Dedication
To my parents,
Rita and Joseph Lombardo,
for telling me
I could do anything
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1. Baking It Big
2. Good-bye, Old Friend. Hello, Opportunity!
3. A Whole New Puffball
4. Feline Ninja Warrior
5. The Joys of Stardom
6. The Agony of Rock Bottom
7. The Whole Gang
8. Bon Voyage
9. Welcome to Castaway Island
10. Shelter
11. Food
12. Castaway Confessions
13. Welcome to a World of Pain
14. Bananas
15. Descent into Island Madness
16. Lost in the Jungle
17. Pickles in a Pickle
18. Volcano!
19. Escape from Castaway Island
20. Oscar Night
Special Features
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Constance Lombardo
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Baking It Big
It was go time. Time to seal the deal and claim my rightful victory.
Time to bake the biggest, bestest birthday cake ever.
That’s right. I was on the hit reality TV show Celebrity Birthday Cake Wars, where famous cats show off their mad pastry skills. And it was the seven-layer-cake round.
I know what you’re thinking: Mr. Puffball, what are you doing on reality television? Your dream, as established in your first two Hollywood memoirs, is to be a movie star.
True. But let’s face it. Reality television can turn an ordinary cat into a famous cat. And famous cats become movie stars. Especially if they star in movies after being discovered on a reality TV show.
So there I was, baking my heart out. I had made up the following recipe, digging deep into my culinary powers:
And that’s just the cake part! I’d love to tell you what’s in Mom’s Secret Recipe for Delicious Yellow Icing, but, as you may have guessed, it’s a secret. Let’s just say sugar and cheddar whip and yellow.
Focus, Mr. Puffball!
I wiped my brow with the side of my paw as I hunkered down for round three. In round one, I’d beaten Jennifer Pawprints as thoroughly as I’d beaten the eggs. In round two, I’d whipped Chris Purr-att as completely as I’d whipped cream.
Now it was down to me and Benedict Cumbercat. And his seven-layer Victoria sponge cake with salmon flakes was well on its way to amazing. I breathed in the salmon-y aroma. Mmmm.
Focus, Mr. Puffball! I forged ahead, knee-deep in flour and all those other ingredients. I combined, blended, and mixed like crazy until I was covered in a coating of powdery, sugary stuff.
And I smelled delicious.
Oh, how the studio audience cheered! They wanted me to win. I could feel their winning wishes in the very fiber of my being. Plus they kept yelling things like “You’re the best!” and “USA!” and “You should totally win!”
And here’s where I should mention the less-than-wonderful thing. There was a reason why, even if I, Mr. Puffball, successfully baked the world’s best seven-layer birthday cake with the world’s cheesiest, yellowest icing, I was not about to become famous. Can you see why?
Yes, I was on Celebrity Birthday Cake Wars not as myself, but disguised as my BFF, the mega movie star El Gato. Why? Because El Gato was the one who had gotten this gig, not me.
But yesterday, as I was congratulating him for his upcoming appearance on Celebrity Birthday Cake Wars, El Gato surprised me with a surprising question:
Shocking, I know. Of course, there was an important reason El Gato couldn’t appear on Celebrity Birthday Cake Wars: he had to work a benefit to raise money for cats in need. Evidently, a volcano had erupted in downtown Beverly Hills, leaving many cats covered in volcanic ash and in need of a good scrubbing.
I agreed right away. If a volcano disaster had happened right in our hometown, and El Gato was helping those poor cats, even if I hadn’t heard anything about a volcano, of course I’d go on Celebrity Birthday Cake Wars in his place.
Thus was I removing the fluffy cake layers from the steaming oven with oven mitts, dressed as El Gato. So was I ladling cheddar-y buttercream between said layers to stick them together, and icing like a maniac, disguised as El Gato. Hence was yellow-on-yellow piping generously applied, the ladder to the top of the ten-foot cake climbed, the finishing florets set in place.
And voilà!
I leapt from the ladder like a true stunt cat, did a double flip on the way down, and landed on my feet.
The three judges rushed over to Benedict. I held my breath as they stuffed their faces with his seven-layer Victoria sponge cake with salmon flakes and made yummy noises. Finally, one of the judges said, “Delicious!”
Uh-oh!
“Mmm,” said another judge, licking his paws. But the third held up a dissatisfied claw. “The salmon flakes,” he said drily, “are rather dry.”
I let out my breath. The judges came over. “Looks wonderful, El Gato!” Three paws reached out and scooped up some anchovy birthday cake with cheddar-y frosting, followed by more happy lip-smacking.
The judges formed a brief huddle, then turned back to Benedict and me. “Both of you have made exceptional birthday cakes,” said the biggest judge. “But there can only be one winner. One of you will go home with the trophy. The other will just go home.”
She gestured toward a stage cat. He picked up the Golden Birthday Cake trophy and walked straight to Benedict Cumbercat. My heart sank. Bummer.
But wait. Just as Benedict was happily reaching out for the trophy, the stage cat veered sharply to the right and handed the trophy to moi.
The crowd went wild. But not for me, my friend. Not for me.
It was bittersweet. Sweet because I’d won. Sweet because I licked icing off my fur. Bitter because nobody knew it was me in that cape.
Yes, I smiled. But it was the kind of smile where your mouth goes up on one side only.
At least I knew I was in some small way helping the victims of that volcano eruption I hadn’t heard about until El Gato told me about it. Surprising that I hadn’t seen it on TV, but El Gato explained that the cats involved were camera shy.
Later, while waiting for the bus home and thinking about how my dreams of stardom would have to wait for another day, something caught my eye. A newspaper, lying in the street, looking as dejected as I felt.
I snatched it up. That volcano eruption was sure to be front-page news.
Perhaps it was second-page news.
No article about the volcano. Not even in the Happenings about Town section, all the way in the back. If a volcano wasn’t a happening about town, nothing was.
I lowered the newspaper and stood at the bus stop on that hot, windy street, thinking and thinking. I thought about how rain in Hollywood is big news. I thought of how the snow dusting we got in Hollywood last year led to the biggest headline I’d ever seen:
And yet this volcano El Gato told me about was suspiciously absent from the news.
There were only two possible explanations:
The Hollywood Times thought a devastating volcano in downtown Hollywood was too terrible to report.
There was no volcano eruption, meaning El Gato had lied to me.
Which is more believable?
Sometimes it’s hard to face the truth, even when it’s staring you right in the furry face. But now I had to face it. El Gato was a liar. And I was the fool who trusted him.
/> Until now.
2
Good-bye, Old Friend. Hello, Opportunity!
As I stomped over to Purramount Studios the next morning to give El Gato a piece of my mind, memories of his outrageous lies came flooding back.
And what kind of friend had I been to El Gato? Simply the best. When El Gato needed me to do a thing, I didn’t make up a lie to weasel out of it (my apologies to weasels everywhere). I did the thing. I was there for him. Even if it meant posing as him on Celebrity Birthday Cake Wars and getting covered in pastry flour, which was very hard to wash out!
I marched into Purramount and knocked on El Gato’s door, wondering what excuse he’d give for tricking me. Maybe he’d say he was allergic to flour. Maybe he’d claim he was giving an inspiring TED Talk. Or maybe he thought a baking show was beneath him, because he was so rich and famous.
I knocked harder. No answer. He probably knew I was onto him and was hiding under the covers.
“I know you’re in there,” I growled. Because I could just picture him inside, peeking over his bedsheets, conjuring another lie.
“I’m coming in!” I rammed the door like the stunt cat I am, and it flew open and I fell into the room. Then I popped back up, slammed the door shut, and held forth an accusatory claw.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve . . .,” I started. I stopped. El Gato was not in his bed. Perhaps he was under the bed! I snuck closer and bent down to peer into the shadows. “Got you!”
He wasn’t there either.
I gazed around his superstar living quarters, and my eyes stopped on the wardrobe I’d so feverishly admired in the past. Back when I was an innocent young cat, this assortment of costumes and fabulous shoes had wowed me like I’d never been wowed before.
Now all I saw were the clothes of a liar.
I tore my eyes away. Next to me was El Gato’s big mirror, which he probably stared into, laughing and saying, “Ha! That Mr. Puffball believes everything I say. What a dope!” On the table was today’s newspaper, which El Gato had probably read this very morning with those lying eyes while . . .
Wait a minute. What’s this? I leaned closer.
Feline Ninja Warrior! Seriously? Was El Gato thinking of going on my favorite reality TV show? Or would he try and trick me into going on dressed as him again?
Let me tell you something about reality TV shows. Many of them are staged. Fake. Full of phony baloney. My friends had been on reality TV shows, and they told me all about it.
But Feline Ninja Warrior, the most popular reality TV show in my house and many other houses, was different. No tricks. No gimmicks. No makeup. Just the toughest of the tough, proving their toughness through tests of agility, strength, and general manliness.
A Feline Ninja Warrior championship meant stardom, and money, and respect. And here was my chance to get all those things. With a little extra training with my friend Bruiser, I could win that championship easy-peasy.
And I wouldn’t do it dressed as El Gato. No, the only costume I’d wear to become the next Feline Ninja Warrior champion was my signature classic bow tie.
Click!
Somebody was turning the door handle. In a moment, El Gato would be inside. The last time this happened, all the way back in my first book, I’d hidden in fear. But there was nothing to fear anymore. I’d come to give El Gato a piece of my mind, and that’s what I was going to do.
I stood with my legs planted firmly. One paw held the newspaper with the Feline Ninja Warrior ad, and the other rested saucily on my hip.
El Gato stepped into the room and spotted me right away.
“Mr. Puffball,” he said, not unpleasantly, “I’m glad you’re here. It looks like you found the ad I wanted to show you . . .”
“Oh, no you didn’t!” I countered, waving one finger back and forth. “You’re not going to lie to me again . . .”
“About that . . .,” he started, but I interrupted with a louder voice.
“So you admit it! Well, I’m done listening to your lies. I am going to audition for Feline Ninja Warrior dressed like myself, acting like myself, and smelling like myself!”
“My idea exac—”
“I’m not interested in your idea! No amount of begging or trickery could make me go on that show as you. I am Mr. Puffball, I don’t need you anymore, and I am never speaking to you again!”
I crossed the room, grabbed the door handle, looked over my shoulder, and said, “By the way, your costume collection is tacky!”
With that, I stormed out.
“Now I’m not talking to you either!” yelled El Gato as I stomped down the hall.
“Good!” I yelled louder.
“Works for me!” yelled El Gato even louder.
Good-bye, BFF who always gets me into trouble. Good-bye, buddy who is much more famous than me. Good-bye, liar who forced me to bake the world’s most delicious cake and not get any credit for it. Or even taste it.
I quickly arrived at the place where the new Mr. Puffball would be born. A new Mr. Puffball who didn’t need rich, famous, lying friends. A Mr. Puffball who was about to become a rich and famous reality TV show champion on his own terms.
3
A Whole New Puffball
Bruiser is a very big cat with an even bigger heart. And even bigger biceps.
He was my trainer when I first came to Hollywood and became a stunt cat to the stars. Back when I thought El Gato was the coolest cat in the world—just because he was a Hollywood superstar with a supercool limo.
A familiar voice broke through these painful memories. “Puffyball,” said Bruiser. “Why you come here?”
“Because of this,” I said, handing him the Feline Ninja Warrior ad.
Bruiser studied the ad. Then he looked me over. “To beat the Mysterious R is very challenges.”
“Yes, but with your most intense training . . .”
“Could be happen, yes,” finished Bruiser. “You must work so much your head maybe explode. Every day, all the day, muscle building, balance making, speed walking, and of course paw-to-paw combats. Is what you want?”
Sometimes Bruiser doesn’t know his own strength.
I stood and stuck out my chest. “Let’s do this thing!”
As we walked into the cavernous building filled with scary equipment, I recalled our early days together. Bruiser trained me hard that first time, with rocky mountain climbing, cruel horseback riding, and enormous weight lifting.
But now that he had his own school, Bruiser had taken it up a notch.
At times it hurt so bad in so many parts of my body, my brain begged me to give up. But I shushed my brain and powered on. With fame beckoning like light at the end of a pain-filled tunnel, I could bear anything.
Except Bruiser’s irritating new assistant.
Yes, Pickles the kitten was working with Bruiser as part of his own dream—to become a Hollywood stunt cat. He had the chops to be a stunt cat. The problem was, he was so adorable, nobody took him seriously.
Every night, I went home to my oldster friends who were always there for me with an uplifting song, nourishing grub, and a jumbo-size box of Band-Aids.
And Pickles the kitten, who lived with us too. Ugh.
The only cat missing was Rosie. She’d recently sent a postcard saying she was off on a trip and would be gone for a while. (Of course, El Gato was also missing, but that was because we were now enemies, not even frenemies.)
And then one day, when I arrived at Bruiser’s school for my final day of training, there stood Rosie. Looking as cute as ever.
Oh! I blushed under my fur. I blushed with the knowledge that Rosie had those special feelings neither of us had ever spoken aloud.
Because of her special feelings, she hated the thought of me getting hurt on Feline Ninja Warrior. How it would pain her to see me climbing the Wall of Hot Spikes, or balancing atop the slender Wobbly Board, or getting pummeled in the Ultimate Kung Fu Challenge.
“It’s okay . . .” I started, but she’d already walked
away.
But a smile bloomed across my face anyway. For now I knew my dear Rosie would be in the television audience, her eyes glued to my every move, worrying over every danger, cheering at every triumph. Crying, maybe, because she was so proud of her handsome Mr. Puffball.
Ironically, her request that I not go on the show strengthened my resolve. Knowledge of her special feelings was exactly the advantage I needed to beat the Mysterious R.
The Mysterious R . . .
The Mysterious R . . .
Pickles woke me from my reverie.
I looked down into his oversize eyeballs and nodded like a macho cat. “Bring me my kangaroo boxing gloves, please.”
Even though that day was the hardest day in a week filled with hard days, I didn’t mind.
I’d faced physical challenges beyond the threshold of feline endurance and been transformed into a formidable foe, ready to take on the Mysterious R. And become the new Feline Ninja Warrior.
Those were the words I repeated throughout the next day during my strenuous Feline Ninja Warrior audition. And guess what?
I aced it.
I left the audition, ready to skip all the way home, or maybe take the bus since my legs were tired, when I found myself surrounded by a group of journalists.
“Yes,” I told those reporters, sticking out my now-muscular chest, “I do have something to say.”
4
Feline Ninja Warrior
“Before you go out there to compete,” the producer said to me and the Mysterious R the next day, “know that this show is not like other reality TV shows. Our Wall of Hot Spikes is really hot. The Wobbly Board actually wobbles. And we expect you to hold nothing back during the Ultimate Kung Fu Challenge.”
Escape from Castaway Island Page 1