I was halfway through my feast when Mum and the children returned from the shops. Mum came over to see what I was eating and was amazed when she realized I had caught a tree runner. She actually called it a squirrel when she told the children, who also came to admire me. It was all very satisfying, a real triumph. Looking back now I would say it was probably the highlight of my entire life.
By the time Dad came home, only the bushy grey tail was left of my tree runner squirrel. I thought he might like it as a decoration for his sun hat.
20
DAD AND I ARE IN CHARGE OF THE HOUSE FOR THE SUMMER AND DO A GREAT JOB
When the schools broke up for the summer, Mum took the children away on holiday. She left me and Dad in charge of the house. Dad had a long list of jobs to do while she was away. I was going to supervise everything and lend a paw if necessary.
He needed help before they had even left. As Mum gathed up their last few bits and pieces from around the house, Dad and the children took the suitcases out to the garage, loaded them into the car and got in. I waited outside for the spectacle of the big garage door opening. It was an automatic door and I loved watching it go up all by itself. This time, however, I had to wait: a lengthy argument was going on inside the car. Robin was asking lots of questions in a high-pitched voice and Dad was answering them in his low one, then the girls chimed in as well and everyone talked at once. Eventually, Dad must have had enough; he started the car. That meant the door would go up any second now – I craned my neck so as not to miss the moment. But the door stayed shut. Instead, the car came crashing through the closed garage door, sending splinters of wood in all directions. There was not much left of the door at all when the car came to a screeching halt on the driveway.
Dad got out to take a look just as Mum appeared at the kitchen door. She stood there silently with her mouth open. It had also gone very quiet inside the car. The garage door was in a bad way. Only one or two bits of wood were still attached to the frame, the rest were spread all over the driveway. The car had several dents at the back, where it had hit the door. Dad said a very short word, scratched the top of his head and looked upset. I walked up to him and leant against his leg to lend support. Mum joined us and patted him on the back. I could feel Dad’s leg relaxing a bit. Mum bent down to say goodbye to me and told me to look after Dad. The children just waved quietly from the car. I watched them drive away with mixed feelings. I was looking forward to being in charge of the house with Dad, but the debris behind us didn’t seem like a good start.
My misgivings were unnecessary: Dad and I had a great time together, even though it took us two whole weekends to repair the garage door. Reassembling all those pieces of wood in the correct way was a real challenge. Dad used lots of nails and several more very short words. After four days of solid work, the door still wobbled dangerously when it went up, so we added a few more thick pieces of wood for extra reinforcement. It didn’t look quite as before, but at least we had a door again.
Once we had time to turn our attention to other things, we realized that most of the vegetables had ripened since Mum had left: the bean stalks were sprouting bright green fingers, the tomatoes were fat and red, and the rabbits had started eating the lettuces. There were dozens of ripe cucumbers as well. We picked an awful lot of vegetables. Dad froze the beans and ate cucumber and tomato salad every night. I tried some, but it was watery and slimy – definitely not something a cat would eat. Eventually he took some to work to give away. It seemed unfair that Mum should miss out on the harvest she had worked so hard for, and that Dad and I should end up with it all when we really weren’t that keen on it.
At night, Dad and I slept together in the big bed – I had Mum’s side. It was much more spacious than with the three of us, and we could snore as loudly as we liked without getting told off. On week days we had breakfast together, then Dad left for work and I spent the day guarding the house while snoozing in a shady spot until Dad’s return. We ate our dinner in front of the TV, which we’re never usually allowed to do. Our evenings were spent watering the remaining vegetables or sitting on the deck, reading the paper, appreciating each other’s company. I sensed that killing the tree runner had been the beginning of my adult life. It had finally earned me respect in the garden. I had proven myself as a competent hunter and a guardian of our house. It felt good to be a grown-up.
21
I GET A NEW DINNER SERVICE AND ROBIN LEARNS TO READ
When Mum and the children finally returned from their long holiday, things became a lot livelier. Once their music practice started up again in the afternoons, I found myself thinking back nostalgically to the long, quiet summer weeks. I think Dad did as well. Another mellow autumn with vibrant colours and clear, blue skies replaced the summer heat, and the dark green foliage that had sheltered my favourite sleeping spots became lighter and sparser each day, until the cold winds finally blew it away altogether. I moved back into the basement room then, as I sleep better in the dark.
Winter came again and my family decided to go away for a long weekend of skiing. This, apparently, involved gliding along on snow with the help of two long, flat wooden boards, holding on to a couple of sticks. They showed me how to do it in the garden. It looked like hard work – at least the children made it seem that way; they were forever falling over or bumping into trees. Personally, I failed to see where the fun was in that. It was not an activity I envied them, and it got boring after a while.
I was more interested in finding out what would happen to me while they were gone. Would Lily come back to look after me? I reminded Mum of her promise that I could stay home whenever they went away, and she told me not to worry. I still did, though.
A couple of days before their departure, Mum returned from the shops looking very pleased with herself. She placed a large box on the kitchen table and invited me to watch her unpack it. When we opened the flap, out came a set of two very fancy food bowls with elegant, blue lids. For me? Mum smiled and nodded, and explained to me that these bowls would allow me to feed myself while they were away, now that I was a grown-up cat.
I was intrigued to see how the new bowls worked. Might they perhaps enable me to help myself to extra food, now that I was a grown-up? Sadly, this turned out not to be the case. Still, they were pretty good: they knew when it was precisely five o’clock, my dinner time, at which point one of them clicked open to reveal my dinner of fish, kept fresh by the blue lid. The next day, the second bowl opened at the stroke of five. It was quite magical!
Of course, the downside of the new bowls was that you couldn’t argue with them, or weave around them in a bid to get an early dinner, the way I do with Mum and Dad. No matter how much I shouted at them or tried to open the lids before five o’clock, they stayed firmly shut. They even tried to mock me by reflecting my own cross face back at me in their blue polish, so that eventually I took to turning my back on them until I heard the little click that announced dinner.
By the time my family came back from their skiing weekend, covered in bruises, the bowls and I had come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement: I left them alone and they refrained from showing me my cross face. It was a win: win situation. Everyone was pleased to see that I had been all right on my own. Why wouldn’t I be? After all, Mum and Dad had even left my cat door open as a special gesture of trust, and I had done my best not to disappoint them: no fewer than three mice and one mole were neatly arranged on the mat for them.
From then on, my family often went away for long weekends and left me in charge of the house. I always enjoyed the peace and quiet after they left, but was equally glad to have them back after a few days.
It was during that same year that Robin had to learn to read, and Mum and Dad had to teach him. I could tell it was a tricky business to understand what all those little black marks on the page meant, so I didn’t blame him for finding it hard, but I very much wished that Mum or Dad would continue reading to us in the evenings, as they had always done. Whenever Robin r
ead, it took so long for one word to come out that I quite forgot what the story was about. It was no good going to Caroline or Emily’s rooms for a bedtime story either: they had long ago learnt to read silently to themselves at night.
So Robin soldiered on throughout autumn, winter and into spring. He wasn’t very happy when Mum or Dad made him read, and frankly I doubted whether he would ever learn how to do it. Then one evening, Mum relented and read to us to give Robin a break. She picked out a difficult book about a vet who could talk to animals. When she started reading, Robin and I were enthralled by the story about a man who apparently knew how to bark like a dog, meow like a cat and neigh like a horse. He could even talk to exotic animals like elephants and lions. I had often wished that my family, who are reasonably skilled now at understanding my simpler statements, could learn to speak my language, and here was a man who could! I wanted to hear more about him.
Unfortunately, Mum had an infuriating habit of stopping when she felt it was time for Robin to go to sleep. She would snap the book shut at the end of a chapter and declare that this was it for tonight. Robin and I were bitterly disappointed whenever she did that and always whined for more – usually to no avail. That particular night, she did it again, and Robin got very cross with her indeed, because the story was just building up to a particularly exciting part. When she would not give in, Robin grabbed the book from her hands and announced he would read it to me by himself. I admired him for his courage, but to be honest, I thought it was misplaced in this case, as he could surely never do it. So imagine my surprise – and Mum’s – when he started reading, slowly at first, then more and more fluently, all the way to the end of the exciting bit. Then he fell back on his pillow, exhausted, and was asleep. Mum and I looked at each other in amazement. He had done it! He could read, and has done, ever since. The book about the man who could talk to animals is still my favourite, to this day, and Robin has read it to me many times over.
22
THE TIDES CHANGE AGAIN
Peace returned to our bedtimes, and to life in general, as the school year moved towards its end and the weather grew warmer. I felt very settled in our house and garden by now and thought we could be happy there forever and ever. I enjoyed my daily routine that changed with the seasons and therefore never got dull. We had all found friends and fun activities to do, and the things that had alarmed us at first – like the big yellow school bus and the disgusting tap water – had just become a part of life that we were able to accept. After all, nowhere is perfect, but our life very nearly was.
Sadly, nothing seems to last forever in my family. As spring turned into summer, I sensed the tides changing once more: there were the brochures again, the long discussions and finally the goodbye parties. Caroline and Emily were heartbroken at having to leave their friends behind, and Robin was upset about leaving his little red jeep. But for some reason, Mum and Dad had decided it was time to leave. Once again, all our belongings were taken apart and loaded into a giant container – it was twice as big as the one we had had when we came. I suppose we had all grown since then.
Mum told me it would soon be time to say goodbye to our house and garden, and that I would have to fly off on my own again, to be reunited with them in a while, back in Australia – back home! I was not looking forward to it. I had come to love our American house and the wild garden and forests around it. I loved the glowing insects of warm summer nights and the look of the forest on frosty mornings. I loved my hidey holes and my lookout point on the mossy wood pile. Even the tree runners seemed okay now that I knew I had to leave them. And what would grey cat Piglet do without me? It was not to be contemplated, and yet I knew I had no choice: my life was with my family, who needed me and relied on me for so many things. I had to go with them.
It was with a heavy heart indeed that I climbed into our car one morning to drive to the airport with Mum and Dad. I had said goodbye to all my favourite places in the garden and walked through the empty rooms in our house, remembering everything we had done in each of them and all the fun we had had. I had said goodbye to grey cat Piglet – who, disappointingly, seemed to be looking forward to moving back into our house with any new family that might come after us. And I had said goodbye to Caroline, Emily and Robin, who each hugged me in turn and told me to be brave.
I didn’t feel brave at all, particularly when Mum and Dad delivered me to the check-in desk at the airport in my travel box, stroked me one last time, told me to be good, promised I would see them again very soon, and left me. I watched them walk away down a long corridor, getting smaller and smaller until they were just two little specks of colour, and I was so worried I would never, ever see them again. But that is another story.
Part 2
From Maryland to Melbourne
1
IN PRISON
I didn’t have much time to miss Mum and Dad after they left me at the airport. As soon as they had turned the corner at the end of the corridor, a man came to take me away. We drove in a small vehicle along endless, bright corridors where bored people were wandering about aimlessly. From time to time, my travel container was deposited somewhere and I had to wait around before the next person came to move me on. I sincerely hoped they all knew where I was going.
Eventually I was taken to my plane to begin the first leg of my journey. It was the usual, joyless affair: I was squeezed in between boxes and blankets into a tiny space that felt quite airless until we took off, when some cooler air started circulating from somewhere – probably through a hole in the side of the plane. I was sure the contraption had seen better days. Everything rattled and shook; I felt quite sick. On landing, I had a short break in the airport building while several people studied my travel documents. I told each one of them that I was going to Australia, but nobody seemed to understand. They just smiled, nodded and wished me a safe journey. Was there any way of knowing where I would end up in all this confusion?
I was worried sick by the time I was lifted on to the next plane, but greatly relieved when I was welcomed by a friendly “G’day” from one of the crew. We were bound for Australia after all! I discovered further that I was going to travel in style: I was invited to sit in the crew’s room, surrounded by their coats and luggage, and soon found myself the centre of polite attention. The captain came to welcome me on board and filled my water dish. Pretty air hostesses cooed over me whenever they had time and offered me tasty treats from the kitchen. It was all very pleasant. Even the noise and movement of the plane did not seem so bad when the service was so excellent. I dozed in between their visits and quite began to look forward to my return to Australia.
A long, long time later, we touched down in what turned out to be a cold, drizzly place – not the hot, sunny country I remembered. A man in a baseball cap and T-shirt of an unattractive reddish purple colour with bright writing on the front was already waiting for me in the airport building. I don’t like reds of any hue – they clash terribly with my coat – so I stared at him sternly through the bars of my travel container and gave him the silent treatment. He seemed not to notice, called a cheerful welcome and loaded me into the back of his van, whistling all the time. Off we drove for quite a while. There were no windows in the van, so I had no idea where we were going or what the place even looked like. I hoped I was going straight home to my family; if not, then presumably they had booked me into a cat hotel again. I really wanted it to be my favourite one, where I used to stay years ago.
So imagine my disappointment when the van door opened to reveal a soulless, grey concrete block with bars at every window! Had the cheerful red man taken me to a prison? My dismay turned to alarm when he carried me into the building and down long, murky corridors lined with barred cells, where sad-looking cats were staring at us with vacant expressions. My journey ended in front of one of the cells. My guide joyfully announced that this was to be my new home now and opened the door for me.
Now, everyone knows that escape is most likely to succeed in transit.
Once they slam the cell door in your face, all hope dies. So as soon as the man opened my travel container, I took off! Several days of being cooped up had made me a little stiff, but not too stiff to run like the wind back down the long corridor we had come in by. I had no idea where I would go once I got out of there, but I knew with certainty that I wasn’t staying in this hell hole. Not after travelling in luxury in the crew’s room; not after having lived in America; not after having had a loving family for so long. I did not belong here, and they’d better know it straight away.
The man threw his cap in the air in alarm and followed me at a gallop, yelling to his mates for help. Soon I had every red-clad person in the place running after me. The front door was locked when I reached it, so I turned right and tore off helter-skelter up and down corridors, past cells containing dumbfounded cats, around corners where people were lying in wait for me, leapt over them, scratched where I could, and actually really enjoyed a good run after my confinement. The cool air made me frisky, and although I could not discover a way out of the place, I was getting to know it pretty well after a while. Soon the other cats started yelling their encouragement, uniformed people were bumping into each other, food bins were falling over, spilling their contents – the chase was exhilarating!
After a while, the red brigade ran out of steam. They gathered in a corner, breathless and sweating, scratching their heads and fanning themselves with their caps. I was sorry they had given up so soon; I was just getting into my stride. But since the fun seemed to be over, I stopped as well and settled down by the food bins. The food that had spilled out on the floor smelled delicious. It reminded me of my bowl full of crunchy, tasty morsels back in our Perth kitchen – and suddenly I realized that I was, of course, back in the land of superior cat food! Much as I had loved being in America, the food there had never been to my taste. I inched forward carefully and tried a bit of the food: it was deeelicious! That’s when I realized how hungry I was. Apart from the little titbits I had been offered on my flight, I had eaten nothing since leaving home two days earlier. Without further ado, I settled down to my unexpected treat on the prison’s concrete floor and ate my fill. The food was fantastic. Surely, a place that served such food could not be all bad? I gobbled up most of the food that had spilled from the bins. Then I found a bucket full of clean water and drank – again, deeelicious! Not the disgusting brown liquid tasting of iron that had been our lot for the past two years, but clean, fresh, wholesome water! I was almost reconciled with my surroundings by the time I had finished.
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