The Kitten Hunt (10 page)

‘Oh, Jazz, it’s so cool! You should have a go,’ I said.

Jazz sighed noisily and came over and rather limply held out her hand.

‘Just remember, girls, don’t get excitable when you’re holding them,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘The little chaps need you to stay calm, or they’ll get nervous and they
might try and run away.’

‘I’m not sure I can remember all that stuff about how to get them out of the cage without frightening them,’ I said, trying to distract Mr Smythe from Jazz, who was jumping
about and squeaking while Mr Nibbles ran up and down her sleeves and over her hands.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve left you another note about how to handle them – it’s with the food. We’ll put Mr Nibbles back now and I’ll show you where I keep the
food and sawdust. The sawdust is for their bedding. Here is the note about how to handle them – just in case you forget,’ he twittered.

He did go on a bit, I thought. Talk about Attention to Detail. I read the note:

Sit down while handling hamsters – that way they won't have far to fall. No squealing or squeezing. You will frighten or hurt them.

I saw Jazz was already negotiating payment with Mr Smythe. I wondered how she was going to cope with all these instructions, especially the ‘no squealing’ part. I
read through the notes one more time and checked I knew where all the food was.

‘Our basic minimum rate is two pounds per day,’ she was saying.

I shot her a horrified look. But she just shrugged at me and went on, ‘I hope that will be acceptable to you, Mr Smythe. It’s because there are two hamsters, you see.’

Mr Smythe beamed and twitched and fiddled with his glasses and smoothed his moustache. I couldn’t for the life of me think what was amusing about Jazz fleecing him for two pounds a day and
talking to him as if she was the Queen and he had come to polish her boots. Mr Smythe swallowed his smile when he caught me looking, but gave me a wink and said, ‘I see you have a very
organized partner in crime here, Bertie.’

I grimaced. ‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I think two pounds a day sounds reasonable,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay you when I get back, if that’s all right. As I said on the phone, I’ll only be gone for
a couple of nights. In fact, if you do a good job, I’ll round it up to a fiver. How ’s that?’

I grinned weakly as Jazz said, ‘Great!’

‘So, have you got any final questions?’ he asked as he showed us out.

I shook my head.

‘Fine. So you’ll pop in and see the little chaps this afternoon, will you?’ he asked.

I nodded. Then Jazz piped up in a pushy way which was becoming a bit of a habit, ‘Actually, I’ve got a question.’

‘Fire away,’ said Mr Smythe.

‘What
exactly
was the thinking behind the names “Mr Nibbles” and “Houdini”?’ she asked, with a slight sneer, I was embarrassed to notice.

Mr Smythe smiled and tapped the side of his nose. ‘That would be telling,’ he said.

Jazz raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, obviously. That’s why I’m asking,’ she said.

I pulled her by the elbow and said, ‘Come on, Jazz. Your mum will be wondering where we are. Thank you, Mr Smythe. I’m really looking forward to looking after the hamsters. Have a
lovely time at your daughter’s.’

‘Why did you have to be like that?’ I muttered as we left.

‘So
rreee
,’ said Jazz,not sounding it at all. ‘But that man is seriously weird. What’s with all that twitching and calling the hamsters his “little
chaps”? He’s nuts! Either that or he’s a freaking hamster himself. And don’t you think they’ve got stupid names? Mr Nibbles and Houdini. Huh! Hamsters are usually
called cuddly things like Fluffy and Munchy and Hamhead,’ she said.

‘Ham-
what
?’ I guffawed.

‘Well,’ Jazz muttered, scuffing her trainers along the pave ment, ‘if I had a hamster, I’d call it Hamhead. At least it’s original.’

I couldn’t really argue with that.

Jazz wouldn’t stop going on about the names, though, so once we got back to her house, I agreed that we should look up Houdini on the Internet.

‘Maybe he’s named after someone famous,’ Jazz suggested.

It turned out she was right.

Escapologist? I didn’t like the sound of that, somehow.

A
fter we had checked out the Internet, I remembered we still had to go and feed Kaboodle, who was probably waiting hungrily for us at
Pinkella’s. I’d been so caught up with the hamsters, I’d almost forgotten about him, I realized guiltily

‘I think we should go and check on Kaboodle right now’ I blurted out.

‘Hey don’t get stressy!’Jazz said. ‘We don’t have to do everything
exactly
the way Ms P set it down – she won’t know whether pussy-kitty-catkins
gets fed at nine o’clock or at half past ten, will she?’

I pursed my lips. ‘If we’re going to do this – and get
paid
for it –’ I broke off and looked at Jazz meaningfully – ‘then I reckon we should do
what we’ve been asked, don’t you?’

‘OK, OK,’ said Jazz. ‘Let’s go.’

I jumped up and grabbed my jacket. Then I hesitated. ‘What’ll we tell your family?’ I asked. ‘I’m s’posed to be hanging out with you here.’

‘Say we’re going out on our bikes for a bit, I don’t know,’ said Jazz impatiently. ‘Mum’s got to take Ty to football in a minute, Leesh’ll be out and
Sam’s never around these days, you know that. And since when has Dad ever asked me what I’m up to?’

I loved that about Jazz’s parents. They were so relaxed.

We ran downstairs and Jazz shouted over her shoulder that we were going out. I opened the front door and immediately tripped over Kaboodle who, it seems, had been sitting in the porch. He
flicked his tail at me as I bent down to try and stroke him.

‘Hello,’ I said, nervously. He really did look quite cross. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Kaboodle hissed irritably. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Kaboodle,’ I said. ‘We went round to Mr Smythe’s and then we’ve been on the Internet—’

Jazz flapped her hands at me and shrieked with laughter. ‘You kill me! Listen to you, talking to that little kitty-cat like he’s your best mate!’

I gulped. ‘Oh, yeah, I guess I’m supposed to do all that “pussy-wussy-catkin” rubbish, aren’t I?’ I mumbled. ‘So, er, here, puss-puss. Here, little
kitty,’ I called to Kaboodle and, making a tight-mouthed kissing noise I’d heard Pinkella do, I bent down and held out my hand to stroke him. ‘Shall we go and get your
breakfast?’

‘That’s the general idea,’ Kaboodle said through gritted teeth.

Jazz sighed. ‘You’ve got no idea, have you?’ she said. ‘Here, watch me.’ She bent down and scooped Kaboodle up into her arms.

And promptly dropped him.

‘Ow! You beast!’ she squawked. ‘Put those claws away!’

‘Tell her,’ Kaboodle commanded.

‘OK,’ I whispered, then looking at Jazz I said, ‘I, er, I don’t think he likes being picked up like that. Anyway, he must be starving. Let’s take him
home.’

Jazz was frowning and rubbing her arm. ‘He can whistle for his breakfast if that’s the way he’s going to behave,’ she snapped.

‘Just think of the money,’ I reminded her. She grimaced, but followed me as I turned to go back up the road to Pinkella’s.

But then I remembered something: ‘I don’t have the key or my notebook. I’ll have to go home and get them.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Kaboodle purred, rubbing his head against my legs, ‘I can get in without a key.’

‘Yes, but how will
I
get in?’ I asked him.

‘You just said you were going to get the key,’ Jazz pointed out, sounding confused.

I’d done it again.

‘Yeah, that’s what I meant,’ I said, frowning.

‘Trust me, you don’t need a key,’ said Kaboodle. ‘There’s a cat flap.’

‘Yeah, but I can’t fit through a cat fl—’ I broke off.

Jazz was shaking her head at me. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked. ‘Cos once again, if it weren’t a totally bonkers thing to even
imagine
, I’d say you
were actually having a conversation with that kitten!’

‘That’s because she is,’ said Kaboodle, a flicker of a smile wafting across his whiskers.

‘OH SHUT UP!’ I shouted at him.

‘Well, that’s nice,’ Jazz snapped at me. She crossed her arms and said, ‘I’ve only been trying to help you. But if you’re going to be like that, you can
forget it. First you laugh at my singing and tell your dad about it, then you tell me off for my so-called “behaviour” at Mr Smythe’s, and now you’re acting freaky and
telling me to shut up. Well, stuff you and your pathetic Pet-Sitting Service, Roberta Fletcher. I’m out of it.’ And she spun on her funky-trainered heel, went into her house and slammed
the door. In my face.

‘Thanks, Kaboodle,’ I sighed.

He purred, looking up at me with those golden pools of honey that served for eyes. ‘Miiiaooow,’ he said, making himself look cuter than ever, ‘you’re not going to get
cross with me now, Bertie. Are you?’

My heart did a jerky leap and I bent down to pick up the tiny black and white cat. ‘I’m not cross with you,’ I said, rubbing my face in his fur as he purred with delight.
‘I just don’t know how to handle talking to you while Jazz is around. She thinks I’m going loopy. Maybe I should tell her the truth—’

‘No!’ Kaboodle cut in swiftly. ‘No, no, that wouldn’t be a good idea at all,’ he said. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to this
morning while you go and fetch me some breakfast?’

I had the distinct impression that Kaboodle had managed to bamboozle me somehow.

Confused, I shook my head and said, ‘OK – but let me go home and get the keys. I don’t like the idea of trying to break in to Ms P’s, whatever you say.’

Kaboodle was on his own doorstep, having a thorough wash, when I emerged from my house.

‘Mffffuggggle?’ he said.

‘Pur-leeese!’ I protested. ‘You could at least stop washing your – er – private parts before you start speaking!’

Kaboodle removed his head from his tail region and looked at me coolly. ‘Have you never seen a cat wash before? We cats are extremely clean creatures, you know. Cleanliness is next to
godliness. We always think before we act, and we
never
think before we wash—’

‘All right, all right, I get the picture,’ I interrupted. I was not keen to be seen hanging around outside chatting like this. I fumbled with the key and nearly tripped over the
doormat in my hurry to get into the house.

Kaboodle padded softly behind me as I went through to the kitchen and quickly read through Pinkella’s notes again. He jumped and landed neatly on the work surface next to where I had put
my notebook.

‘So, are you going to tell me what you and your irritating friend were up to this morning?’ he purred.

I decided to ignore his comment about Jazz and said, ‘We went to number two – you know, Mr Smythe’s?’

‘Ah, yes, Rodent Man,’ sneered Kaboodle. ‘Half man, half mouse. Shame he’s too big for me to sink my teeth into, really.’

‘Ye-es,’ I said. ‘Although I’d say he was more like half hamster, myself.’

Kaboodle gave a funny snort, midway between a laugh and a sneeze. ‘Yes, I heard you droning on about hamsters yesterday. What on earth
is
a hamster?’

I giggled. ‘Don’t you know?’

‘No, that’s why I asked,’ he replied sniffily. ‘I’m only six months old, you know. I haven’t exactly seen the world in its magnificent entirety.’

‘You wouldn’t know it, the way you carry on,’ I said under my breath.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. I was just wondering how I could describe a hamster to you,’ I said hurriedly. ‘It’s, er, sort of like a mouse, but it doesn’t have a tail – well,
only a very tiny stubby one. People keep them as pets and put them in cages.’

‘And then eat them?’ asked Kaboodle hopefully.

‘NO!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yuck! Who’d want to
eat
a hamster? Urgh! No, they just keep them to cuddle and play with.’

‘What a waste,’ said Kaboodle, obviously unimpressed. ‘So, you went to Hamster Man’s house, and then what?’

‘Funnily enough, we went to see his hamsters,’ I said sarcastically. ‘He has two: Mr Nibbles and Houdini. He wants us to look after them for a couple of days – like
I’m looking after you.’

Kaboodle paused, then did the sneezy laugh again. ‘Mr Nibbles and Houdini – what pathetic names!’ he said.

‘Hmmm. That’s what Jazz said. I’m beginning to think they’re quite cute, actually.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Kaboodle, sounding cooler. ‘So what were these un-tailed rodents like?’

‘Oh, you know – furry,’ I said vaguely, suddenly realizing that Kaboodle might be feeling jealous. ‘And quiet. They didn’t talk to me or anything.’

‘Well, of course they didn’t TALK to you,’ sneered the kitten, narrowing his yellow eyes at me. ‘What on earth do you suppose they would have to say for
themselves?’ He twitched his nose and bared his teeth and squeaked: ‘“I like carrot”, “I have big teeth”, “Does my bum look big without a
tail?”’ His features returned to normal. ‘Talk to you! What utter nonsense,’ he scowled.

I frowned. ‘But surely cats aren’t the only animals who can talk?’

Kaboodle preened his whiskers. ‘Obviously,’ he agreed. ‘But cats are the only animals on this planet who have anything worth saying. Take dogs for instance – the poor
foolish brutes only have three thoughts going around their brain at any one time. “Walkies! Food! Sleep!”’

I laughed. ‘How do you know? A dog wouldn’t want to talk to you anyway – he’d only be interested in chasing you.’

‘Precisely,’ said Kaboodle, blinking slowly. ‘He would want “walkies”, which would involve chasing me, followed by “food” – not that I’d
ever give him the satisfaction – followed by “sleep” to recover from the whole riveting adventure.’

I shook my head. ‘You are a funny little thing,’ I said. ‘Sometimes you sound like Jazz!’

Kaboodle shuddered. ‘
Please
! Do
not
compare me with that creature,’ he said and then swiftly changed the subject. ‘Tell me more about these silent, stubby-tailed
rodents.’