The Primrose Pursuit (2 page)

Being of a sensitive nature I have found these last few days somewhat trying. Our master’s untimely, and characteristically careless, demise was an unsettling experience for all of us, and the period following his spectacular plunge from the church tower was not only vexing to the spirit but also bad for my digestion. One gets used to certain humans – even one as insane as the vicar – and naturally his sudden loss occasioned some dismay. But being deprived of our customary victuals for at least two days was, I consider, the height of ill-manners: a disgraceful oversight which only goes to show how thoughtless the human species becomes when faced with the unexpected.

Oh I do not mean that they left us to starve exactly, but their idea of a suitable diet was far from satisfactory. Would you believe it – they resorted to
tins
. Even F.O. in his wildest moments would have baulked at that. However, all is not lost, for today the vicar’s sister, Primrose, arrived to take us to live with her near Lewes in Sussex. Naturally, I
reserve my optimism as it doesn’t do to anticipate things. Nevertheless during our previous visits here I had found the territory not uncongenial and so like to think that there is an even chance of things being acceptable. We shall see …

In my kittenhood I was regularly reminded by my illustrious great-uncle that circumstances alter cases. He was a fund of sage observations and I clearly benefited from his tutelage. It has made me the cat I am: shrewd, practical and well versed in the inanities of human psychology. However, I have to say that in this particular instance Great-Uncle Marmaduke’s dictum may have been a trifle flawed. You see, while our circumstances are undoubtedly
changed
following our master’s loss, as far as I can make out the
case
of Bouncer remains resolutely static. Since our arrival, I have watched the dog closely in the vain hope of seeing some improvement; but alas, as yet there is not one sign of alteration. Brazen, loud and barbarous, the dog and its manners remain much the same in the sister’s domain as they had been in the brother’s. There is a faint chance that the Sussex air and coastal winds may have some ameliorative effect but on the whole I suspect the odds are against. No, I have to admit that contrary to Marmaduke’s pronouncement, cases do not always alter – however shifting the circumstances.

Take today, for example. He had made his first visit to the rabbit hutch in the garden, or at least his first since our arrival – there had been an unfortunate previous encounter with these creatures as noted in my past memoir – and the result was disastrous. For the inmates, of course. You would think that our transfer from Surrey to Sussex being
permanent the dog would be on its best behaviour and ready to bury old hatchets (or bones). Not one bit! He came racing back to the house whooping and roaring, and telling me what a fine fellow he was for having ‘buggered up’ the chinchillas’ morning. Apparently Karloff had collapsed in dazed stupor and Boris had flown into a rage of gothic frenzy, a fact that afforded Bouncer much merriment. I was less amused – indeed, I remonstrated with him fiercely.

‘Really, Bouncer,’ I protested, ‘has it not occurred to you that we are no longer mere guests in Primrose’s household but
residents
? It doesn’t do to antagonise the natives, there could be unfortunate repercussions.’

For a moment he looked puzzled, and then said, ‘You mean if I badger them enough the bunnies might go even more bananas?’

‘Exactly,’ I said, glad that he had grasped the point.

‘Whah-ho!’ was the response. And with tail flailing like a manic windmill he floundered off into the kitchen in search of food.

I closed my eyes in despair; but opened them quickly for at that moment P.O. had appeared draped in one of her paint-spattered smocks (not unlike F.O.’s surplice, though the defacements on his had tended to be cigarette burns). She carried a brush in one hand and a turpentine bottle in the other and was evidently on her way to or from the studio.

I dislike the smell of turpentine, ranking it little better than the odour of incense for which her brother had such a penchant, but nevertheless emitted a winsome miaow and made gestures of approval. She looked startled but I persisted, going so far as to make a couple of playful pirouettes and to show interest in her left shoe. You may
wonder at such antics, but again I am in debt to the wisdom of Uncle Marmaduke. ‘
Never
compromise with humans,’ he had warned, ‘unless it be to your advantage.’ The advice has been invaluable and I have followed it faithfully. Thus in view of Bouncer’s crass goading of the chinchillas I thought it politic to affect an air of silken deference – a temporary device naturally, but necessary to secure our acceptance in the new ménage.

This ménage I may say is not without its merits, having a large, ill-kempt garden, a warm stone wall and no immediate neighbours. Admittedly the shrubbery does harbour two hedgehogs but so far they have been suitably respectful – though what will happen once the dog gets wind of them I am uncertain. And while our late master’s cabaret of blunders had been a source of painful amusement it is reassuring to think that life in the
artist
’s household will be less ruffled than that of the vicarage. It will certainly be more regular for I am glad to note that our new mistress is timely in serving my meals, a courtesy her brother could never quite grasp – but then efficiency never was his strong point. Ah well,
nil nisi bonum
… And to give him his due, as human beings go, he was a kindly creature. Just absurd.

Mind you, absurdity is not the prerogative of vicars, for in my experience many are so afflicted: tabby cats, field mice, writers, gravediggers, schoolmasters, pedigree dogs, mongrel dogs, policemen, vets, squirrels, most dog owners, all speckled hens, elderly bicyclists, youthful bicyclists, beards (male or female), bell ringers and bishops … The list is endless but its repetition a useful way of inducing sleep on the rare occasions when such aid is needed. Not that I expect insomnia in our new environment – unless, of
course, P.O. were so foolish as to follow F.O.’s example and eliminate one of the locals. (A merry jest and one that I must remember to tell Bouncer!) Yes, I think I can confidently predict that my days here will be passed in leisured sanity, untrammelled by the disruptive practices at Molehill and of our previous associates. There is one problem that remains, of course: the dog. If I can curb him all will be well.

I am getting the hang of this place now and it’s better than I thought, much better in fact. True, we don’t have the vicar’s graveyard to race around in and I do miss him pounding the old ivories; but the swirls of fag smoke are much the same, and his sister, Primrose, has given me a brand-new basket and a really fancy rug to go with it. Mind you, I was a bit miffed about that at first and didn’t go near either of them. I mean it’s quite a shock for a fellow to have his special hairy bedding taken away and to be told to kip in something all fresh and
foreign
. For a start it smelt different … No, that’s not right, it didn’t smell at all! What do you think of that? Not nice, I can tell you. In fact I took a leaf out of the cat’s book and went into a
SULK
. You didn’t think Bouncer could do that, did you? Well yes, it did seem a bit strange at first, but I’ve seen Maurice doing it often enough and thought I would have a go too. So I crawled under her kitchen table, made god-awful panting noises and didn’t touch my grub for a
WHOLE
DAY
! Maurice told me I was in a trormer (or some such word) due to loss of basket. I told him I didn’t care what I was in but that I jolly well wasn’t going to have my kit interfered with!

Anyway
, unlike F.O., P.O. seems to notice things and she soon twigged that I was out of sorts. And do you know what she did? Went to the dustbin, fished out my old rug and put it on top of the new. I thought that was quite sporting and so made it clear that I could manage a little food after all. Don’t suppose F.O. would have done that: just effed and blinded and crunched his humbugs.

But you know, it still feels a bit off without him; though I’m not too sad as Maurice says he has gone to where all good dogs and vicars go: to the wondrous kennel in the sky, full of gin and bones and really good smells like rotting rabbit and that smoky stuff he used to spray the church with which made me sneeze. Oh yes, he’ll be fine up there all right. In fact I expect I’ll join him one day; you never know, it could be pretty good fun. But
meanwhile
there are important things to do down here, i.e. get the lie of the land and the measure of our new owner.

You see it’s all right for Maurice (so far as anything ever
is
right for the cat) because he has already had one lady owner – the Fotherington woman who the vicar did in. So I suppose he knows a bit about mistresses. But I’ve only had masters, so having the Prim to deal with may be tricky. Maurice says the thing to do is to watch closely and keep quiet. He says it’s all about making the right … uhm …
ass-ment
or some such, and then acting accordingly. I’m not too good at keeping quiet myself – never seen the point of it – but I think I can make an ass-whatsit all right, it just needs concentration. The great thing is to keep a guard on
your rear. F.O. was always having to guard his, so I expect I’ve learnt a bit from him. Besides, I’ve got what the cat hasn’t: sixth sense. Maurice doesn’t like me talking about that, says he doesn’t believe in it and it’s all
non
-sense. But I know what I know, and it comes in pretty handy, I can tell you. So I’ll use some of it to get P.O.’s number … A bit of the old dog-nous beats cat-craft any day!

And talking of getting numbers, I went to inspect the chinchillas this morning, the same ones that were here when we came before – Boris and Karloff. They got a shock all right. I was just strolling casually up to their cage door (well, not strolling exactly – sort of charging), when I heard Boris say, ‘Oh my arse and whiskers, there’s that’s blithering dog again!’ ‘Which one?’ its mate asked. ‘The bouncing bugger,’ roared Boris, ‘take cover!’ And that’s what they did: scuttled into the back of their hutch and stayed there like stuck hedgehogs. All I could see were those pink mad eyes glowing in the dark.

Ho! Ho! I thought, three can play at that game! So I sat down on my haunches and waited patiently, pretending to be Maurice. In fact I even tried doing one of the cat’s special miaows (you know the sort, those awful rump-freezing ones), but somehow I couldn’t quite get the hang of it and it came out sounding a bit odd – odder even than when Maurice lets fly. Still, it seemed to do the trick as the next moment there was a great thumping and squeaking from inside and I knew it was Karloff having the vapours. And then Boris broke cover and hurled himself against the mesh shouting ‘Swine!’ Personally I thought that was what the cat would call ‘common’ and told him to calm down otherwise he might trip over one of his stupid lugholes. (I mean what self-respecting rabbit has ears that sweep
the ground? Plain daft I call it.) I could see he didn’t like that as he started tearing chunks out of his soppy carrot and spitting them on the ground. A right old mess he was making, and I pointed out that if
I
made that sort of mess in the kitchen I’d get the slipper. He squeaked back that he had every right to make a sodding mess if he wanted and that if he were my human owner it wasn’t a slipper I’d get but a socking great boot. I thought that was
RUDE
.

Just goes to show, anyone can see that these chinchillas are ‘not used to polite society’ as Maurice would say. Still, they are better sport than that Mavis Briggs person who used to plague the vicar; so all in all I think I could get to like it here. As the cat says, it’s just a question of waiting upon events … or as I would say, cocking your ears (or leg for that matter) and sniffing the wind.
NO FLEAS ON BOUNCER
!