of the room while the cat looked on from her safe perch on the dresser, a huge smug smile on her face. On our third lap round, Miss Birdie spotted her and took a swipe at her indolent body with the rake (I suppose the frustration of not being able to catch me had something to do with it). It caught the cat a cracking blow and she shot off the dresser like a ball from a cannon and joined me in the arena. Unfortunately (more so for us), Miss Birdie’s sweeping blow at Victoria had also dislodged more plates, together with a few hanging cups and a small antique vase. They followed the cat but of course refused to join us in our run; they lay broken and dead where they had fallen.
The anguished scream from behind told us matters had not improved: Miss Birdie was about to run amuck! Victoria chose the narrow cave formed between the back of the settee and the wall below the front window to hide in. I pushed my way in behind her, almost climbing on to her back in my haste. It was a tight squeeze but we managed to get half-way down the semi-dark corridor. We trembled there, afraid to go further because that would lead us out again.
‘It’s your fault!’ the cat snivelled.
Before I had a chance to protest, the long handle of the rake found my rump and I was suddenly pushed forward in a most painful and undignified way. We became a confused tussle of hairy bodies as we now struggled to reach the other end of the narrow tunnel, violent pokes from the rear helping us achieve our goal. We emerged as one and the old lady dashed round to meet us.
Being the bigger target, I came in for the most abuse from the rake, but it pleases me to tell you the cat received a fair share. The chase went on for another five minutes before Victoria decided her only way out was up the chimney. So up she went and down came the soot — clouds and clouds of it. This didn’t improve Miss Birdie’s humour one bit, for the soot formed a fine black layer on the area around the fireplace. Now it was the old lady’s habit to lay that fire every morning and light it when she settled down in the afternoon, even though the warmer weather had arrived, but for once she decided to bring her schedule forward. She lit the fire.
I gazed on in horror as the paper flamed and the wood chips caught. Forgetting about me for the moment, Miss Birdie settled down in her armchair to wait, the rake lying across her lap in readiness. We stared at the fireplace, Miss Birdie with grim patience, I with utter dismay. The room around us was now a shambles, all cosiness gone.
The flames licked higher and the smoke rose. A spluttered cough fell down with more soot and we knew the cat was still perched there in the dark, unable to climb any further. Miss Birdie’s rigid lips turned up at the corners into a rigid smile as we waited, the silence broken only by the crackling of burning wood.
A knock at the door made us both jump.
Miss Birdie’s head swung round and I could see the panic in her eyes. The knock came again and a muffled voice called out, ‘Miss Birdie, are you in?’
The old lady burst into action. The rake was shoved behind the settee, overturned chairs were righted, and broken crockery was swept beneath the armchair. Only the soot-blackened carpet and a slight disarray of the room gave evidence that something out of the ordinary had happened. Miss Birdie paused for a few seconds, tidied up her clothing, rearranged her personality, and went to the door.
The vicar’s hand was raised to knock again and he smiled apologetically down at Miss Birdie.
‘So sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘It’s about the flower arrangements for Saturday’s fete. We can count on your wonderful assistance again this year, can we not, Miss Birdie?’
The old lady smiled sweetly up at him. ‘Why, of course, Mr Shelton. Have I ever let you down?’
The change in her was remarkable; the demon castigator had reverted back to the aged angel of innocence. She simpered and fawned over the vicar and he simpered and fawned with her; and all the while the cat roasted in the chimney.
‘Now how is that little stray fellow of yours?’ I heard the vicar inquire.
‘Oh, he’s thoroughly enjoying his stay,’ Miss Birdie replied, having the nerve to turn round to me and smile. ‘Come here, Fluke, and say hello to the vicar.’
I suppose I was expected to run over and lick the clergyman’s hand, wagging my tail to show how pleased I was to see him, but I was still in a state of shock and could only cower behind the armchair.
‘Oh, he doesn’t like strangers, does he?’ the vicar chuckled.
I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or Miss Birdie, for his voice had taken on that simpleton’s tone people usually reserve for animals. They both gazed at me affectionately.
‘No, Fluke’s very shy of people,’ said Miss Birdie, melting butter clogging her words.
‘Have the police located his owner yet?’ the vicar asked.
‘Constable Hollingbery told me only yesterday that nobody had reported him missing, so I suppose whoever owned Fluke didn’t really want him very much.’
They both tutted in harmony and looked at me with soul-churning sympathy.
‘Never mind,’ the vicar said brightly. ‘He has a good home now, one I’m sure he appreciates. And I’m sure he’s being a very good doggie, isn’t he?’ The question was aimed directly at me.
Oh yes, I thought, and the pussy is being a very good pussy, albeit a well-cooked one.
‘Oh dear, Miss Birdie, the room seems to be filling with smoke. Is your chimney blocked?’
Without turning a hair, the old lady gave a little laugh and said, ‘No, no, it always does that when it’s first lit. It takes a while before the air begins to flow properly.’
‘I should have it seen to, if I were you, mustn’t spoil such a charming abode with nasty smoke, must we? I’ll send my handyman around tomorrow to fix it for you. Now the Woman’s Guild committee meeting next Wednesday…' And that was when Victoria dropped from her hiding-place.
The vicar stared open-mouthed as the soot-covered, fur-smoking cat fell down into the fire, screaming and spitting with rage, leapt from the fireplace and streaked for the door. She flew past him and he could only continue to stare as the smouldering black body disappeared down the path leaving a jet-stream of trailing smoke behind. His mouth still open, the vicar turned his attention back to his elderly parishioner and raised his eyebrows.
‘I wondered where Victoria had got to,’ said Miss Birdie.
The cat never came back, at least not while I was still there, and I seriously doubt she ever returned. Life in the cottage went on in its crazy normal way, the incident forgotten by my benefactor as though it had never happened. Several times in the ensuing week Miss Birdie stood at her front door and called out Victoria’s name, but I guess the cat was several counties away by then (I still have bad dreams of her being out there in the night, watching me, smouldering in the dark). However, Miss Birdie soon forgot about Victoria and directed all her attention towards me, but, not surprisingly, I felt I could never really trust her. I spent my time nervously waiting for the next eruption, treading very warily and learning to subdue my undisciplined spirits. It occurred to me to leave, but I must confess the lure of good food and a comfortable bed was stronger than my fear of what might happen next. In a word, I was stupid (Rumbo had been right), and even I’m amazed at just how stupid my next mistake was.
I found a nice, chewy plastic object lying on the edge of the kitchen-sink drainer one night. The kitchen was my night-time domain now that Victoria was gone and her basket had become my bed. I often had a poke around during the night or in the early hours of the morning and this time I had been lucky in finding something to play with. Not too hard, not too soft, and crunchy when I bit down firmly. No good to eat, but pretty to look at with its pink surface and little white frills around one edge. It kept me amused for hours.
When Miss Birdie came into the kitchen next morning, she showed no sign of being amused at all. Her toothless mouth opened to let the raging soundless cry escape, and when I looked into that gummy mouth, the human part of me realised what lay chewed, twisted and splintered between my paws.
‘My teefth!’ Miss Birdie spluttered after her first wordless outcry. ‘My falthe teefth!’ And that old gleam came back into her eyes.
Stupid I am, yes, and stupid enough to amaze even myself, right. But there comes a time in even the most stupid dog’s life when he knows exactly what he should do next. And I did it.
I went through that window just as the cat had (through the new window-pane, in fact), terror helping me achieve what I had been unable to do before (namely, getting on to that kitchen sink). The fact that Miss Birdie was reaching for the long carving knife which hung with its culinary companions on the wall convinced me this might be her worst brainstorm yet. I thought it unnecessary to wait and find out.
I went over her flowerbeds, scrambled through bushes and undergrowth and burst into the open fields
