The Primrose Pursuit (12 page)

I visited that pair of droop-eared wonders yesterday, Boris and Karloff. Hadn’t seen them for a bit and thought it was time to remind them who’s boss. So I was just sneaking up to their cage to give ’em a fright, when from inside I heard the most awful racket: Boris on the rampage – and he hadn’t even seen me! When I got to the wire there was Karloff’s fat face pressed up against it. He looked a bit put out.

‘What’s up,’ I asked, ‘P.O. poisoned your mangy carrots?’

‘No,’ he snarled, ‘but I wish she would poison those poxy foxes. They were here again this morning
and
with their screaming cubs; dancing and barking and making a hell of a shindig. We couldn’t sleep a wink.’

‘Tough,’ I said, and wagged my tail.

He narrowed those pink eyes and had the cheek to say, ‘If you were a proper dog you would see them off. But not being a proper one I suppose you’re not able to.’

Me
not a proper dog? What did the bastard mean! I
stood on my hind legs and rattled his cage. ‘Don’t you come that with me,’ I roared, ‘Bouncer can fix any poxy fox!’

‘Do it then,’ the rabbit said all hoity-toity, and lolloped into the rear to shut up its mate.

At that moment I saw Maurice skulking in the long grass so I told him what had happened. He seemed to find it very funny. ‘Well, Bouncer, there’s a challenge for you: a chance for Bouncer the Bold to show his mettle.’ I didn’t know what he meant by mettle – one of his foreign words, I suppose. But he had given a sarky miaow so I knew he was being
RUDE
. I had had enough of rude for one day, so I was just about to bite his tail when he snatched it away and said, ‘As a matter of fact, dear friend, there is a rather bigger challenge to deal with and one much more satisfying than poxy foxes.’

‘Oh yes?’ I said. ‘You mean like beating up snooty cats?’

He pretended not to hear and stared at a butterfly. And then he said, ‘What I mean is getting to the bottom of this Top-Ho mystery. Our mistress is getting increasingly
agitato
and—’

‘
Agi
-what?’ I said.

He sighed and batted the butterfly. And then I twigged it: the
agi
thing is cat-speak for buggered up.

‘Oh yes,’ I agreed, ‘she’s that all right. Do you know, she left some extra Dog Chocs in my bowl last night – masses; couldn’t believe my luck. Generally she’s pretty stingy with ’em. Just goes to show her mind’s not on the job; probably keeps thinking of that grinning bonce I found.’ I barked, thinking of the Dog Chocs …

‘Control your lungs!’ the cat hissed. ‘Do you want those two loons in the hutch to hear us? This is not for everyone’s ears, least of all theirs.’

Personally, I couldn’t see why it should matter a hoot what the idiots heard, but the cat is a secretive sod and likes to keep things to himself. In fact I’ll give you a jolly good example of how cagey he is. You see it was only yesterday that he was
good
enough to tell me about his evening visit to the tall man’s house, the place where Duster lives. Yes, he had sneaked off without a miaow to anyone and met Mop Face. And do you know, they had an
ADVENTURE
without
ME
! I can tell you I was a bit fed up about that and nearly cut up rough, but he said that it was quite by chance that the adventure had happened and that in any case he had been going to tell me but he had needed to get his mind straight first. Huh! That’ll be the day. If you ask me, Maurice’s mind is about as straight as a knot of barbed wire.

Anyway, I lowered my voice to a nice growl and said that I had a jolly good idea –
JOLLY
good.

‘Oh yes,’ the cat said, ‘and what might that be?’

I told him that we should enlist Duster; that since the cairn lived at the place which seemed to interest Top-Ho, he could do some useful spying for us. He could be ‘Our Dog in Podkennel’ or whatever it’s called, and report back whenever he saw the weedy one come snooping towards the stable. ‘You see,’ I went on, ‘because Duster is titchy and twitchy, like you, his master has made him a special cairn-flap so he can go out and about any time he wants. That could be pretty handy for spying.’

At first I thought I had made a gaffe by calling Maurice titchy, because he flattened his ears and narrowed his eyes. But then he suddenly beamed and said, ‘Well done, Bouncer. That is a most useful suggestion. Kindly alert Duster immediately.’

Well, howzat! You don’t often get a pat on the head from Maurice. If he had been normal I would have offered him a bit of my bone to gnaw; but not being normal, I just tweaked his tail which he secretly quite enjoys.

So that’s what I am going to do: talk to the cairn and tell him that he’s got to make himself useful. I’ll put on my Great Dane voice; that should do the trick.

‘Phew,’ the dog panted, ‘it’s getting a bit hot these days; time I had my coat clipped. I wonder if she’ll remember.’ He shook himself and blew out his jowls.

‘It would be more to the point,’ I said, ‘if she gave you a bath. You have not had one since we arrived.’

He wagged his tail. ‘You’re right; I could do with one of those.’

Unusually Bouncer is partial to being bathed and invariably converts what for most is a prosaic ritual into a theatrical performance of epic scale. At the vicarage such events were fairly rare as I do not think F.O. had the necessary stamina, but when they did occur the dog would be in his element. Thus for his delectation and my relief I hoped that our new owner would soon put her mind to the canine ablution.

But what if she didn’t? Obvious: sad for Bouncer and smelly for me. Perhaps I could devise some subtle hints. The matter required careful thought and to this end I
retreated to my usual place under the dining-room table, being mindful to tuck my white paw well into my chest out of sight of intrusive eyes.

An hour later I emerged, pleased with my plan and ready to activate proceedings at the earliest convenience – that is to say
my
convenience. In the meantime I thought I would take a stroll up to the school to see what further intelligence might be gleaned regarding the Top-Ho specimen: a reconnaissance of the kind my grandfather would have termed ‘a pry and a prowl’. The route to the school is not short, but having no immediate engagements and the weather being fair I looked forward to the walk. The scent of cow parsley and the tantalising hint of butterfly wings would lend pleasant distraction, and there was, of course, always the chance of a brisk skirmish with a passing field mouse … Thus filled with such prospects I set off on my mission with sprightly step.

On arrival, I picked my way carefully and kept my head well down – not so much out of fear of being seen than of being hit. These human kittens are not noted for the accuracy of their aim whether with ball or conker, and when in their midst it is wise to move with caution. Luckily, it being early in the day there did not seem much midst about and I was able to proceed on my prowl unmolested.

With Top-Ho’s recent bicycling escapade in mind I thought that my first port of call should be the bike shed. I do not mean the general one for the boys but the small one assigned to the pedagogues. As mentioned, I am not keen on bicycles – dangerous contraptions – but I felt that by inspecting the vehicle I might learn a little more of its rider.
My grandfather always taught me that if you wanted to make an assessment of human beings you had to examine their kit – ‘helps you get the feel of the buggers’ he had said. Over the years this has proved sound advice; and thus suppressing instinctive distaste I slipped in through the open window.

There were several of the machines slung about and at first I was a little confused. But not for long. Slightly apart from the others and distinguished by its lowered handlebars and smart appearance – the others were dull and battered – stood the one that surely belonged to Top-Ho. I noted too the large saddlebag attached to its rear: exactly the same as the one observed on my stroll with Eleanor. Yes, this was undoubtedly his, and I commenced my inspection.

I circled the wheels, sniffed the tyres, flicked the spokes with my claw and pawed the pump. Then with an agile leap I landed upon the saddle. This exuded a smell of polished leather and old trouser. Shifting my paws carefully I was able to get at the saddlebag. This was open and apparently empty. Nevertheless I am nothing if not thorough, and thus with a little craning was able to stretch down and thrust my head inside. My nostrils were met by an unfamiliar smell. But I had no time to give thought to this, or indeed to indulge the sneeze which had just assailed me, as the next moment there was a crash as the shed door was flung open, and hastily withdrawing my head I was confronted by the figure of Top-Ho.

In a trice I had leapt to the floor only to be met with a hail of abuse: ‘Get away from that frigging bike you effing little toad!’ he snarled, and lunged towards me.

Well really! For one who made a fetish of flaunting a rosebud on his lapel and wearing obsessively polished
shoes, I considered his outburst disgraceful. I mean even Bouncer doesn’t use language like that. I slunk into a corner and emitted one of my more poisonous hisses; and then with nice judgement shot between his feet and out through the door.

Gaining the sanctuary of a large holly bush, I crouched quietly and brooded. Either the specimen was morbidly fond of his bicycle or he had an aversion to my own species; and if the latter then it was certainly reciprocal. Admittedly
some
of their kind are tolerable. But the majority – such as my erstwhile mistress of whom the vicar so clumsily disposed – are crass or obnoxious. Quite clearly Top-Ho was of the larger category. I studied a rummaging beetle and considered my next move. The simplest would be to turn tail and return home. But I was so incensed by the man’s behaviour that I was determined to stay and see what else might be unearthed. Thus I bided my time until he reemerged from the shed, and then with utmost stealth and keeping a good distance, followed him back to the school building.

At the door I slipped in behind him, and was just slinking along the corridor keeping his heels well in sight, when there was a sudden splutter of noise and the overpowering waft of sausage and lavender; and the next moment I had been swept up into the arms of some human female. She gabbled excitedly in a tongue utterly foreign to me. But as I struggled to get free she screeched something that I did comprehend: ‘Oh Herr Topping, do stop. Look what I have found – ein sweet little katze. Do come and stroke him. He ist zo naice!’

Top-Ho turned and walked back towards us. ‘You are mistaken
Fräulein
Hockheimer,’ he said smoothly, ‘I suspect
the creature is far from agreeable and I advise that you keep your distance from it. After all, you wouldn’t want a flea in your ear, would you?’ He smirked, while I glared.

A flea indeed! I wondered whether I should pee on his rose. When a kitten I could have done it with ease, but age restricts both range and impact; so instead I gave a couple of sharp scratches to the arm of my captor, and as she shrieked, jumped down and sped to the open door.

This time I decided that I had endured enough. Such treatment is anathema to one of my breeding. Besides, I was beginning to be aware of an odd sensation in my nostrils and to feel just a trifle light-headed. Perhaps I was sickening for a dose of cat flu, and thus all the more reason to return home where I could be suitably nurtured by our mistress. With luck she would have replenished the store of my special pilchards and ordered fresh cream from the milkman. Thus pausing only to give a skittish kick to a lolling snail, I set off on my journey home.

I have to say that the inward journey was even more congenial than the outward. The country scents seemed stronger and the spring colours brighter. And despite the tingling in my nose, by the time I had squeezed through the hedge bordering our domain I was in quite a merry mood. Bouncer was mooching in the garden and raising my paw I gave a cheerful wave.

His mouth fell open slightly and he fixed me with a puzzled stare. As he approached, I beamed benignly.

He looked a bit shifty and then said, ‘I say, Maurice, what’s that white stuff all over your nose and whiskers?’

I replied that I had no idea what he was talking about but that doubtless it was the pollen from the cow parsley.

‘Doesn’t look like pollen to me,’ he grunted, ‘more like that powder the Prim puffs on the ants or on her face.’

‘Oh fiddley-dee,’ I mewed gaily, ‘I daresay it will come out in the wash.’

The dog looked blanker than usual, and cocking his head on one side, said ‘Wot wash?’

‘Don’t be so pedantic; there’s bound to be some wash or other, there always is,’ I yawned.

The dog moved closer and shoved his snout in my face. ‘Have you seen your eyes?’ he said, ‘because if you ask me they look a bit skew-whiff.’

I smiled and riposted that unlike some of our human friends I was not in the habit of carrying a face-mirror around with me. I thought the observation quite witty but the dog’s mouth fell open again, this time even wider. Then with a long yawn I stretched my length on the grass and with paws in the air contemplated the sky.

Bouncer swivelled his head to worry his rump, and then said solemnly: ‘
I
think you’re up the spout, Maurice. You should go inside. It’s probably the sun; too much isn’t good for cats …’

Those were the last words I heard that day.

You know that cairn is sharper than you might think and I am beginning to get the gist of his funny way of talking – not that he does talk much, which is just as well as sometimes I really have to cock my ears to make out what he’s saying. It’s all growly and gurgly and full of words that sound like ‘sporran’ and ‘och aye’ and ‘something-ken’. I mean it’s almost as bad as talking to that big French dog the time when we were
AB-RORD
. I liked him, he was a good sport; though I’m not sure if Duster is – a bit of a dark horse if you ask me. But I expect I’ll get his measure, especially once I grasp what he’s actually saying. Maurice says he speaks Garlic, and I suppose the cat knows – or thinks he does. Anyway, garlic or not, I’ve got to persuade him to be our lookout at Podkennel and to report if Top-Ho comes peddling down the drive again like he did the night Maurice and the Persian were there. You see because Duster is small, grey and mainly silent he can melt into the shadows 
and spy with uhm … with …
IMPOONITI
. That’s one of Maurice’s words and I was a bit puzzled when he first used it so I asked him what it meant. The cat must have been in a good mood because he kindly explained, so now I know … Im-poon-i-ti means you can do something without being caught and getting a kick up the backside. I’ll tell Duster that: it might make him more ready to play the game.

And going back to the cairn’s lingo, when you
can
understand him he’s quite interesting. For instance, he says that he has seen Top-Ho wobbling down that drive a number of times. In fact he saw him on the same night that the two cats were there. While
they
were watching Top-Ho, the cairn was watching
them
and the mogs never knew! I think that’s very funny and I would like to tell old Maurice but he would only get shirty and go into a sulk so I’d better not.

Anyway, Duster seemed to like my suggestion that he should do a bit of spying for us; said he had always thought he was meant for higher things. I told him I didn’t know about
higher things
, especially with his legs being so short, but that the great thing was to keep his snout and ears well primed … Oopsie! I think I put my paw in it there because he suddenly looked very fierce and asked who did I think I was talking to, some bloody dachshund?

I don’t have the cat’s tact (or so he keeps telling me) but there are times when Bouncer can be
JOLLY
canny. So I told Duster that it was a well-known fact that all the best spies have short legs as it means they can keep their noses close to the ground, and that,
of course
, his legs were far taller than any short-arsed dachshund’s.

He gave a sort of grunt and I could see he was thinking
that over. And then he said, ‘So if dachshunds are so short-arsed does that mean they make better spies than cairns?’

I tell you, old Bouncer had to think pretty quickly! ‘Not at all,’ I growled, ‘they can’t hear a thing with those flapping ears; deaf as posts. But a cairn’s ears being so pricked can hear
everything
. I mean to say, short legs and sharp ears – what could be better for DI6?’

Well that did the trick because he wagged his tail and nosed his rubber ball towards me. ‘Hmm, so you think I would suit Dog Intelligence, do you?’ he asked.

‘You bet,’ I said.

‘And who should I report to?’

‘
ME
,’ I barked.

He wanted to know where the cat fitted in and I said that in my experience he didn’t fit anywhere very much except by a lily pond netting goldfish; but since he had asked, I could tell him that Maurice was a sort of behind-the-scenes chap issuing orders which
I
saw were properly carried out.

‘Och aye,’ the cairn said, ‘so you’re the gofer, are you?’

‘No,’ I roared, ‘I am not the gofer! I am
NUMBER ONE DOG
, the lynch-bone of the whole outfit!’

He didn’t say anything for a few seconds but just twitched his ears and stared bleakly, and then trotted off and cocked his leg against a lavender bush. This took quite a long time so he must have been thinking because when he came back he said, ‘When do I start?’

‘That’s the biscuit!’ I barked; and told him that there was no time like the present. (That’s what the cat is always saying, so I expect I had got it right.)

Mission completed I went home over the fields. It’s slower than on the road because there are lots of different trails
and funny smells and a chap can get sidetracked. But though it’s slow it’s also safer because that way you don’t meet humans banging on about the ‘poor little lost dog’ and then trying to catch your scruff to read your collar disc. (Well that’s one thing they won’t be able to get hold of – P.O. still hasn’t got me a new one.)

Anyway, when I got back I found Maurice snoring on the terrace so I gave his tail a jolly good pull.

‘Good Fish,’ he screamed, ‘what the hell’s that!’

‘Only me,’ I said.

‘
Only
you,’ he hissed, ‘that’s enough, isn’t it?’

I pretended I hadn’t heard that and did what Duster does and just stared into the distance. And then I said, all sniffy, ‘You might like to hear that I have nobbled the cairn. He has agreed to be Our Man in Podkennel.’

I could see that Maurice was impressed. ‘Well done, Bouncer,’ he mewed. ‘Now be a good dog and go and fetch me that carton of cream the Prim has left in the larder. This calls for a celebration … Oh and by the way, I note that there is some treacle cake on the sideboard; you like that, don’t you?’

So we had a really good nosh and then made ourselves scarce in the garden for a
LONG
time!