The Killer Cat Runs Away

8

Tuffy the Busker

I thought it best to go where no one knew me. After all, I didn’t want nosy people peering down at me. ‘Aren’t you that cat from Acacia Avenue that dug up all my petunias? I’m going to take you home.’

So I went further into town than I do usually. It was quite busy. There were a lot of people standing at bus stops and hurrying across the streets. I wandered up and down till, from round the corner, I heard someone playing a tune I like on a mouth organ.

I stopped to listen. Whoever was playing began to sing the words:

‘Scooby-scooby, swish-swish

Fishy in a dish-dish

Make a little wish-wish

That it tastes delish-lish.’

Just the thought made me feel peckish. I turned the corner, and there in a doorway stood a young man. He’d put a paper plate on the pavement, and passers-by were putting down their shopping bags and fishing in their pockets to toss in coins.

A busker!

He had been given quite a lot of money. I watched for a while, and every few minutes he’d scoop up a few coins and put them in his pocket. Then he’d start singing again.

I could do that! I could sing too, and maybe some of the shoppers would open their bags and drop me a tiny chunk of chicken from their ready-cooked suppers, or peel a slice of smoked salmon off the top of their pack.

Yum, yum. Delish-lish!

So I went round the next corner to find a doorway for myself, and to collect the little gifts that I expected to get I dragged a fairly clean takeaway dinner tray out of the gutter.

And then I sang.

I sang my little heart out. First I tried charming them with that forlorn old song about the kitten whose paws get frozen in the snow.

Then I sang that song that makes soft people weep about the tabby cat who starves to death up a tree. (Per-lease! How old are you? And how many cats’ skeletons have you seen dangling from high branches so far in life? None. That’s right. None.)

And then I gave my all to my own favourite, The Wild Cats’ Chorus.

None of them worked. Not one. People just clutched their heads and hurried by. Some of them even glowered. Nobody bothered to stop to say, ‘What charming melodies! And what a lovely voice!’

In fact, they were quite rude. I kept hearing snatches of what they said as they rushed past.

‘. . . horrible yowling noise . . .’

‘. . . shouldn’t be allowed . . .’

‘. . . perfectly ghastly . . .’

‘. . . clearly in misery. Ought to be put down . . .’

Then one man had the cheek to pick up my collection tray and drop it in the litter bin along the street.

I gave up singing then, and just walked on. Time for another plan.