Kitten Kaboodle (11 page)

‘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.’

‘Oh, Jazz, it’s so cool! You should have a go,’ I said.

Jazz sighed noisily and came over and rather limply held out her hand.

‘Just remember, girls, don’t get excitable when you’re holding them,’ Mr Smythe said. ‘The little chaps need you to stay calm, or they’ll get nervous and they
might try and run away.’

‘I’m not sure I can remember all that stuff about how to get them out of the cage without frightening them,’ I said, trying to distract Mr Smythe from Jazz, who was jumping
about and squeaking while Mr Nibbles ran up and down her sleeves and over her hands.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve left you another note about how to handle them – it’s with the food. We’ll put Mr Nibbles back now and I’ll show you where I keep the
food and sawdust. The sawdust is for their bedding. Here is the note about how to handle them – just in case you forget,’ he twittered.

He did go on a bit, I thought. Talk about Attention to Detail. I read the note:

Sit down while handling hamsters – that way they won't have far to fall. No squealing or squeezing. You will frighten or hurt them.

I saw Jazz was already negotiating payment with Mr Smythe. I wondered how she was going to cope with all these instructions, especially the ‘no squealing’ part. I
read through the notes one more time and checked I knew where all the food was.

‘Our basic minimum rate is two pounds per day,’ she was saying.

I shot her a horrified look. But she just shrugged at me and went on, ‘I hope that will be acceptable to you, Mr Smythe. It’s because there are two hamsters, you see.’

Mr Smythe beamed and twitched and fiddled with his glasses and smoothed his moustache. I couldn’t for the life of me think what was amusing about Jazz fleecing him for two pounds a day and
talking to him as if she was the Queen and he had come to polish her boots. Mr Smythe swallowed his smile when he caught me looking, but gave me a wink and said, ‘I see you have a very
organized partner in crime here, Bertie.’

I grimaced. ‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I think two pounds a day sounds reasonable,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay you when I get back, if that’s all right. As I said on the phone, I’ll only be gone for
a couple of nights. In fact, if you do a good job, I’ll round it up to a fiver. How ’s that?’

I grinned weakly as Jazz said, ‘Great!’

‘So, have you got any final questions?’ he asked as he showed us out.

I shook my head.

‘Fine. So you’ll pop in and see the little chaps this afternoon, will you?’ he asked.

I nodded. Then Jazz piped up in a pushy way which was becoming a bit of a habit, ‘Actually, I’ve got a question.’

‘Fire away,’ said Mr Smythe.

‘What
exactly
was the thinking behind the names “Mr Nibbles” and “Houdini”?’ she asked, with a slight sneer, I was embarrassed to notice.

Mr Smythe smiled and tapped the side of his nose. ‘That would be telling,’ he said.

Jazz raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, obviously. That’s why I’m asking,’ she said.

I pulled her by the elbow and said, ‘Come on, Jazz. Your mum will be wondering where we are. Thank you, Mr Smythe. I’m really looking forward to looking after the hamsters. Have a
lovely time at your daughter’s.’

‘Why did you have to be like that?’ I muttered as we left.

‘So
rreee
,’ said Jazz,not sounding it at all. ‘But that man is seriously weird. What’s with all that twitching and calling the hamsters his “little
chaps”? He’s nuts! Either that or he’s a freaking hamster himself. And don’t you think they’ve got stupid names? Mr Nibbles and Houdini. Huh! Hamsters are usually
called cuddly things like Fluffy and Munchy and Hamhead,’ she said.

‘Ham-
what
?’ I guffawed.

‘Well,’ Jazz muttered, scuffing her trainers along the pave ment, ‘if I had a hamster, I’d call it Hamhead. At least it’s original.’

I couldn’t really argue with that.

Jazz wouldn’t stop going on about the names, though, so once we got back to her house, I agreed that we should look up Houdini on the Internet.

‘Maybe he’s named after someone famous,’ Jazz suggested.

It turned out she was right.

Escapologist? I didn’t like the sound of that, somehow.

A
fter we had checked out the Internet, I remembered we still had to go and feed Kaboodle, who was probably waiting hungrily for us at
Pinkella’s. I’d been so caught up with the hamsters, I’d almost forgotten about him, I realized guiltily

‘I think we should go and check on Kaboodle right now’ I blurted out.

‘Hey don’t get stressy!’Jazz said. ‘We don’t have to do everything
exactly
the way Ms P set it down – she won’t know whether pussy-kitty-catkins
gets fed at nine o’clock or at half past ten, will she?’

I pursed my lips. ‘If we’re going to do this – and get
paid
for it –’ I broke off and looked at Jazz meaningfully – ‘then I reckon we should do
what we’ve been asked, don’t you?’

‘OK, OK,’ said Jazz. ‘Let’s go.’

I jumped up and grabbed my jacket. Then I hesitated. ‘What’ll we tell your family?’ I asked. ‘I’m s’posed to be hanging out with you here.’

‘Say we’re going out on our bikes for a bit, I don’t know,’ said Jazz impatiently. ‘Mum’s got to take Ty to football in a minute, Leesh’ll be out and
Sam’s never around these days, you know that. And since when has Dad ever asked me what I’m up to?’

I loved that about Jazz’s parents. They were so relaxed.

We ran downstairs and Jazz shouted over her shoulder that we were going out. I opened the front door and immediately tripped over Kaboodle who, it seems, had been sitting in the porch. He
flicked his tail at me as I bent down to try and stroke him.

‘Hello,’ I said, nervously. He really did look quite cross. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Kaboodle hissed irritably. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Kaboodle,’ I said. ‘We went round to Mr Smythe’s and then we’ve been on the Internet—’

Jazz flapped her hands at me and shrieked with laughter. ‘You kill me! Listen to you, talking to that little kitty-cat like he’s your best mate!’

I gulped. ‘Oh, yeah, I guess I’m supposed to do all that “pussy-wussy-catkin” rubbish, aren’t I?’ I mumbled. ‘So, er, here, puss-puss. Here, little
kitty,’ I called to Kaboodle and, making a tight-mouthed kissing noise I’d heard Pinkella do, I bent down and held out my hand to stroke him. ‘Shall we go and get your
breakfast?’

‘That’s the general idea,’ Kaboodle said through gritted teeth.

Jazz sighed. ‘You’ve got no idea, have you?’ she said. ‘Here, watch me.’ She bent down and scooped Kaboodle up into her arms.

And promptly dropped him.

‘Ow! You beast!’ she squawked. ‘Put those claws away!’

‘Tell her,’ Kaboodle commanded.

‘OK,’ I whispered, then looking at Jazz I said, ‘I, er, I don’t think he likes being picked up like that. Anyway, he must be starving. Let’s take him
home.’

Jazz was frowning and rubbing her arm. ‘He can whistle for his breakfast if that’s the way he’s going to behave,’ she snapped.

‘Just think of the money,’ I reminded her. She grimaced, but followed me as I turned to go back up the road to Pinkella’s.

But then I remembered something: ‘I don’t have the key or my notebook. I’ll have to go home and get them.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Kaboodle purred, rubbing his head against my legs, ‘I can get in without a key.’

‘Yes, but how will
I
get in?’ I asked him.

‘You just said you were going to get the key,’ Jazz pointed out, sounding confused.

I’d done it again.

‘Yeah, that’s what I meant,’ I said, frowning.

‘Trust me, you don’t need a key,’ said Kaboodle. ‘There’s a cat flap.’

‘Yeah, but I can’t fit through a cat fl—’ I broke off.

Jazz was shaking her head at me. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked. ‘Cos once again, if it weren’t a totally bonkers thing to even
imagine
, I’d say you
were actually having a conversation with that kitten!’

‘That’s because she is,’ said Kaboodle, a flicker of a smile wafting across his whiskers.

‘OH SHUT UP!’ I shouted at him.

‘Well, that’s nice,’ Jazz snapped at me. She crossed her arms and said, ‘I’ve only been trying to help you. But if you’re going to be like that, you can
forget it. First you laugh at my singing and tell your dad about it, then you tell me off for my so-called “behaviour” at Mr Smythe’s, and now you’re acting freaky and
telling me to shut up. Well, stuff you and your pathetic Pet-Sitting Service, Roberta Fletcher. I’m out of it.’ And she spun on her funky-trainered heel, went into her house and slammed
the door. In my face.

‘Thanks, Kaboodle,’ I sighed.

He purred, looking up at me with those golden pools of honey that served for eyes. ‘Miiiaooow,’ he said, making himself look cuter than ever, ‘you’re not going to get
cross with me now, Bertie. Are you?’

My heart did a jerky leap and I bent down to pick up the tiny black and white cat. ‘I’m not cross with you,’ I said, rubbing my face in his fur as he purred with delight.
‘I just don’t know how to handle talking to you while Jazz is around. She thinks I’m going loopy. Maybe I should tell her the truth—’