Paws and Whiskers Read online

  I didn’t really fancy it. I wanted to go as a fairy. Rainbow Fairy. That’s what I’d set my heart on. But Mum wasn’t ever very good at sewing. My fairy skirt was all limp and saggy, and the top bit didn’t fit properly. And when I picked up my fairy wand it immediately collapsed, which made Mum giggle. I didn’t giggle; I burst into tears. I sobbed and raged, ’cos now what was I going to do?

  ‘I look like I’m wearing a dish rag!’ I blamed Mum for leaving everything till the last minute. ‘Like you always do! Everyone else has had their costumes for weeks.’

  Mum immediately stopped giggling and promised that she would make me something else. ‘Something better! Even if I have to sit up all night.’ Which she did. She made me this pirate outfit and I wasn’t in the least bit grateful. I shouted that I didn’t want to be a pirate, I wanted to be a Rainbow Fairy. Poor Mum! She begged me to give her a kiss and say she was forgiven, but I wouldn’t. I went off in a sulk and spent the whole day being jealous of all the people who had proper mums, who made them lovely sparkly fairy dresses which didn’t sag and bag. I was still cross when I got home. Mum tried so hard to make it up to me.

  ‘Oh, Lollipop, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m such a rotten mum!’

  But she wasn’t. She wasn’t! She was the best mum anyone ever had. I wish so much that I’d told her so!

  I have to go back upstairs. I need to cuddle Mr Pooter.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ says Auntie Ellen. ‘You’ve only just come down.’

  I tell her that I have to write a book report for Mrs Caton. ‘I want to do it while it’s fresh in my mind.’ Auntie Ellen shakes her head, like, I give up!

  ‘Go on, then,’ she says. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  I gallop back up the stairs. Mr Pooter opens an eye and stretches. I check the room, but I don’t think he’s moved, so that is all right.

  ‘Good boy,’ I say. ‘Good boy!’

  I settle down beside him and start writing in my notebook. I put down the bit about Montmorency and his gang of dogs. I put down the cat bit. I can’t think of anything else. The truth is, I am finding this book quite difficult to get into. Maybe it is because I am worried about Mr Pooter and not in the right mood. Or maybe it’s because this is the first grown-up book that I have tried to read on my own, without Mum. If Mum were reading it to me, and doing all the voices, then I am sure I would find lots to laugh at. But I am not going to give up! I am a real book person and Mrs Caton is eagerly waiting to know how I get on.

  On the way in to school this morning Uncle Mark says that he will ring the vet and make an appointment for this evening. Auntie Ellen is with us, as it is one of her days when she works in the shop. She says that she is the one who will be coming with me. My heart goes plummeting. I don’t want Auntie Ellen coming with me! But I haven’t any choice. It’s Thursday, and late-night shopping, and Uncle Mark won’t be home in time.

  After lunch I go to the library. I take out my notebook and read Mrs Caton the bits I’ve written down.

  ‘I think those bits were hilarious,’ I say.

  I wasn’t quite sure what the word hilarious meant until I looked it up in the dictionary. It means ‘very funny’, and I didn’t honestly find either of the bits very funny. Just a little bit funny. But Mrs Caton looks pleased.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re enjoying it,’ she says. ‘I thought you would.’

  I promise her that I will make a note of all the other bits I find funny, so that I can tell her about them. She says that’s a good idea.

  ‘It’ll be something to look forward to at the start of next term.’

  ‘I’ll have finished it long before then,’ I say. ‘I’ll probably have read a million others by then!’

  Now I’m being boastful again. I don’t mean to be, but it’s probably true. I will have read a million others. There are eight long weeks to go and I can’t think what else there’ll be to do.

  I get home to find Auntie Ellen waiting impatiently for me. ‘Go and fetch the cat,’ she says. ‘Put it in its box, we have to be at the vet for 4.15.’

  I hate that she calls Mr Pooter ‘the cat’. He’s Mr Pooter! I go upstairs to get him and he purrs amiably. I think he quite likes his box. Holly, for some reason, insists on coming with us. She says she’s never been to the vet’s before and she wants to know what it’s like. I tell her it’s like being at the doctor’s, except all the patients are animals.

  We sit in the Reception area, waiting to be called. I hold Mr Pooter on my lap, in his box. He crouches, watchfully. There are other people with cats, some people with dogs, one little girl with a pet rabbit. I try to interest Mr Pooter in the rabbit, but Auntie Ellen tells me sharply not to make a nuisance of myself. All I was doing was just turning his box in the right direction, so he could see! Holly wrinkles her nose and says there’s a smell. Auntie Ellen tells her it’s disinfectant and she goes, ‘Ugh! Yuck! Poo!’ But then a vet puts his head round the door and calls out, ‘Fluffy Marshall?’ and Holly giggles – ‘Fluffy Marshall!’ – and wants to know whether that’s the name of the cat or the name of the owner. Auntie Ellen tells her to be quiet and stop showing off, so then she sits in a sulk, scuffing her feet on the floor.

  When it’s our turn the vet calls, ‘Pooter Walters!’ He’s not Pooter Walters, he’s Pooter Winton, but I suppose it’s not really important. What’s important is that the vet is going to make him better.

  We all troop into the surgery. The vet asks what the problem seems to be, and I tell him about Mr Pooter being sick and not wanting to eat.

  ‘And how old is he?’ says the vet.

  Proudly I say that he’s sixteen.

  ‘Quite an old fellow,’ says the vet.

  He examines Mr Pooter all over. Mr Pooter is so good! He doesn’t complain once. I stroke him and tell him that everything is going to be all right.

  ‘Well,’ says the vet, straightening up. ‘In view of his age, I’d say it’s almost certainly a kidney problem, but we’d better do a blood test to make sure.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ says Auntie Ellen.

  The vet says if we want a proper diagnosis, it is.

  ‘What I mean,’ says Auntie Ellen, ‘is it really worth it? At his age?’

  I hold my breath. I squeeze Mr Pooter.

  ‘We can’t treat him if we don’t know what’s wrong,’ says the vet. ‘I agree that he’s old, but he’s not ancient. Cats can easily live to be nineteen or twenty. Even older.’

  I am so relieved I let out my breath in a big whoosh. I don’t think Auntie Ellen is too happy, but she lets the vet take a sample of Mr Pooter’s blood. I keep him very close and whisper in his ear and he doesn’t even flinch. He is a very brave cat. The vet says the results will be through in a couple of days and then we can decide on the appropriate treatment. In the meanwhile, he says, we should try him with a special diet.

  I put Mr Pooter back in his box and we go out to Reception to collect some cans of special cat diet and pay the bill. I am scared when I see how much the bill comes to. I would have to save up my pocket money for months before I would have enough to pay it. Auntie Ellen is outraged. Angrily she drives us home, saying over and over that it is daylight robbery. I tell her that I will pay it back, that Uncle Mark needn’t give me any more pocket money until—

  ‘Until kingdom come!’ snaps Auntie Ellen. ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘It’s her cat,’ says Holly, ‘so she ought to pay it back.’

  I say that I will. ‘I promise!’

  ‘It’s only fair,’ says Holly.

  Auntie Ellen tells us both to be quiet. ‘I’ve had enough for one day.’

  As soon as we’re back I go upstairs with Mr Pooter and ring Stevie. It’s only five o’clock, so maybe she won’t be too cross. She’s not cross at all! She wants to hear about Mr Pooter. I tell her what the vet said and she says that the special diet will help, but if Mr Pooter is still being picky I could try buying some prawns and whizzing them up in the food pr