The Kitten Hunt (9 page)

‘No, I know – I mean, oh great – yes, definitely not dead, is he?’ I babbled.

‘Good to see you two are on speaking terms again,’ said Dad, appearing in the hall behind me. ‘I didn’t know you had a kitten, Jazz.’

‘There’s a lot you don’t know, sunshine,’ Kaboodle hissed. ‘For example, this vile girl is squashing the life out of me and if she doesn’t let go this
instant, she’ll be wearing my mouse-and-vole breakfast all down her disgusting skintight jeans.’

‘Oh, Kaboodle! You wouldn’t!’ I said.

‘Eh?’ said Jazz, as I gasped and clamped my hands over my mouth.

Kaboodle at last succeeded in wriggling free of Jazz’s tight and sweaty grasp and leaped to the ground. He then started to wind around my legs. ‘Thank goodness you’re
here,’ he purred. ‘Someone sensible to talk to at last.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I whispered. ‘But can you stop talking to me in front of everyone?’

‘I thought you girls weren’t talking,’ said Dad, scratching his head.

‘We
weren’t
,’ Jazz answered, eyeing me suspiciously.

‘But we are now.’ I chipped in quickly, grinning like a raving lunatic. ‘We just had a bit of an argument about this cat because I said he was lost and Jazz said he was dead
and—’

‘Hang on a minute,’ Dad interrupted, holding up one hand like a traffic policeman. ‘I thought you said you’d been teasing Jazz about her singing?’

Jazz glared at me. ‘You didn’t
actually
tell him about that?’

I blushed. I was getting deeper and deeper into extremely scalding water. If I was not careful, I would reach boiling point and then probably evap-orate. Actually, that didn’t seem such a
bad prospect at that particular moment.

Dad raised his eyes to the ceiling and said, ‘You know what? I’m exhausted. I’ve spent all day listening to arguments and I really can’t be bothered to listen to any
more. Jazz, put your cat outside and then why don’t you come in and sort it out in Bertie’s room in front of a DVD with some popcorn or something? You can take my laptop from my study
to watch a film on – you know how to work it. I’m not doing any more on it today – I’m bushed. I’m going to put my feet up and watch some telly down here.’

Jazz perked up at the mention of popcorn and DV Ds, but I suddenly remembered I had to talk to her about Mr Smythe and said, ‘NO!’

‘What now?’ said Dad wearily.

‘Erm – the kitten. We have to take the kitten back to where he comes from – and you don’t like animals in the house, do you, Dad?’

Jazz was mouthing ‘What are you on about?’ at me, and Kaboodle was whining, ‘Can’t we go with the popcorn and DVD option? Your dad’s not the only one who’s
tired, you know. It’s been quite a day.’

I ignored Kaboodle and mouthed back at Jazz, ‘Pet-sitting!’

Meanwhile Dad let out an exasperated puff of air and said, ‘I don’t know what you two are up to, but just let me know when you’ve decided what you’re doing. I’ll be
in front of the telly.’

At least he didn’t kick off about Kaboodle being there.

Jazz waited until Dad was out of earshot and then said, ‘What is “peck city” when it’s at home?’

‘Eh? Oh – not “peck city”! Pet-sitting!’ I said.

A fit of giggles took me by surprise It was quite a relief to just let the giggles take over and not have to think of what to say for a minute.

Luckily Jazz seemed to be infected by my out-of-control laughter fit and had stopped glaring and scowling at me, and soon the two of us were squeaking and holding our sides and trying to get our
breath back.

‘Stop! I’m going to die!’Jazz squealed.

Kaboodle sat on the doorstep, glowering at the two of us, looking very much unamused. ‘When you two have quite finished,’ he said sourly, ‘perhaps you’d be good enough to
show me to my room, Bertie?’

Dad was deep into some mindnumbing programme about DIY by then, so it was easy to smuggle Kaboodle upstairs. Jazz stayed for the DVD, but we didn’t watch much of it. We spent the whole
time planning the next level of our pet-sitting empire. Kaboodle quickly bored of our excitable conversation and crept out of my bedroom window, telling me over his shoulder, ‘I’m going
to see some friends of mine. Don’t wait up.’

Once Jazz had gone home, Kaboodle slept on my bed that night. Dad didn’t find out, because Kaboodle hid until Dad had come to say goodnight, and then leaped softly and
silently on to my duvet and curled up beside me on the wall side of the bed.

‘What if he comes in while I’m sleeping and sees you here?’ I whispered.

‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Kaboodle sighed. ‘I keep telling you, we felines are the masters of deception. I’m mostly black – I can merge into the shadows as easily as
ice melting on a hot day, my dear. And besides, humans only ever see what they expect to

‘I don’t understand,’ I hissed.

‘Your dad isn’t expecting there to be a cat in your room. He thinks I belong to Jazz, remember? So he won’t see me,’ Kaboodle explained impatiently. ‘Now let me get
some sleep, can’t you? It’s been an exhausting day.’

I sighed and wriggled down to get comfy. ‘Just one more thing,’ I said. ‘Why do you want to stay here?Wouldn’t you prefer to be in your own house on one of those fluffy
cushions?’

Kaboodle raised his head and those spooky big eyes flashed orange in the darkness. ‘Can’t a cat have a bit of company once in a while without being grilled under a spotlight about
his motivations?’ he snapped. ‘Now, goodnight.’

W
hen I woke up, I realized that Kaboodle had disappeared from my bed at some point in the night. A twingey feeling of disappointment settled in my
tummy as I rubbed my eyes and realized blurrily that he wasn’t there Oh no! What if he’d crept into Dad’s room?

I scuttled out of bed at top speed and tiptoed along the landing. Dad always left his bedroom door ajar in case I had nightmares. I kept telling him I was not a baby any more, but Dad still
worried about me just as if I was still a little girl. I shook my head to get rid of the confusion welling up inside me I was not a little girl and if Dad was so worried, he should wake up and
smell the bacon and not leave me alone so much.

I peered into his room.

Phew! No sign of Kaboodle. And Dad was still snoring. I crept back to my room to get dressed and realized the window was still open. Hopefully Kaboodle had simply headed out to do some prowling,
or whatever it was cats did. I couldn’t help feeling a bit worried for him though – after all, he wasn’t fully grown yet, and I was responsible for him. What on earth would I say
to Pinkella if something happened to him? She was obviously still upset about losing her old cat . . . and to be honest, I’d be pretty upset too. I ’d already got used to the idea of
having Kaboodle around the place.

I pushed those horrible thoughts out of my mind and glanced at my bedside clock. Eight o’clock. Jazz had said she’d come with me at nine to go and meet Mr Smythe’s hamsters.
I’d have no problem being allowed out – it was Sunday which meant Dad would want to have a lie-in and then read the paper, a ll of which I knew was code for ‘I want to be
alone.’

Although you’d have thought he would have had enough of newspapers for one week.

‘So. Hamsters,’ said Jazz. ‘They’re not exactly any hassle, are they? Sam and Aleisha used to have hamsters before I was born. Leesh says all they do is
eat and sleep and make huge nests from bits of chewed-up paper.’

I started. ‘You didn’t tell Aleisha about this, did you?’

Jazz widened her eyes and batted those extra-long eyelashes. ‘As
if
!’

I shook my head at her and said, ‘You’d better not have, that’s all. Anyway, I don’t s’pose Mr S’s hamsters will be that much hassle. But we’ll probably
have to clean them out and stuff.’

‘At least they won’t run off like Kaboodle, leaving you to fly into a frenzy,’ Jazz said airily, reaching up to ring Mr Smythe’s doorbell.

‘Huh—!’ I was about to protest that
I
hadn’t been the one planning memorial services and singing freaky songs, but I bit the words back before they had a chance to
escape. I didn’t want to fall out with her all over again. ‘Yeah,’ I added flatly, changing my pout to a grin as Mr Smythe answered the door and let us in.

As we followed him into his incredibly neat and tidy house and he started chatting about his pets, I confidently repeated to myself that hamsters would be the simplest of pets to look after.
They were tiny, they didn’t eat much, they didn’t need to be taken for walks and they lived in small cages so they were safe and sound in the same place all of the time.

However, after the list of instructions Mr Smythe gave us, I was beginning to have my doubts.

8 a. m. Feeding time: one small scoop of hamster mix, small pieces of carrot and cucumber in white pot.

8.05 a. m. Check water bottle is full. Do not leave too much fresh food – hamsters will hide it or stuff too much in pouches. May cause health problems.

8.10 a. m. Playtime in large cage. Clean out loo corner.

5.00 p. m. Water and food restocked.

5.10 p. m. Check for remains of food.

5.20 p. m. Feed again.

5.30 p. m. Bedtime. Tuck up tight. Avoid nightmares.

Ensure cage is shut at all times!

Nightmares? I thought. If anyone’s going to be having nightmares, it’s me. This guy was turning out to be more bonkers than Ms Fenella Nut-brain Pinkington.

‘Why do we have to do all this at these
exact times
?’ Jazz asked Mr Smythe,reading the notes over my shoulder. She stood back and put her hands on her hips, tossed her braided
black hair, in what can only be described as her bored-and-totally-not-amused pose, and raised her eyebrows at me in our secret code language, which can mean any number of things, but which in this
case most definitely meant, ‘What kind of weirdo are we dealing with here?’

I stifled a laugh. Obviously I agreed with her, but I did not want Mr Smythe to have second thoughts about letting me look after his pets.

‘It’s because animals need routine, don’t they, Mr Smythe?’ I said, in the most sucking-up way imaginable.

At this, Jazz rolled her eyes so dramatically I was worried that they would disappear into the back of her head and never come back.

‘That’s correct, Bertie,’ said Mr Smythe, twitching his nose and blinking at me through his little round glasses. He looked a bit like a hamster himself, I thought, although
not as furry and definitely not as cute. ‘I can see that you are just the person for the job. I am glad to know that I’m leaving Houdini and Mr Nibbles in such safe hands.’

He took his glasses off and cleaned them for about half an hour while I wondered what was supposed to happen next. Then he smoothed his small moustache carefully and thoughtfully with the tips
of his long fingers. I half-expected him to reach for a carrot and start nibbling at it. What with this guy’s bizarre behaviour and Jazz’s freakoid zombie eye-rolling I was in danger of
being completely weirded out.

Then just as I was thinking maybe I should make my excuses and leave, Mr Smythe put his glasses back on and blinked at us as if he’d only just noticed we were there and said, ‘Ah.
Yes. Let’s go and see the little chaps, shall we?’

He took us into a room at the back of his house and showed us the cage – or should I say the Hamster Play Park and Activity Area.

‘Whoa!’ shouted Jazz. ‘That is some hamster home!’

‘It’s ginormous!’ I agreed. ‘This looks like some kind of Marble Run game. What are all those tunnels and things for?’

Mr Smythe chuckled and wrinkled his nose at me. ‘It’s rather fun, isn’t it?’ he giggled, blinking rapidly. ‘The little chaps like to scurry around, so I bought them
the tunnels and tubes and things to play in. And the wheel,’ he added, pointing to a large hamster wheel about the size of a football in the middle of the cage, ‘we ll, that’s
their favourite bit, I think.’

Jazz was staring, her mouth so far open she probably could have swallowed the wheel. I guessed she must have been thinking what I was thinking: all this for two tiny furry creatures the size of
golf balls?

‘Can you see the little chaps?’ Mr Smythe asked. He pointed to a pile of shredded paper, which I had noticed was rustling gently. A tiny pink nose popped out and two shiny black eyes
blinked at me. Then a brown nose appeared next to the pink nose and another pair of black eyes emerged.

‘There you are, my little chaps!’ cooed Mr Smythe. ‘Busy bees, aren’t you, with all your yummy paper? Now I should tell you how to hold them,’ he went on.

In spite of all the nonsense Mr Smythe was spurting out, my tummy did a small flip and I beamed at Jazz. This was the whole reason I had thought up the pet-sitting idea. I was dying to hold one
of these teeny creatures. Mr Smythe opened the top of the cage and told me to put my hand in.

‘Mr Nibbles can be a bit nervy,’ he warned me. ‘He’s the sandy one.’

I put my hand in the cage and tried to reach for one of the hamsters, but he scuttled away. I imagined Kaboodle laughing at my clumsiness.

‘Try gently stroking them while they’re still in the cage,’ Mr Smythe was saying. ‘Why don’t you offer the little chaps a piece of car ro t? They’ll soon work
out they have nothing to fear.’

I did as Mr Smythe said, while Jazz huffed and puffed and tried various unsubtle attempts to get my attention. She had obviously recovered from the shock of seeing the hamster penthouse and was
now rubbing her thumb and fingers together in a very obvious we-need-to-talk-money gesture. I shook my head at her firmly and fixed my attention squarely on the hamsters.

‘Oh!’ I cried as Mr Nibbles scurried over and let me touch him while he snatched the small chunk of carrot and nibbled away at it. ‘Oh! He’s so cute!’

And so soft! That sounds bizarre – after all, what did I think he was going to be – spiky? But I guess I just hadn’t been prepared for quite how soft he really would be. Much
softer than Kaboodle, even.

Mr Smythe chuckled, showing an alarmingly large set of front teeth. ‘Now gently scoop him up in both hands. Don’t hold him too tightly or squeeze him! He might get frightened.
That’s right, you’re doing fine.’