The Killer Cat Runs Away

13

‘A Photo of My Beautiful Tuffy!’

So there I was, still trying to persuade myself that baby bird would taste as good as pepperoni, when a shadow fell over me.

A woman had come out of the house.

I stared at her. She stared at me. I stared at her because she’d done her hair so that it looked like one of those whippy ice-cream cones.

She stared at me as though she thought I were a gift from heaven.

‘A cat!’ She looked at the sad little mess between my paws. ‘And clearly a hunter! Are you a mouser too? Because there’s a rustling somewhere near my kitchen door. I think I might have vermin!’

You could tell she was fussy just from the way she said ‘vermin!’. But I was tired and hungry, so I thought – why not? Some cats do earn their keep. I could give it a go.

And I was right to try. Because life there could have been perfect bliss! Ms Whippy thought that she was keeping me hungry enough to eat mice, but what she didn’t know is that I’m good with kitchen bins. Every time she went out, I’d step on the pedal, and when the lid flew up I’d reach inside to hook out some half-eaten chop, or the last of the chicken. After I’d had enough, I’d carry the leftovers out into the garden and kick them out of sight behind her precious lupins.

She didn’t get suspicious because the rustling stopped. (It only came from some dried leaf trapped under the kitchen door. I poked that out and – hey, presto! – all the vermin gone.)

For three nights in a row, she sang my praises. ‘You’re brilliant, Pusskins. I could do with a mouser like you in my villa in Spain.’

Her villa in Spain? Was she a millionaire?

You’d think so. First she bought me a fancy jewelled collar and a swansdown cat bed. (Purrrrr!) Then she bought me a classy water bowl. On the next day she even took me into town to have my photo taken. Yes! None of that cheap, ‘Hold still while I fetch my mobile!’ stuff that I’d been used to back in Ellie’s house. Ms Whippy took me into town to get a proper studio portrait! The photographer sat me on a cushion and asked me most politely to face the camera. ‘Pusskins! Please look this way! Yes! That’s much better.’

A dozen different shots were taken, and I must say they came out very nicely indeed. (Much better than those horrid ‘lost cat’ posters.) I was so pleased I thought I’d take one round to show my old ungrateful family what they were missing. I picked one up by the corner and (trying not to drool) carried it carefully across town to my old home.

Ellie was sitting on the doorstep, weeping bitterly.

I shot behind a bush.

‘Oh, Tuffy!’ she was whimpering. ‘Oh, Tuffy! You’ve been away so long! And how I miss you! Oh, Tuffy, I wish you’d come home!’

Home? Ha! Excuse me, but I have a new home now. A much, much better home where I dine on the finest foods, and people truly know how beautiful I am.

I spat the photograph out of my mouth and watched it slither in the breeze up the path towards Ellie.

Curious, she picked it up, dashing away her tears so she could peer at it more closely. Then she began to wail. ‘Oh, no! A photo of my beautiful Tuffy! And it’s not one I’ve ever seen before!’

Too true, it wasn’t. It was far smarter and glossier than any photo they’d ever had of me.

Ellie rushed into the house. I jumped up out of sight behind the laurel bush and peered in through the window. Ellie was waving the photo in her parents’ faces. ‘Mum! Dad! Look! Tuffy must have been catnapped! See? The catnappers have sent a photograph to prove it.’

I will admit that Ellie’s mum looked most concerned. But Mr Don’t-Expect-Me-To-Put-My-Hand-In-My-Pocket just muttered something most unpleasant along the lines of, ‘If that pesky cat’s worth even a handful of loose change, I’m a banana.’ If I’d not been in hiding, I’d have spat at him. Right in the face.

Ellie burst into tears again, and I jumped down. Don’t you feel sorry for Ellie! Don’t you dare! It’s her own fault! She should have thought about how much she would miss her precious Tuffy before she started mooning over soppy kittens on the computer screen.

So don’t you get your knickers in a twist worrying about Ellie.

You worry about me.

That’s what I did. I suddenly thought, If I don’t get back quickly, fussy Ms Whippy will have emptied the pedal bin before I’ve had time to rescue my supper.

So I hurried off.