The Killer Cat's Birthday Bash

5: When poodles fly

THE COUNTDOWN BEGAN. If you’re a friend of mine, it was a countdown to my birthday. If you are not, it was a countdown to Halloween.

I did a good bit of sulking.

Okay, okay! So I did more than sulk.

I brought in dead things while they were eating lunch, and shed hairs over their pillow cases, and scratched great holes in all their precious carpets.

All in all, I had an excellent week.

Finally the big day came. Early that afternoon, the family drove off to get the stuff for their party. I’d seen the list. Food. Scary decorations. Halloween masks… I’d scoured it from top to bottom several times but hadn’t seen the very important words ‘A present for Tuffy’. And that could not have been because they didn’t have the money, because when they came back with armfuls of expensive shopping I saw they’d splashed out on something that wasn’t even on the list.

A floodlight for the front of the house.

He’s not the world’s best handyman. So when I saw him going to the tool cupboard to find the things he needed to wire it up, I thought it wiser to leave.

It was a bad time to be out and about. Just before dark. Dogs everywhere, all being taken out for the last proper walk before their families sit down to supper. That’s the worst thing about dogs. Everything they do makes trouble for others. Think about it. When they get bored with staying home and doing all the stupid things they do — ‘Come!’ ‘Beg!’ Fetch!’ ‘Down!’ —they have to make a nuisance of themselves fussing and whimpering to get their owners to take them out. Me? I just stroll out of the door.

Dog owners have to find the lead, and then untangle it. They have to find a couple of plastic bags in case the dog leaves a mess. (Ugh! Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!) Half of the owners even have to stuff their pockets with treats just to get the dog to the park and back.

Dogs hate it when we laugh at them. But, really! It’s a bit pathetic to be that size and not be trusted even to cross a road all by yourself. Or find your own way home.

Still, it was daft of me to get in that argument when I saw Mrs Pinkney dragging Buster away from the nastiest lamppost in town.

‘Diddums still wearing his baby rein?’ I couldn’t help jeering.

Whoops! I hadn’t noticed Buster’s great-aunt Tilly coming the other way.

‘Just watch it, Fatso,’ she growled.

‘Don’t pick on Buster or I’ll pick on you.’

I looked down my right side. Then I looked down my left. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t see myself trembling with fright. But that may be because I think I have the edge on anyone being tugged around on a long piece of string.’

‘You think you’re so clever?’ she snarled. ‘If cats are so wonderful, where are the guide cats for the blind? Why don’t the police have sniffer cats?’

‘Yeah!’ Buster jeered. ‘All you lot do is go around stalking songbirds.’

‘Better than barking at them all day like a squirty little lame-brain.’

He lunged and, startled, Mrs Pinkney dropped the lead.

I took off like a rocket.

‘You wait,’ threatened Buster’s great-aunt Tilly as I shot past her. ‘Our gate isn’t always properly shut. I’ll get you one day.’

‘When poodles fly!’ I yowled back from the safe side of the wall. But I was glad that Tiger had put his paw down about having no dogs at the party.