Spy Cat (2 page)

Shakespeare woke with a start, his green eyes instantly wide and his claws extended. He scanned the room and his heart gradually stopped pounding. When you'd spent weeks living rough like Shakespeare had, you learnt to always be alert and ready to run – or fight.
After the last few weeks I've had
, thought the cat,
I'm lucky to be alive at all!
He looked around at Sophie's bedroom – pink curtains, cream walls and a pair of fluffy slippers.
Perfect.
Shakespeare stretched out luxuriously, hooking his claws into the super-soft bedding.
Peace and quiet and a nice comfy duvet, at last. What more could a feline want?

The window was open and Shakespeare could hear some barking outside. His whiskers twitched nervously
. Bad memories.
He leapt effortlessly up on to the sill, being careful to
stay hidden behind the curtain, and spied on the meeting below.
What a strange gathering of animals.
He looked at the black and white dog standing at the front of the group, clearly in charge.
She's the one who lives in this house
,
Shakespeare realized. He always scampered away before she came back into the house, but he'd seen the children playing with her and petting her. He'd tried not to pay too much attention to the obvious love between them all. Shakespeare had no time for that sort of thing.

 

 

Her name was Lara.
Strange markings
, he thought.
And an even stranger ear arrangement
, he noticed as Lara's bullet-holed ear stood proudly to attention. Shakespeare listened intently. So she was a Spy Dog – whatever that meant. He wasn't even sure what a ‘neighbourhood-watch team' actually was, but what appeared to be a competition to choose a leader to look after things while Lara was on holiday would be interesting to watch either way. It was always good to know who the competition was on your patch. He scanned the group below; there didn't seem to be anyone worth Shakespeare's attention.
But then
, thought the cat,
a life of action and adventure isn't really my thing.
Shakespeare was a loner. He only looked out for number one now. He cast an eye back to the warm bed that seemed to be calling him.
That's my thing!

He listened to Lara's instructions, stretching a back leg and licking between his claws while he did so. ‘The test is very simple. It's a feline versus canine challenge. We need to see who's cleverest, bravest and most energetic.'

Shakespeare continued listening and licking, his sandpapery tongue cleaning between his toes. ‘Imagine there's a fire on the first floor of
number 22. And there's a child asleep in the upstairs bedroom.'

‘
Yikes!
' woofed the soppy-looking chocolate Lab. ‘Best get there quick,' he said, bounding off towards the garden gate.

‘Archie,' Lara bellowed. ‘Heel, boy. I said
imagine
. Come back here and listen carefully to the instructions.'

Shakespeare sniggered.
Dogs are so stupid.

‘Yes, boss,' he woofed apologetically. ‘But what about the fire?'

Lara sighed and shook her head. Shakespeare was surprised to see her eye the tortoiseshell cat with what looked like hope.
Interesting, not automatically rooting for her own species.

‘There's an
imaginary
baby at number 22,' Lara continued. ‘And an
imaginary
fire. The first one to get into the house, upstairs, rescue the child and bring it back here is the winner, right?'

Archie looked chastened. ‘Yes, boss.'

‘I'm ready,' miaowed Connie, giving Archie a competitive sideways glance.

‘Then what are you waiting for? Go!' woofed Lara as the cat and dog sprinted off in opposite directions.

Thirty seconds later Archie came panting back. ‘Which is number 22?' he woofed.

Lara jabbed her paw after the cat, who was already halfway down the street. Archie bounded after her, a chocolate-brown bundle of enthusiasm.

 

 

Shakespeare watched lazily from above. He'd stopped licking but his back leg was still outstretched, in striking distance if the race got boring. The competition had become slightly less interesting now it was clear that the cat was going to wipe the floor with the daft dog.
Shakespeare had no time for dogs –
not stupid ones, not bossy ones like Lara, not vicious ones on the street and especially not the dog that got me evicted from my family.
It hurt him to think about it but sometimes he couldn't do anything else. Bad memories just popped into his head. The little girl had loved him so much.
A bit too much
, he considered.
So much that the dog got jealous. I just wanted a quiet family life but the mutt picked a huge fight, and when we were pulled apart I accidentally caught my owner with my claws and that was pretty much it.

Shakespeare winced as he remembered being shouted at by the lady.
And the little girl was crying
. He'd then been palmed off on an elderly relative, far away from the little girl and his family. They probably meant well but meals were scarce and it just wasn't the same. Shakespeare had decided there and then that he would go it alone. He was going to survive all by himself.
So I left.

He remembered catching sight of himself in a shop window two weeks later.
A stray!
he thought
. Imagine! Pampered puss to mangy moggy. Skinny ribs showing through my ginger fur. Homeless. Loveless. Living on the streets.

Shakespeare shook his head, getting rid of the
memories. He'd soon learnt to toughen up. There were some angry dogs and very territorial cats in the neighbourhood to help him do just that. He looked in the bedroom mirror and admired his tummy, now puffed out with pride. His glossy fur – ginger except for three white feet – gleamed, and his green eyes and perky whiskers shone with health.
There's always an upside
, he considered, raising an eyebrow and giving a throaty yowl.
I'm a streetwise moggie
, he thought.
Grown up fast! I steal what I can, when I can. I don't need friends, or people, or a family. I'm a ginger ninja, it's me against the world.

He was pleased with his current ‘home'.
Three days and nights here
, he thought.
And nobody's rumbled me yet.
He'd decided to keep the family at arm's length. The little girl, Sophie, seemed friendly enough and had petted him in the garden, but so far so good. It was better that he didn't make attachments like before. Best to blend into the background. Hunt at night and find a nice snuggly duvet during the day.

Shakespeare looked back at the indentation in the duvet, imagining it might still be warm.
In a minute
, he promised
. The action below is just hotting up.

The cats could hardly contain themselves. ‘Go, Connie, go!' they yowled. Their leader was well ahead. Connie reached number 22 and eyed it up. The cat flap seemed the obvious way in. She nosed her way through and stepped into the silent house.

She heard Archie outside, sniffing and yapping. His brown snout appeared through the cat flap. Connie doubted he would be able to get in, so she took her time up the stairs and on to the first-floor landing.
Easy peasy
, she thought as she crept silently into the small bedroom where a doll had been left in a cot.
That must be ‘the baby'.
She leapt into the cot and clutched the toy in her mouth. She then
struggled out, the doll hitting the floor with a bit of a bump as Connie landed on all fours.
Whoops, baby
, she thought.
Good job this is only role play.

Connie tugged the doll downstairs as best she could, the pretend baby thumping step by step. By the bottom step the doll had lost an arm and a leg.

Finding a toy pram in a nearby room, Connie dropped the doll into it with a relieved hiss, and scampered up to the front door to leap up and hang off the door handle. She grabbed it and held on. The door opened with a satisfying click and Connie fell to the floor.

Archie loomed into the doorway. He was
standing on his hind legs pointing something down at her. ‘Fire,' he woofed. ‘Lara said there was a fire. Watch out, puss.'

Archie pointed the hosepipe at Connie and let rip. Water blasted the cat off her feet and the baby and pram were soaked.

 

 

Before Connie could recover, Archie had stolen the buggy and slammed the door.

No way
, thought Connie.
He's not as stupid as he looks!
She was determined not to be beaten by a dog. Connie ran at the cat flap and nearly knocked herself out. Archie had wedged it shut.
The devious canine! I'm trapped!
Connie leapt at the door handle once more but it was still wet and slippery. She fell to the carpet, angry and irritated.

Shakespeare had finished his wash. He sat, tail curled around his feet. He had a perfect view from the window sill and he found himself strangely absorbed in the cat versus dog battle. He watched smugly as Connie entered the house way ahead of the dim dog, but then nearly choked on a fur ball as he watched Archie unravel the hosepipe from the side of the house and wait for his fellow feline to open
the door. Shakespeare's paw went to his face as Connie was blasted off her feet and Archie made away with the prize.
We can't have that
, he thought, his keen cat brain, honed from the need for quick thinking on the streets, working on a plan.
In the dogs versus cats battle, I'm rooting for my own species.

Archie was on his hind legs, pushing the pram towards Lara's house. Connie chased him but it was clear she couldn't catch the crafty mutt.
Unless …
thought Shakespeare.

Shakespeare knew that Archie would have to pass right under his window. He'd spotted the rake lying in the long grass.
You can see it from up here
, he thought.
But not from down there.