AniMalcolm

by David Baddiel

  Malcolm sighed. What he was about to say seemed even less believable than that he was actually a human.

  “Because I was a tortoise. Just now. Before I was a cat. I was speaking to the goat and—”

  “OK, this is ridiculous,” said Zsa-Zsa.

  “I know!” said Malcolm. “But ask the tortoises!”

  “I can’t!” said Zsa-Zsa.

  “Why not? They’re just over there!” said Malcolm. In the middle distance, he could see Benny and Bjornita, like little tanks, circling the last pieces of manky lettuce.

  “I don’t speak tortoise.”

  “Oh.”

  This hadn’t occurred to Malcolm. He’d assumed all animals could speak all other animals’ languages. He, it seemed, could speak tortoise and cat. Although maybe he could only speak tortoise when he was a tortoise and cat when he was a cat. There was a lot to learn about being an animal.

  “So …” said Malcolm, “how do you know about Bjorn wanting to be called Bjornita? If you don’t speak tortoise?”

  “I speak a bit of dog.”

  “Right …”

  Malcolm looked at Zsa-Zsa for a while. She looked back at him, blankly.

  “No, I don’t understand how that helps,” Malcolm said eventually.

  Zsa-Zsa seemed to shake her head and tut, although she may have just been getting rid of a flea.

  “The dog knows about the tortoises. He told me. Trotsky.”

  “Oh.” Another short pause. “So Trotsky speaks tortoise?”

  “No,” said Zsa-Zsa. “He speaks frog. Which is pretty similar to tortoise. Apparently.”

  “Right.”

  “When he speaks it – the dog …”

  “When the dog speaks frog,” said Malcolm, thinking, How am I saying these things? How can this actually be happening?

  “Yes – it’s a kind of croak. I can’t make it out at all. He just seems to be saying “sausages” over and over again. Anyway, I’ll ask him.”

  “Ask him what?”

  But before she could answer that, Zsa-Zsa – in three graceful leaps – had bounded down from the roof and was on the ground.

  Malcolm watched from above, not sure whether to follow. Zsa-Zsa turned round and faced the doorway of the farm.

  “Trotsky! Trotsky! Come here immediately!” she cried.

  Within seconds, the farm sheepdog had appeared.

  “Woof! Woof woof woof! Woof woof!”

  OK, thought Malcolm. Clearly, I don’t understand dog.

  “Yes, yes. Whatever. Oy!” said Zsa-Zsa, looking up at him. “What’s your name?”

  “Malcolm!”

  “Malcolm? What kind of a name for a cat is that?”

  “It’s not a name for a cat. It’s a name for a human. Cats aren’t called things like that.”

  “Hmm. You say that, but I once heard the humans talking about a cat called – get this – Dr. Seuss. That’s a cat who’s a doctor! Not even a vet!”

  Malcolm sighed. “That’s the name of the author, not the cat,” he said.

  “What’s an author?” said Zsa-Zsa.

  “It’s … never mind. Anyway, the Cat in the Hat isn’t a real cat,” he said.

  Zsa-Zsa frowned. “Course it is. I saw a picture: furry, whiskers, tail, the lot.”

  “The big long hat didn’t trouble you at all?”

  “Nope. I assumed he was cold. Anyway, Malc—”

  “Don’t call me Malc!”

  “I’ll call you what I like. Malc – come down here!”

  Malcolm looked down. Directly down. The ground suddenly seemed a long way off. He looked back to Zsa-Zsa. Trotsky the dog was with her, looking up at him, his tongue hanging expectantly out of his mouth.

  “How do I do that?”

  “Tsk! You’re a cat!”

  “No, I’ve told you, I’m a—”

  “Look, even if your catamanny story about being a boy really is true – and I have to admit I haven’t seen a cat with eyes that blue before – you’re definitely rocking a cat’s body right now. So I’m pretty sure that a hop on to the guttering, a shimmy down to the window, and a leap from there to here is going to be no problem.”

  Malcolm looked down again. It really looked high. Once, back when he had been a human boy – which was starting to feel like quite a long time ago – he had gone swimming with the school, and various boys had dared each other to dive from the top diving board at his local swimming pool. Barry, Lukas, Taj and Morris had all done it (although Morris had more fallen off than dived). But Malcolm couldn’t: it looked not that high from the side of the pool, but once he’d walked up the ladder, right to the end of the board and looked down at the water, it felt like he was on top of a mountain. So, after trembling there for a bit, he just came down again, feeling sure that everyone in his year was looking at him and laughing.

  This wasn’t as high as that. Although proportionately it was, Malcolm thought, seeing as back then he had been four-and-a-half feet high, whereas now his head was about eight inches off the ground, or rather, the roof. So in terms of his present size, the drop was actually much, much higher.

  So he just crouched there for a while, not knowing what to do and feeling scared. Then he heard Zsa-Zsa shout:

  “Come on, Malc!”

  “Pardon?” said Malcolm.

  “I said come on, Malc! We haven’t got all day!”

  Two things got under Malcolm’s fur about this.

  He didn’t like being called Malc.

  Animals had nothing – nothing – to do. So the one thing they did have, as far as Malcolm could make out, was all day.

  “Don’t call me Malc!”

  “Why not? It’s short for Malcolm. All cats get their names shortened. Gav and Mav call me Zee-Zee.”

  “That isn’t shorter!”

  “Eh?”

  “Zee-Zee takes as long to say as Zsa-Zsa!”

  Zsa-Zsa yawned: this may or may not have been because she was bored. It was a cat yawn.

  “Just come down, Malc!!”

  Right, that’s it, thought Malcolm. And in his anger, he just leapt into the air. For a moment, his paws whirled madly, as if he had no idea how to direct his flight.

  But then suddenly, as if propelled by some internal steering wheel, his sleek cat body twirled towards the gutter, his back legs bouncing elegantly off it, directing him down towards the window ledge, where he landed for a split-second before bounding up again, and – by now thoroughly enjoying himself – spinning round in mid-air, twice, before settling, finally, on the grass exactly in between Trotsky and Zsa-Zsa.

  Zsa-Zsa looked at him, wearily. “Yeah. Very un-catlike. I must say.”

  “That was fun!!” said Malcolm. “It was brilliant!”

  “Modest too …” said Zsa-Zsa. “Oh, wait a minute,” she added pointedly, her ears cocked. “What’s that noise?”

  “What noise?”

  “That noise,” said Zsa-Zsa.

  Malcolm listened. He could hear a nice, comforting sound, a continuous breathy vibration, which sounded something like phommm-pharrrr …

  “Where’s that coming from?” he said.

  “You! It’s called purring, Mr I’m-Not-A-Cat! Anyway, Trotsky …?”

  “Woof?”

  “Can you ask the tortoises if this cat – Malcolm – was, just a minute ago, a tortoise?”

  “Woof woof woof?”

  “Yes, I know it’s weird. Just ask them.”

  “Woof woof!”

  “You won’t look stupid. Or at least, no more stupid than you do when you sniff another dog’s bum.”

  “Woof!”

  “I do not. Well. Only if it’s a cat I know really well.”

  Looking like he wasn’t at all sure about that assertion, Trotsky turned round. So did Malcolm and Zsa-Zsa. Benny and Bjornita were approaching them. Slowly.29

  Trotsky went off towards them.

  Malcolm asked Zsa-Zsa: “How come Trotsky’s just doing what you ask him? I thought dogs didn’t
like cats?”

  Zsa-Zsa stared at him. “Now I’m starting to think you might be telling the truth about being a boy …”

  “Why?”

  “Because all real cats know that that whole cats v dogs thing is just an act. It’s something we do for the humans: for their cartoons and stuff. In real life, we get on really well. Just as long as dogs know their place, of course.”

  “Woof woof woof!” said Trotsky. Zsa-Zsa and Malcolm turned round. Benny and Bjornita had finally got close enough.

  “OK, Trotsky, ask them! Ask them if Malc here was just one of them …”

  “Woof!”

  Trotsky crouched down. He sniffed at Benny. Then Bjornita. Malcolm watched, not entirely convinced the dog was going to talk to the tortoises. It looked more like he was about to eat them.

  Then he went, in a low growl:

  “Sausages sausages sausages. Sausages.” His head whirled round, nodding towards Malcolm. “Sausages; sau-saaaaa-gesss.” His head whirled back to the tortoises. “Sausages sausages sausages?”

  “Yes,” said Benny. “If that’s Malcolm, he was just with us.”

  “And definitely, then, he looked like a tortoise,” said Bjornita.

  “Oh!” said Malcolm. “I can understand you two! Maybe … then … I can understand the languages of animals I’ve … been …?”

  “Sorry,” said Zsa-Zsa, “now it sounds like you’re just saying ‘sausages’…”

  “I can talk to the tortoises! Hi, Benny! Hi, Bjornita!”

  “Hello, Malc!” said Benny.

  “Don’t call me Malc!”

  “I understand that,” said Bjornita. “Malc-olm. How’s life as a cat now?”

  “It’s great!”

  “I see. Better than being a tortoise?”

  “Er …”

  Bjornita turned away, haughtily. “Well, I think your silence speaks volumes. Doesn’t it, Benny?”

  “What do you mean, Bjornita?”

  “I mean, clearly, he thinks it’s better being a cat than a tortoise …”

  “Well,” said Benny, “it probably is.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Sorry. But sometimes I think I’d quite like fur. And speed. And people stroking me. And lots of photos of me looking cute on the internet.”

  “Hello?” said Zsa-Zsa. “I have no idea what you chaps are saying to each other. But I am still here. And I am still waiting for an answer to the question: was this cat very recently a tortoise?”

  “Woof woof woof!” said Trotsky.

  “Oh, use your cat words, Trotsky,” said Zsa-Zsa.

  “Woof … woof woof …?” he said quietly.

  “Don’t be silly. Your accent isn’t stupid.”

  Trotsky raised his eyes, looking a bit ashamed.30 Then he said:

  “Yeeeesss. Zeee Tortoize lady-one and not lady-one, zeey sayy zat zey are thinking zat zis kitty is yes Malcolm the boy-human who was also just now a tortoise yes.”

  Zsa-Zsa looked at Malcolm. “Blimey …” she said.

  “You see!” said Malcolm, feeling vindicated at last.

  “… I’d forgotten quite how stupid his accent in fact is.”

  “OK,” said Zsa-Zsa, “so … you’re a boy.”

  “Yes,” said Malcolm.

  “And … now you’re a cat.”

  “Yes.”

  “So … what’s the problem?”

  “Pardon?”

  Zsa-Zsa scratched her ear with her back foot, quite hard, like she was banging her head against her toes. Then said: “Well, that’s an improvement. Isn’t it?”

  “Er … well. I don’t know.”

  “You’re prettier. You’re cleverer. You get to sleep twenty-three hours a day.”

  “And poo outdoors …” said Benny.

  “Yes, that too. What’s not to love? About being a cat.”

  Malcolm was about to say, “No! You don’t understand! I don’t even like animals! So can you imagine what it’s like suddenly being one?” but stopped himself.

  Not just because that might have sounded rude. But because for a minute – for a second – he thought: Actually, she might have a point. He felt how taut and streamlined his body was. He remembered that jump down from the roof. He realised that he was, in a way, having fun.

  So instead he said:

  “Well. Not everything’s great about being a cat.”

  “Name one thing that isn’t,” said Zsa-Zsa.

  Malcolm thought about something Ticky and Tacky did at home. Weirdly, it gave him a bit of a pang, thinking about home and his own family’s cats. Even if he didn’t like them.

  “Well,” he said, “have you by any chance found, inside the farmhouse, a lovely small pond – surrounded by white slopes?”

  “Oh yes!” said Zsa-Zsa. “It’s in the room where Gavin and Maven bathe.”

  Malcolm smiled to himself. “And do you sometimes balance yourself on those slopes and then bend your face right down to drink water from that lovely pond?”

  “Yes?” said Zsa-Zsa.

  “It’s a toilet. It’s a human toilet.”

  Zsa-Zsa didn’t say anything for a moment. “Hmm. I thought the water tasted … a bit … tangy …” She licked herself. “Oh well.”

  Obviously not even making it clear that she’d drunk gallons of toilet water was going to dent Zsa-Zsa’s love of being a cat. So Malcolm said:

  “Anyway. I think what I should do – at least to try and find out what’s happened – is go and speak to K-Pax.”

  “The goat?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he got to do with it?”

  Malcolm realised he hadn’t actually explained to Zsa-Zsa how he’d ended up like this. So he did.

  “Hmm,” said Zsa-Zsa after he’d finished. “Sounds a bit … far-fetched …”

  “Well …” said Malcolm. “Yes.”

  “Oh, that’s so typical,” said Bjornita. “So cat!”

  “What did the tortoise say?” said Zsa-Zsa.

  “Um,” said Malcolm.

  “Spit it out.”

  “She, er, said, ‘That’s so typical. So cat.’”

  Zsa-Zsa narrowed her eyes at Bjornita.31

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You being so cynical and disbelieving about it!” said Bjornita. “That’s very cat.”

  Zsa-Zsa looked at Malcolm. Reluctantly, Malcolm translated.

  “Oh right,” said Zsa-Zsa, “as opposed to being all –” she went close to Bjornita and screwed up her face to look stupid – “durrrrrghgghhh about it. That’s very tortoise. Translate, please, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm chose not to do this. Instead he said, “Listen. I think we’re getting away from the problem. Which is, um, my problem, mainly. Because I would like to get back to being a boy, at some point.” He took a deep breath, trying to control the fear that saying this brought up in him. “So. Does anyone speak goat?”

  Trotsky and Benny and Bjornita and Zsa-Zsa shook their heads.

  “OK …” said Malcolm. “But I’ve got an idea anyway. Let’s go to the goat pen …”

  “Why?” said Benny.

  “I think,” said Malcolm, “that the way this works is … when I fall asleep, I change. Into another animal! I think … into the last animal I saw. That’s what happened just now – I saw Zsa-Zsa on the roof just before I went to sleep and when I woke up I was a cat. So … if I get into the goat pen, I could fall asleep. And then I’ll wake up as a goat! And then I could speak to K-Pax.”

  There was a short pause while the other animals took in this quite long speech. Then Bjornita said:

  “Splendid idea!”

  “Good one!” said Benny.

  “Meee thinking it soundzzzz goooood,” said Trotksy. “Yezzz. Goooood.”

  “OK,” said Zsa-Zsa. “Let’s go!”

  “Yeah,” said Benny. “Let’s go!”

  “What did he say?” said Zsa-Zsa, as she ran off, followed closely by Trotsky and Malcolm.

 
“Never mind,” said Malcolm, looking back at Benny and Bjornita, already a long way behind.

  When they got to the goat pen, Zsa-Zsa jumped gracefully up and sat on the edge of the fence. Malcolm followed her. It was so easy to land there – it was amazing. Trotsky made more of a meal of it, scrabbling up with his tongue hanging out, and then he wasn’t able to perch on the fence, so just fell off on to the earth on the other side, which made most of the goats back away.

  Malcolm looked at Trotsky, and felt … superior. Which was odd. When he was a boy he wouldn’t have felt that a cat was better than a dog or any other animal. He wouldn’t have cared either way. But as a cat, he definitely felt he was better than a dog. Or any other animal.

  “So,” said Zsa-Zsa, “which one is K-Pax?”

  Malcolm looked at the goats, still all backing away from Trotsky, who was just wagging his tail at them. Then, behind all the others, he saw: those eyes, those amber, staring eyes.

  “That one,” he said. “The really old-looking one at the back.”

  “OK. Well, go to sleep.”

  “Right … just like that.”

  “Well, if you’re right, you’ll turn into a goat. Then you can talk to K-Pax.”

  “Yes …” Malcolm was suddenly a bit frightened about this. He had felt, at some level, quite at home with being a cat. Being a goat: that seemed more alien.

  Then again, he had already been a tortoise.

  So he jumped down into the pen. The ground was muddy, covered in hay and straw. The goats were all staring at him. It didn’t feel like the easiest place to sleep, even if he was a cat, the best animal at sleeping in the world.

  But then Trotsky came over and said:

  “Perhapzzzz zis will help???”

  He curled his body round Malcolm, like a warm, furry, all-over body-pillow. And within seconds, Malcolm felt himself falling asleep.

  Just before Malcolm actually dropped off, however, he heard the gate of the goat pen open.

  And some voices.

  “Gav!”

  “Yes, Mav?”

  “They’ll be all right in here, won’t they? Then they’ll be in place already for the show tomorrow morning …”

  “Yuh! Oh look, here’s Trotsky!”

  “Cuddling some cat.”

  “Who is that cat?”

  “Don’t know. Looks really like Zsa-Zsa. But she’s back at the farmhouse, eating. Hey, Trot! Hey, boy! Where have you been? We needed you to help move all the sh—”