Badger the Mystical Mutt and the Crumpled Capers (8 page)

Snif and the gang looked puzzled.

“Mistletoe is used to calm the jitters; something I think we could all do with,” offered Timmy.

Lennie perked up and nodded enthusiastically

“Plus, cats don't generally like climbing too high, because when we do, we tend to get … erm … a bit stuck. So my challenge would be to overcome all that by scaling the tree and picking the mistletoe to bring back to the gang. What do you think?” smiled Timmy triumphantly.

The gang muttered amongst themselves, then Pogo Paws announced, “Okay, go on then. Let's see what you're made of. Maybe it'll be third time lucky.”

“As long as
we
get to choose which branches we want the mistletoe from,” added Pickle sniggering.

“Fine by me,” agreed Timmy.

Pickle and Pogo Paws took Lennie aside for a hushed conflab and, seconds later, he dashed off in the direction of the tree.

As Snif and Timmy discussed the details of the task, Lennie was undertaking a challenge of his own. As instructed by Pickle
and Pogo Paws, he'd unhooked the hosepipe from the garden tap and had dragged it to the old oak tree. He looked upwards and shielded his eyes from the winter sun. He couldn't figure out how he was supposed to throw the hosepipe over one of the really high branches.

Just as he was about to give it up as an impossible job, he was joined by Pickle and Pogo Paws.

“Haven't you got it sorted yet, Lennie? Quick! Snif and Timmy will be here soon,” said Pickle.

“But there's no way I can reach that,” whimpered Lennie.

“Leave it to me,” said Pogo Paws, who had spied the tractor tyre from the first task nearby. “It just needs some bounce,” he shouted, as he grabbed the hosepipe, jumped onto the tyre and sprang up into the air.

He looped the hosepipe easily over the branch and boinged back down.

“Right, catch both ends, Lennie, and hold
onto them. When we give you the nod, pull them down as hard as you can.”

Lennie crept into position just as Snif and Timmy rounded the corner.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Snif asked Timmy.

The gang looked at Snif in disbelief.

“Yes, and maybe then you'll let me join your gang?” said Timmy. Pogo Paws and Pickle tittered. Lennie sighed.

As Timmy sized up the old oak tree, Snif caught sight of Lennie out of the corner of his eye.

“What's
that
?” he whispered.

“A giant cat-a-pult, I think,” said Lennie.

“Are you impressed, boss? We've rigged the tree,” said Pickle smugly.

“One way or another, Timmy's going for a long-haul flight today,” added Pogo Paws.

“But that's not fair,” cried Snif. “He hasn't got a chance and, what's more, it's dangerous.”

“Ooooh, sorry! We didn't think you actually
wanted
Timmy to succeed, and join our gang,” said Pickle defensively.

“We thought we were doing really well,” added Pogo Paws.

“And I just do what I'm told,” said Lennie.

“Either way, it's not a fair fight,” said Snif.

“Right, I'm ready,” shouted Timmy cheerfully. “Pick your branch, gang!”

Pickle and Pogo Paws pointed up at the booby trapped branch and sniggered.

Timmy started to scale the tree's trunk
and was creeping carefully onto its lower branches. Pogo Paws and Pickle put their paws round the bottom and tried to shake the tree.

“I can't watch this,” sighed Snif.

“Come on, Timmy. You can get higher than that,” taunted Pickle.

“Maybe the fresh air up there will stop your sneezing,” added Pogo Paws.

Just then, Timmy sneezed … then sneezed again … and then again. Pogo Paws and Pickle managed to dodge the fallout of snot. They looked over at Lennie who was holding the hosepipe, covered in a slimy green mess.

“Nice one, Timmy,” shouted Pickle. “Now, see that branch up there to the left? There's a sprig of mistletoe
just
there which I think will be perfect.”

“Yes, if you
can get
that
one,” added Pogo Paws, “I'm sure Snif will let you join our gang.” He looked over to his leader for approval but Snif just walked away.

He didn't want to see the brave, innocent little cat hurt himself; not in his name. “There's a big difference between bravery and bravado,” he thought.

As Timmy crawled along the branch towards the sprig of mistletoe, Snif headed in a different direction altogether, towards the frozen duck pond.

“Badger was right,” he thought. “This is all wrong.”

Suddenly, Snif skidded and landed on his tummy. His snout was flat to the ground as he raced across the ice.

All Snif heard next was a crack as the ice below him broke. He yelped at the shock of the icy water on his body. He thrashed and gasped, flailing helplessly as the depths of winter sucked him under … and under.

Then all was silent.

At the old oak tree, Timmy crept along the branch.

“Pull it tighter
now
, Lennie!” spat Pickle.

As Lennie pulled the hosepipe ends taut, the branch pointed downwards. Timmy lost his balance and slithered nose-first towards the mistletoe. He clung on bravely.

“Where's Snif?” shouted Pogo Paws.

“I don't know,” said Pickle. “But he's missing the best bit.”

“He left ages ago,” called Lennie.

In Badger's garden, the Mystical Mutt was snoozing, but the commotion from the other end of the lane woke him with a start.

“This has got to be something involving Timmy,” he thought. He straightened his legs, shimmied his bottom and flew off to
investigate.

Still not good with landings, Badger arrived with a bump at the tree where the gang were gathered, right next to Lennie's makeshift catapult.

The surprise of Badger's sudden arrival startled Lennie who immediately let go of the hosepipe. The branch sprung upwards with an almighty ping and sent Timmy soaring into the sky at the same time as the gang scarpered.

“Where did everyone go?” said Badger aloud, to the emptiness around him.

He sniffed the tree and picked up Timmy's scent, then saw the branch with the hosepipe hanging from it limply.

“Uh oh! I'm sensing that Timmy
has
been here. But where is he
now
? It's time to consult my all-seeing toast.”

Timmy had landed slam-bang in the middle of the frozen duck pond. Luckily, he had fallen on a patch of thick ice. Surefooted as ever, he picked himself up and, using his claws as crampons, made his way across the ice to where there was a large gaping hole.

His six and a half senses prickled. Something was very, very wrong. He peered into the blackness of the water, and was sure he could see a few bubbles.

“Oh no, surely not!” gasped Timmy, as he teetered over the edge and saw a shadow floating lifelessly just beneath the surface of the water.

The Mystical Mutt had just one remaining slice of precious toast hidden away in his garden. He pulled it out and examined it closely. Could the toast tell him the whereabouts of his friend Timmy?

“Come on, Toast, show me the place where Timmy has gone. Please show his face!”