by Colin Dann
The evening grew darker. Sammy tried to picture to himself what was happening in his own garden. Stella, Molly and Josephine would have eaten and probably prepared themselves for sleep. His mother and sister would have washed themselves meticulously as always. Molly, of course, did not bother with this. It was one of the first things Sammy had learnt about the differences between cats and dogs. Dogs did not wash themselves. They seemed to prefer a good scratch.
He thought about the all-important plate of food – his food. It should still be standing close to the kitchen door, waiting to be emptied. But supposing it was not? Supposing his mistress considered it unwise to leave it there? After all, what was to stop Stella or Josephine eating it? No, Stella would not, he knew. She was set in her ways and only ate what she needed. And Josephine? She was not greedy. Sammy comforted himself with the thought. It should be all right. But then there was Molly. No, no, that was even more unlikely, that Molly should eat it. She took an age to eat her own meal.
Sammy tried to relax, yet the temptation to check that the food was there was almost irresistible. He dreaded the outcome if it was not. Suddenly he tensed, hearing a scrabbling noise against the fence nearest to him. It must be the vagabond cat. He looked up. Yes, it was Scruff, perched on the fence top. Sammy was relieved it was not Brute.
‘Over here,’ Sammy hissed.
Scruff jumped down, awkwardly because of his lameness. He was carrying something in his jaws. He came over and deposited two dead mice at Sammy’s feet. Sammy stared at them with misgiving. They looked extremely unappetizing and had a rank smell.
‘Here’s your rations,’ Scruff announced abruptly. ‘Now where’s mine?’
‘I’ll show you,’ Sammy muttered. ‘But is this all there is for me?’ He indicated the mice. ‘There’s not much meat on them.’
‘Did the best I could,’ Scruff replied gruffly. ‘What do you expect? You’re lucky to have two of ’em.’
Sammy sighed. Famished as he was, he did not know if he could bring himself to taste them.
‘I’ll go and see if it’s all clear,’ he told the black cat.
Scruff’s eyes had the intense gleam of hunger in them. He was half-starved. Sammy was sorry for him.
‘Be quick,’ said Scruff. ‘Much as I could do to hold off eating these here on the way.’
Sammy climbed to a vantage point overlooking the back of his mistress’s cottage. He was astonished to see a plate and a bowl still standing by the door. The door was closed. There was meat on the plate and milk in the bowl. Oh, how he would relish some milk! And, after all, there was no agreement about providing milk as well. Whilst he hesitated, Scruff’s voice sounded impatiently below him.
‘Well? What’s the delay?’
Sammy had a quick look round to make sure no one was about. Evidently Mrs Lambert was not keeping watch for him. His mother and sister, too, were not visible. Now was the moment.
‘Up here,’ he called.
Scruff joined him eagerly.
‘You can see the food quite plainly. It’s all yours,’ Sammy told him. He was hoping Scruff would only interest himself in the meat. But he was disappointed. The lame cat descended into Mrs Lambert’s garden. He paused to sniff awhile. Satisfied, he made a beeline for the bowl of milk, lapped it up without a pause and then commenced on the solid food.
Sammy was interested in Scruff’s eating habits. It was as if he had not eaten for days. The meat was bolted with barely a chew, until about a quarter of it remained. This the cat gathered up carefully and held in his mouth while he returned to Sammy’s side.
‘Are you planning a reserve store?’ the tabby asked him.
Scruff had to drop the food to answer. ‘This is for Brute, of course,’ he growled.
‘Brute?’
‘Yes, Brute. Surely you don’t think the King Cat will come to fetch for himself? He doesn’t come into these sorts of places. But what would you know about it?’
Sammy understood. Each of the other cats was obliged to save a portion of their food to take to their overlord. Brute had them all running about for him, even the lame Scruff.
‘Eat your mice,’ Scruff muttered. Then he collected up the meat again and ran off.
Sammy sniffed at the vagabond’s offering daintily. He was loth to touch these dead creatures. They were not even warm. But he knew that there would be no food for him until the next day if he did not. Mrs Lambert would soon find the empty plates and assume he had cleared them. She would have no cause to think otherwise. Meanwhile Sammy would have to fast. And then the next night another cat would come. . . .
Sammy gulped and took one of the mice, rather gingerly, in his jaws. His stomach grumbled hungrily. He began to bite at the carcass. There was scarcely any flesh worth speaking of, but what there was, was not quite so bad as he had expected. He devoured the best parts of each animal, but his hunger remained unassuaged. It never occurred to him that he might have eaten two of Tiptoe’s comrades.
When he had finished he decided to examine the plate and bowl left by his mistress, just in case Scruff had missed something. But he found both were as clean as if there had never been anything on them in the first place. Ah well, he had kept his bargain. And Tiptoe’s plan had worked perfectly. Sammy wondered where the little creature was. Well out of sight in a place of safety, he had no doubt. The young cat next considered his own position. There was nothing in the arrangement to say he could not sleep comfortably. He had his own place of shelter. He could still use it. He might have to eat scraps for a while, but at least he could rest where he chose. He trotted along the lawn to where the familiar bulk of the shed loomed dark against the starlit sky. He was surprised to find himself looking forward to the company of Stella and Josephine.
10
A Feast for a Morsel
Sammy told his mother and sister as little as possible about his wanderings. Stella was not very interested anyway – in her view Sammy was now a grown male cat and would go his own way. Josephine was more inquisitive but, since Sammy would not give her any information, she soon ceased to question him. In any case she and her brother were fast growing apart.
The next morning, when he was sure Mrs Lambert was not looking for him, he sought out Molly. The old dog was so pleased to see her young friend that Sammy’s affection for her increased even further. Molly could not restrain herself from giving the tabby a couple of hearty licks all over his funny, crossed-out face. Sammy knew at once he had no need to apologize for stealing her food.
‘I shan’t be around so much for a while,’ he told Molly enigmatically.
‘I understand,’ replied the kindly animal. ‘It’s only to be expected now you’re an adult. You’ve become a big, strong cat. Why should you restrict yourself to this little garden?’
Sammy was surprised at her words, but he knew Molly for a wise old beast.
‘I expect you’ve seen some of the other side of life, haven’t you?’ she went on, with a wry expression on her grizzled face.
‘You – you know?’ gasped Sammy.
‘Of course I know. It was only a matter of time before you found out. You’re your father’s son after all. And I can see you’ve changed.’
‘I have changed, Molly,’ Sammy admitted. ‘I have different ideas now. But I’ve yet to meet my father.’
‘Have you? You surprise me. But you will; you can be sure of it.’
Sammy noticed Mrs Lambert in the kitchen. ‘I – er – think I’ll stretch my legs,’ he said and left Molly abruptly.
She watched him disappear over the fence. His speed, despite his stocky build, was impressive. ‘Well, Beau,’ the dog murmured to herself, ‘you have a son to be proud of there, and maybe, before long, a match for you too.’
By the evening Sammy was so hungry he could scarcely keep still while he waited for the vagabond to bring him his supper. He longed for something other than dead mice but, on the other hand, he did not care what was brought provided it was more substantial than Scruff’s off
ering. He kept away from the chicken run, so that the cockerel should not begin his silly chants again.
He heard his mistress calling his name at meal-time and tapping his plate on the ground to encourage him. The sound was a torment to him but he held himself back. It seemed an age after that before he saw the ginger cat Sunny sitting on the fence top. This cat, in common with most of the other vagabonds, was scornful of Sammy and had not put himself out to catch the young tabby anything worthwhile. When they met he dropped the remains of a sparrow on the ground and watched Sammy’s reaction with amusement. To Sunny it was a great piece of fun to take advantage of this soft, domesticated animal.
‘Is that all you could get?’ cried Sammy, realizing now that Scruff had been rather generous to him. ‘I’ve had nothing but two dead mice since yesterday.’
‘Two?’ Sunny mocked him. ‘Well, you were lucky. This is our usual fare for the day and I know you wanted to find out all about how we live.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Sammy said angrily. ‘That scrap is scarcely a mouthful. It wouldn’t keep a kitten alive, let alone a big animal like you.’
‘Some days are better than others,’ Sunny told him. ‘You’ll find out if you ever learn how to hunt.’ There was an undisguised contempt in his voice. He was second only to Brute in skill and strength and had the confidence to go with it, even though he was just a little smaller than Sammy.
‘I’ll learn how to hunt,’ Sammy answered quickly. ‘And I’ll do better for myself than this!’ He was really seething.
‘Do as you like with it,’ snapped the ginger cat. ‘If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it myself. I provided it for you – now what have you provided for me?’
‘I haven’t provided anything,’ Sammy returned. ‘You’ve got my mistress to thank for your banquet. And I don’t consider this scrap of feathers a fair exchange.’
‘Don’t you now?’ purred Sunny. His eyes roved over the tabby, assessing his potential as a fighter. But he could see nothing other than a soft, glossy, well-groomed and well-fed animal who could pose no sort of a threat. ‘And what do you think we should do about it?’
Sammy felt cheated and mocked. There were the beginnings of a feeling of hostility inside him which would eventually spur him into action. But not yet. He still had not quite the hardness or the self-confidence necessary. So on this occasion he backed down, saying sullenly, ‘There’s nothing to be done, is there? I can’t control what you catch. You’ll find a bowl of food over the next fence by the wall. There are other cats about so you’d better wait until your way’s clear.’
‘Other cats?’ repeated Sunny. ‘Well, if they’re anything like you they won’t be much of a worry.’ He stalked off, having delivered this final insult.
Sammy’s tail flicked in anger and his fur rose on his back. But Sunny saw none of it. He had made Sammy quail, and the tale he would take back to Quartermile Field was of how the cats could play this game with the pet tabby for all they were worth. He found a plate of fish, ate most of it, then carefully picked up some large pieces to offer as tribute to Brute.
Sammy had eaten the sparrow and, as Sunny returned the way he had come, he saw the young tabby vomiting up the unaccustomed bones and feathers from his pampered stomach. ‘Pets!’ hissed the ginger between his clenched teeth.
When Sammy had recovered himself he felt very thirsty. He went miserably to look for the nearest puddle. His hollow belly ached. He had never known such hunger. He knew he could not possibly wait another entire day for some measly scrap of food. The question of hunting entered his mind again. It seemed to be the only thing now that stood between him and starvation. But what could he hunt? And where?
All at once he remembered Pinkie’s talk of rabbits. A whole rabbit represented a magnificent meal compared with the mere morsels of skin and bone he had been presented with so far. Sammy had seen rabbits in Belinda’s meadow – not close by, but near enough to appreciate their size. He knew nothing of their habits or movements but, sooner or later, he would have to find out about them. Why not start now?
He found a pool of clean water and quenched his thirst. Then, with the spirit of adventure inside him, he set off on his quest. He came to the road, watched and listened carefully. It was dark and quiet. He trotted across. He was about to enter the waste ground when a huddled shape in the gutter made him turn his head. Something was lying there. Curious, he sauntered over.
It was the carcass of a rabbit, killed by a car as it tried to cross the road. Sammy smelt the meat. It was fresh. The unfortunate rabbit was a recent victim; so recent that none of the vagabond cats had had time to discover it. Sammy did not delay in capitalizing on his luck. He grasped the body easily with his strong teeth and, with the carcass dangling between his front legs, he re-crossed the road, walking stiffly because of his load. He made straight for Belinda’s field and headed for the tallest, thickest growth of herbage where he could be safe from prying eyes.
Never had a meal tasted so good. Nothing given him by Mrs Lambert, however rich or toothsome, could compare with this rabbit. Sammy’s great hunger added a tremendous zest to the flavour of the meat and he had the satisfaction of knowing that this meal was the very first he had provided for himself. It put new heart into him and he felt more than ready to meet the next day’s challenge. He fell asleep where he was, with the delicious taste of rabbit on his lips.
In the early morning he awoke on a bright clear day to find Belinda standing over him and examining him thoughtfully. She had noticed dried blood around his mouth.
‘You have the look of Quartermile Field about you,’ she told Sammy.
At first the young cat was puzzled, being only half awake. He stood up and stretched and saw the remains of the rabbit carcass lying where he had slept.
‘I have to feed myself,’ he answered the goat, almost defensively.
‘So I see.’ Belinda’s attitude had changed. She did not sound friendly any longer.
Sammy thought it was time to go. ‘I’ll bid you farewell then,’ he said awkwardly.
Belinda did not answer but, as the cat moved off, she called him back. ‘You can take this with you,’ she said, indicating the carcass. ‘I’d rather not have your leavings turning sour in my field.’
Sammy took up the half-eaten rabbit and paused, unsure where to take it. Belinda watched him. She could guess what was going through his mind.
‘I doubt if Stella or young Josephine would welcome it,’ she remarked phlegmatically. ‘I’d be surprised if you have much in common with them any more.’
Sammy turned with his burden and made for the hedgerow. He planned to find a hiding-place for it, in case he should need to return to it. He dropped it amongst the prickles of hawthorn and bramble shoots and nudged it out of sight. There was certainly another meal left on the body. He wondered if he would need it that night.
Having deposited his cache of food, Sammy gave himself a thorough wash. When he had finished, he looked once more like a domestic animal. But his thoughts were not on domestic matters. He had decided to wait in a safe place near to the road to see which cat should emerge from the bomb site that evening. He was not going to be so meek and mild from now on. If he was not brought a proper ration this time, then the vagabond responsible would not be allowed to go near his mistress’s garden. Sammy was becoming aware of his strength.
He kept out of sight all day in a spot bordering Belinda’s meadow. The goat obviously felt no desire for his company any more and he had to accept it. When dusk fell he moved. Against a wall of the last cottage overlooking the road he waited for the vagabond cat to make its appearance.
It was a long time before anything stirred. The night was well on before Sammy at last saw the gleam of green eyes on the opposite side of the road. He saw the eyes first, caught in the glare of headlamps of an approaching car. The car passed and the next thing Sammy knew a dark body came running, quite unwittingly, towards him. Sammy fastened his gaze on the animal’s jaws. There was nothing
large enough to be noticeable in the darkness. So the cat was either bringing him a minute scrap or – nothing. Now he recognized a tabby body. It was Brindle.
As soon as he saw Sammy, Brindle stopped. The two tabbies faced each other – one plump, strong and shining, the other thin, hard and dull-coloured.
‘I’ve come to meet you,’ Sammy said, eyeing the tiny titbit of food Brindle had brought – the head of a small fish. ‘I can save you a journey.’
‘Save me a journey?’ Brindle growled. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about your intention to rob me of my food,’ Sammy replied icily. ‘You’ve a strange idea of fairness, you vagabonds. My day’s ration of meat for this – this – insult!’
Brindle’s eyes narrowed. It seemed the pet was looking for trouble. Well, that was fine by him. He would soon teach him a thing or two. ‘It’s an insult, is it?’ he whispered. ‘Fish-heads not good enough for the likes of you – you mollycoddled—’
Brindle did not manage to finish – Sammy sprung at him with claws unsheathed. They grappled and rolled over together in the dust, spitting and biting, scratching for all they were worth. Brindle soon found that Sammy was no weakling. Although the young cat had no craft in his fighting, his sheer weight bore down on Brindle, pinning him underneath.
‘No – titbits,’ Sammy panted. ‘Your own words. You – wanted – no titbits. And you think – I’ll accept them – from you?’
Brindle snarled, but his breath came with difficulty. The larger cat was crushing him. Suddenly, on the fringe of the waste ground, the vagabonds were gathering, attracted by the noise. They watched the contest with interest. There was nothing they enjoyed so much as a good brawl. One of them, Brownie, detached herself from the group and came running across. Brindle was her brother. Sammy watched her out of the corner of his eye, but he did not slacken his grip. Before Brownie could join the fray the voice of Patch rang out.