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Authors: Suzette Hill
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could see out!) Human beings don’t have a good baying technique like us dogs, and when they sing their voices can sound pretty queer – and F.O.’s is one of the queerer. Not in the first league, you might say. The piano is his thing and he’d do better to stick to it.
Anyway, for some reason he was in one of his cheerful moods – something to do with those paintings he’d stuck in the boot, I think. As a matter of fact, I felt quite cheerful myself. With those stupid things out of the way I could get at my bones in the belfry again without any more upsets!
When we arrived Maurice was let out, went earsplittingly berserk, and with bullet face scooted off into the bushes. Didn’t see him for a long time and meanwhile I was allowed into the house. There was this woman – Prim something, I think she was called – and I noticed she had the same smell as F.O. I suppose they’re connected in some way. Anyway, they got on all right but I think she was surprised to see me.
‘Whatever’s that!’ she said, and didn’t seem to know whether to frown or laugh. In the end she roared with laughter which annoyed me a bit, but I sat quietly – thinking that if I was GOOD they might lob some grub in my direction. They didn’t, of course. Too busy getting those pictures out of the boot and burbling on about them. I got fed up and went into the garden to explore and take a sniff around. I can tell you, there were some very peculiar things out there – very peculiar indeed … But that’s another story and I’m beginning to feel a bit snoozy now so it’ll have to wait.
11
The Cat’s Memoir
There are some things in life which are putrid. And crammed in a cage in the back of the vicar’s clapped-out banger while he warbles his way down to Sussex is one of them. The journey was a nightmare: my nerves shot to pieces and dignity in shreds. To make matters worse there was that oaf of a dog sitting up on the front seat nodding and beaming as if he was the Queen Mother. It took me quite some time to collect myself, but I can assure you that when I did, I gave it to them with knobs on – one of the best productions I’ve mounted for a long time. Even Bouncer looked a trifle sheepish. And I could hear that tall sister berating F.O. for bringing me with him. Very satisfying.
When I had fully recovered and was disposed to being gracious again, I took an evening stroll around her domain and was agreeably impressed by its size and undergrowth. In the course of these perambulations I encountered Bouncer crouched in front of a large wooden crate with his head thrust up against its wire-mesh screen. I asked him what he thought he was doing.
He didn’t answer at first, and then said slowly in a sort of muffled sotto voce , ‘You want to take a look at this, Maurice. Give you another turn, it will!’ I ignored that sally, and pushing my way past him sat down and peered in.
My eyes were met by two gigantic fluffy heads, one white and one grey; heads with long drooping ears, wild staring pink eyes and an inordinate growth of twitching whiskers. I have to admit to being startled but naturally wasn’t going to let him see that.
I flicked my tail and in a casual voice said, ‘Ah yes, rabbits.’
‘Rabbits!’ he exclaimed. ‘My arse, they’re not rabbits, they’re monsters!’ And thus saying, he pushed his snout more tightly against the wire.
After a while he muttered, ‘They don’t say much, do they?’
‘Well, I shouldn’t think they do,’ I replied, ‘not with your great face bearing down on them. Enough to dumbfound any creature!’ He didn’t seem to hear and continued staring in as if mesmerized. Having better things to do with my time than gape at freak rabbits I left him to it, and wandered off to make further assessment of our temporary abode.
When I returned it was supper time and the three of them were assembled in the kitchen: F.O. gulping down red wine as if it was his last day on earth, and
Anyway, for some reason he was in one of his cheerful moods – something to do with those paintings he’d stuck in the boot, I think. As a matter of fact, I felt quite cheerful myself. With those stupid things out of the way I could get at my bones in the belfry again without any more upsets!
When we arrived Maurice was let out, went earsplittingly berserk, and with bullet face scooted off into the bushes. Didn’t see him for a long time and meanwhile I was allowed into the house. There was this woman – Prim something, I think she was called – and I noticed she had the same smell as F.O. I suppose they’re connected in some way. Anyway, they got on all right but I think she was surprised to see me.
‘Whatever’s that!’ she said, and didn’t seem to know whether to frown or laugh. In the end she roared with laughter which annoyed me a bit, but I sat quietly – thinking that if I was GOOD they might lob some grub in my direction. They didn’t, of course. Too busy getting those pictures out of the boot and burbling on about them. I got fed up and went into the garden to explore and take a sniff around. I can tell you, there were some very peculiar things out there – very peculiar indeed … But that’s another story and I’m beginning to feel a bit snoozy now so it’ll have to wait.
11
The Cat’s Memoir
There are some things in life which are putrid. And crammed in a cage in the back of the vicar’s clapped-out banger while he warbles his way down to Sussex is one of them. The journey was a nightmare: my nerves shot to pieces and dignity in shreds. To make matters worse there was that oaf of a dog sitting up on the front seat nodding and beaming as if he was the Queen Mother. It took me quite some time to collect myself, but I can assure you that when I did, I gave it to them with knobs on – one of the best productions I’ve mounted for a long time. Even Bouncer looked a trifle sheepish. And I could hear that tall sister berating F.O. for bringing me with him. Very satisfying.
When I had fully recovered and was disposed to being gracious again, I took an evening stroll around her domain and was agreeably impressed by its size and undergrowth. In the course of these perambulations I encountered Bouncer crouched in front of a large wooden crate with his head thrust up against its wire-mesh screen. I asked him what he thought he was doing.
He didn’t answer at first, and then said slowly in a sort of muffled sotto voce , ‘You want to take a look at this, Maurice. Give you another turn, it will!’ I ignored that sally, and pushing my way past him sat down and peered in.
My eyes were met by two gigantic fluffy heads, one white and one grey; heads with long drooping ears, wild staring pink eyes and an inordinate growth of twitching whiskers. I have to admit to being startled but naturally wasn’t going to let him see that.
I flicked my tail and in a casual voice said, ‘Ah yes, rabbits.’
‘Rabbits!’ he exclaimed. ‘My arse, they’re not rabbits, they’re monsters!’ And thus saying, he pushed his snout more tightly against the wire.
After a while he muttered, ‘They don’t say much, do they?’
‘Well, I shouldn’t think they do,’ I replied, ‘not with your great face bearing down on them. Enough to dumbfound any creature!’ He didn’t seem to hear and continued staring in as if mesmerized. Having better things to do with my time than gape at freak rabbits I left him to it, and wandered off to make further assessment of our temporary abode.
When I returned it was supper time and the three of them were assembled in the kitchen: F.O. gulping down red wine as if it was his last day on earth, and
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