offer Miss Birdie companionship. I could guard her home for her. I could have a permanent meal-ticket.
These thoughts ran through my head as I dozed, and I made the decision that I would stay there for as long as possible — little suspecting what lay in store for me.
Later on, Miss Birdie stirred and began to get ready to go out. ‘Never miss the afternoon service, my dear,’ she told me.
I nodded approvingly, but didn’t stir from my cosy position. I heard the old lady bustling around upstairs for a while, then the clomp of heaving walking shoes as she descended the stairs. She appeared in the doorway, resplendent in white gloves and a dark-blue straw hat. Her suit was pink and her high-necked blouse a bright emerald green. She looked dazzling.
‘Come along, Fluke, time for you to go now,’ she said.
My head shot up. What? Go?
‘What? Go?’ I said.
‘Yes, time for you to go, Fluke. I can’t keep you here, you belong to someone else. They may have looked after you badly, but you do belong to them. I could get into trouble by keeping you here, so I’m afraid you’ve got to leave.’ She shook her head apologetically then, to my dismay, grabbed my collar and dragged my resisting body to the door. For an old lady she was quite strong, and my paws skidded along the wood floor as I tried to hold back. Victoria enjoyed every moment, for I could hear her snickering from her perch on the window-sill.
‘Please let me stay,’ I pleaded. ‘Nobody owns me. I’m all alone.’
It was no use: I found myself outside on the doorstep. Miss Birdie closed the door behind us and marched down the path, calling me to follow. Having no choice, I followed.
At the gate she patted my head and gave me a little push away from her. ‘Off you go now,’ she urged. ‘Home. Good boy, Fluke.’
I wouldn’t budge. After a while she gave up and marched down the hill away from me, looking round twice to make sure I wasn’t following her. I waited patiently until she was out of sight then pushed my way back through the gate and padded down the muddy path to the cottage. Victoria scowled through the window as she saw me coming and shouted at me to go away.
‘Not likely,’ I told her as I squatted on my haunches and prepared to wait for the old lady’s return. ‘I like it here. Why should you have it all to yourself?’
‘Because I was here first,’ Victoria said crossly. ‘You’ve got no right.’
‘Look, there’s plenty for both of us,’ said I, trying to be reasonable. ‘We could be friends.’ I shivered at the thought of being friends with this miserable specimen but was prepared to ingratiate myself for the sake of a nice secure home. ‘I wouldn’t get in your way,’ I said in my best toadying voice. ‘You could have first and biggest share of all the food’ (until I was better acquainted with the old lady, I thought). ‘You can have the best place to sleep’ (until I have wormed my way into Miss Birdie’s affections), ‘and you can be the head of the house, I don’t mind’ (until I get you alone some day and show you who the real boss is). ‘Now, what do you say?’
‘Get lost,’ said the cat.
I gave up. She would just have to lump it.
An hour later Miss Birdie returned and when she saw me sitting there she shook her head. I gave her my most appealing smile.
‘You are a bad boy,’ she scolded, but there was no anger in her voice.
She let me go into the cottage with her and I made a big fuss of licking her heavily stockinged legs. The taste was horrible, but when I decide to smarm, there are no limits. I was sorry not to have the dignity of Rumbo, but there’s nothing like insecurity to make you humble.
Well, I stayed that night. And the following night. But the third night — that’s when my troubles started all over again.
At nine-thirty in the evening Miss Birdie would turn me out and I would dutifully carry out my toilet; I knew that was expected of me and had no intention of fouling things up (excuse the play on words — couldn’t help it). She would let me back in after a short while and coax me into a small room at the back of the cottage which she used to store all sorts of junk. Most of it was unchewable — old picture frames, a pianoforte, an ancient unconnected gas cooker, that sort of thing. There was just enough room for me to curl up beneath the piano keyboard and here I would spend the night, quite comfortable although a little frightened at first (I cried that first night but was O.K. the second). Miss Birdie would close the door on me to keep me away from Victoria who slept in the kitchen. The cat and I were still not friends and the old lady was well aware of it.
On that third night she neglected to close the door properly; the catch didn’t catch and the door was left open half an inch. It probably wouldn’t have bothered me, but the sound of someone creeping around during the night aroused my curiosity. I’m a light sleeper and the soft pad of feet was enough to disturb me. I crept over to the door and eased it open with my nose; the noise was coming from the kitchen. I guessed it was Victoria mooching around and would have returned to my sleeping-place had not those two agitators, hunger and thirst, begun taunting my greedy belly. A trip to the kitchen might prove profitable.
I crept stealthily from the room and made my way through the tiny hallway into the kitchen. Miss Birdie always left a small lamp burning in the hallway (because she was nervous living on her own, I suppose) and had no trouble finding the kitchen door. It, too, was open.
Pushing my nose round it, I peered into the gloom. Two slanting green eyes startled me.
‘That you, Victoria?’ I asked.
‘Who else would it be?’ came the hissed reply.
I pushed in further. ‘What are you doing?’
‘None of your business. Get back to your room.’
But I saw what she was doing. She had a small wood-mouse trapped between her paws. Her claws were withdrawn so she was obviously playing a fine teasing game with the unfortunate creature. His reddish-brown back was arched in paralytic fear and his tiny black eyes shone with a trance-like glaze. He must have found his way into the cottage in search of food. The absence of house-mice (undoubtedly owing to Victoria’s vigilance) would have encouraged him and he must have been too stupid (or too hungry) to have been aware of the cat’s presence. Anyway, he was well and truly aware of it now, and paying nature’s harsh price for carelessness.
He was too scared to speak so I spoke up for him.
‘What are you going to do with him?’
‘None of your business,’ came the curt reply.
I made my way further into the kitchen and repeated my question. This time a wheezy snarl was the reply.
It’s not in an animal’s nature to have much sympathy for his fellow creatures, but the plight of this defenceless little thing appealed to the other side of my nature; the human side.
‘Let him go, Victoria,’ I said quietly.
‘Sure, after I’ve bitten his head off,’ she said.
And that’s what she tried to do, there and then, just to spite me.
I moved fast and had Victoria’s head between my jaws before she had a chance to dodge. We spun around in the kitchen, the mouse’s head in the cat’s mouth, and the cat’s head in mine.
Victoria was forced to drop the terrified wood-mouse before she had done any real damage and I saw with satisfaction the little creature scurry away into a dark corner and no doubt down a dark hole. Victoria squealed and pulled her head from my jaws, raking my brisket as she did so. I yelped at the stinging pain and lunged for her again — very, very angry now.
Round and round that kitchen we ran, knocking chairs over, crashing against cupboards, shouting and screaming at each other, too far gone with animal rage to concern ourselves with the noise we were making and the damage we were doing. At one point I snapped my teeth round Victoria’s flailing tail and the cat skidded to a forced halt, a scream of surprise escaping her.
She wheeled and drew her sharp claws across my nose and I had to let go, but her tail was now bald near the tip. I sprang forward again and she leapt upwards on to the draining-board, knocking down the pile of crockery left there to dry by Miss Birdie. It came crashing down, shattering into hundreds of pieces on the stone floor. I tried
