.

  This time he yelled even louder.

  ‘Yee-oww! Yee-oww! Yee-oww! Yee-oww! Yee-oww!’

  And guess what happened next. He woke up Gregory the Parrot! Don’t blame me. How was it my fault Gregory got confused under his cover and just assume
d he was at home again and we had started on a quick reprise of our wonderful Wild Cats’ Chorus?

  So Gregory started up, singing all four parts, all at once.

  Loudly. Very loudly. So loudly that some of the more unmusical people in the hall actually put down their juice and biscuits and clapped their hands over their ears. Beside me, the hamsters started burying their heads in their bedding, trying to block out the noise. The dog was whining and drooling all at the same time. Even the snake looked rather as if it was wincing.

  I thought I might as well join in and sing along. After all, it is my favourite song.

  And that’s when one or two of the audience appeared to crack, grabbing their coats to rush out. (I call that very rude.) Gregory kept up the singing. In fact, he was now showing off, singing eight parts at once. And that’s when even the people who had pets in the show began to block their ears with their fingers and rush towards the stage to snatch up their cages or boxes or fish bowl. There was a small commotion at the door because two people in the hallway were blocking everyone’s path, trying to slow up the people who were hurrying out long enough to hand them a flyer.

  And one of them was Ellie! Yes! Ellie! I heard her calling as the crowd forced their way past. ‘Please!’ she kept saying. ‘Please take away with you one of these photos of my precious, lovely lost pet so you can call me if you find him.’

  I didn’t even crane my neck to check it was my picture that was being handed out, and not a photo of some brand-new fluff-ball kitten she’d been given called Sugar-Pie or Pansy-Wansy. I simply trusted her and saw my chance, threw back my head and yowled even louder.

  ‘YEE-OWW, YEE-OWW, YEE-OWW, YEE-OWW, YEE-OWW. Yowwwwwl, yoWWWWL.’

  Ellie knows that song! She’s heard it often enough on moonlit nights. In any case, she recognized my voice. Everyone else was running the other way, but suddenly Ellie was pushing against them, scattering flyers all over as she ran.