‘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 to leap on to the draining-board myself and almost succeeded, but the sight of Victoria diving head-first through a pane in the closed window amazed me so much I lost my concentration and slipped back on to the floor. I’d never seen a cat — or any animal — do that before!
I was still half lying there, perplexed, and a little delighted, I think, when the white-gowned figure appeared in the kitchen doorway. I froze for a second at the apparition, then realised it was only Miss Birdie. Then I froze again.
Her eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. Her white hair hung wildly down to her shoulders and the billowy nightdress she wore crackled with static. Her whole body quivered with a rising fury that threatened to dismantle her frail old body. Her mouth flapped open but coherent words refused to form; she could only make a strange gargling sound. However, she did manage to reach up a trembling hand to the light switch and flick it on. The increased light suddenly made me feel very naked lying there among the smashed crockery.
I gulped once and began to apologise, ready to blame the cat for everything, but the screech that finally escaped the old lady told me words would be wasted at that particular moment. I scooted beneath the kitchen table.
It didn’t afford me much protection unfortunately, for one of those dainty slippered feet found my ribs with fierce accuracy. It found my ribs a few more times before I had the sense to remove myself. Out I shot, making for the open doorway, scared silly of this dear old thing. This dear old thing then threw a chair at me and I yelped as it bounced off my back. She came at me, arms and legs flailing, stunning me into submission, terrifying me with her strength. My collar was grabbed and I found myself being dragged back to the cluttered ‘guest’ room. I was thrown in and the door slammed shut behind me. From the other side of the heavy wood I heard language I’d been used to in the Guvnor’s yard but hardly expected to hear in a quaint old cottage and from such a sweet old lady. I lay there trembling, fighting desperately to keep a grip on my bowels and bladder: I was in enough disgrace without that.