To Be A Cat

The Cattery

HI. IT’S THE author again. Now, I know what you’re wondering. You’re wondering, Hey, what happened to that cat you mentioned nearly a hundred pages ago? Mocha, or whatever her name was.

Oh? You’re not wondering that? Oh dear, that author M-RMR (Mind-Reading My Readers) kit my mum bought me for Christmas must be going a bit faulty. Never mind, I’ll tell you about Mocha, anyway, because by telling you about her I’ll really be telling you about something much more important.

She was there in her cage in the cattery. By ‘cage’, I mean a soft, warm room with a giant sheepskin rug for a carpet and a view of rolling meadows out of the window. And by ‘cattery’ I mean swank palace. Seriously, Edgarton Cattery was like the poshest hotel you’ve ever been to. Only better. Well, if you were a cat you’d think it was better. Because of the toys and stuff. Fluffy mice, scratch posts, litter trays – which instead of that uncomfortable gravelly stuff had a picture of a dog for the cats to look at as they toileted all over said canine’s poor poochy face.

Right now, Mocha was enjoying a late lunch. Grilled sardines coupled with battered field mouse and washed down with a saucer of double cream. Of course, the company could have been a bit better. It wasn’t much fun listening to the cats on either side of her. One, a no-hoper who was now an old tabby called Tiddles but had once been a human chartered accountant called Peter Michael Thimblethwaite, kept on moaning about how he’d visited Blandford Golf Course to visit his brother but hadn’t been recognized. ‘He had me kicked me off the blinking course! He wouldn’t even be a member if it wasn’t for me!’

The cat in the other neighbouring cage was a fireside called Elton – a fluffy white Persian moaning about his early retirement.

‘I used to be a calendar cat, you know … Oh yes, humans used to take photos of me sprawled out on the grass in the sunshine … My face adorns over a million walls, you know … Well, for one month of the year … But now I’m too old apparently … My fur’s all tired and matted … My eyes have lost their twinkle … And Persians are out of fashion, they say … “Your look is too opulent … It is too 1980s … We want scruffy-looking cats …” And they do! Have you seen the models recently? They have swipers now … Seriously, where has all the class gone? It’s all filth and fleas! Filth and fleas!’

Elton went on like this for hours. But Mocha didn’t mind, and concentrated her thoughts elsewhere, such as on the tall human girl talking to the cattery owner, who the cats knew only as the Man of Infinite Kindness. A man who every cat seemed to feel affection for, without understanding why.

She was there, this human girl, leaning over the desk and staring into the man’s face. Mocha had seen this human girl before. She had walked by Mocha’s house once with Barney Willow. And now she was talking urgently to the Man of Infinite Kindness.

‘But you look exactly like him,’ the girl was saying, getting nothing but an awkward glance in response. ‘So … what is your name then if it’s not Mr Neil Willow?’

‘It’s Smith.’

‘Just Smith?’

‘Please, I’ve got a lot of things to do …’

Mocha watched the Man of Infinite Kindness type something on his computer, trying to look busy. But there was no stopping the tall girl with the crazy hair.

‘Your son is worried about you. He thinks you might be dead … I’m Rissa. Rissa Fairweather. I’m Barney’s best friend.’

‘I’m not him.’

‘But you sound like him. You look like him. Barney’s … Barney’s missing. I think he might have come to look for you.’

‘There has been no boy here, I assure you …’

Rissa was trying not to get angry. ‘Well maybe you could help us. Maybe if you made a public announcement and told local TV that you’d come back, or something.’

The Man of Infinite Kindness was also the Man of Infinite Patience, Mocha realized. He just sighed thoughtfully and seemed genuinely worried for the girl. ‘Listen, the boy you are looking for might not be missing.’

‘What? Of course he is.’

‘He might have come to you but you didn’t recognize him. Trust me, keep your mind open to the impossible and you will find the truth.’

Rissa had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Look, if you see him will you contact me?’ She handed over a crumpled piece of paper.

And then he looked at Rissa with eyes that were as honest as eyes can look. ‘Of course.’

Rissa looked uncertain, but just at that moment a woman came in carrying a Burmese cat called Lapsang, who Mocha knew from the fences. ‘Hello, I’m Mrs Hunter,’ the woman said. ‘I’ve booked Lapsang in for two weeks … We’ve heard ever such good things about this cattery.’

The Man of Infinite Kindness smiled softly, pretending Rissa wasn’t still there. ‘Well, I just try and make cats as comfortable as they can be.’

Lapsang, meanwhile, was looking all around over Mrs Hunter’s shoulder, miaowing in pleasure. ‘Now this is more like it. Oh, Mocha, sweetie darling, I didn’t see you there.’ Then Lapsang spied someone else, a grizzled and rather scruffy-looking moggy in a cage near the entrance. His ear was damaged, bitten. ‘Oooh,’ she mewed in disgust. ‘A swiper.’

‘That’s low,’ grumbled the moggy. ‘I’m a rescue cat, posh-paws, there’s a difference …’

But Mocha stayed watching Rissa. The girl was looking confused and a bit defeated as she backed away out of the cattery, wondering what was best for her friend.