cheeky baggage,’ said Gran, pretending to give me a smack on the bottom.
She laughed, but she still looked a bit worried. My tummy clenched.
‘Gran, there’s nothing
seriously
wrong with Mabel, is there?’ I asked. ‘She has just got a little tummy upset, hasn’t she?’
Gran hesitated. ‘I hope so. I think she’s just getting older, dear, like I said.’
‘Maybe we should take her to the vet’s?’
‘I’m not sure there’s much they can do for her.’
My tummy clenched tighter.
‘But she will be all right, won’t she, Gran?’ I said. ‘I mean . . . she’s not going to die or anything?’
I felt myself blushing as if I’d said a really rude word. We hardly ever say words like ‘die’ or ‘death’ in my family.
‘Well . . .’ said Gran, swallowing. ‘We’ve all got to pass away at some time.’
‘But not for ages and ages. Mabel isn’t going to die
soon
, is she?’
Gran didn’t answer properly. She just wriggled her shoulders. ‘Shall I make some of my special home-made lemonade? And then maybe you’d like to watch television?’
Gran only makes her lemonade on special days and she usually nags me
not
to watch television. She likes me to read a book or draw a picture or play in the garden.
I started to feel panicky. Gran seemed to think that Mabel might be going to die soon. It sounds so silly but I’d never ever thought about Mabel
dying
. I knew she was old but I sort of assumed she’d stagger on for ever on her soft spreading paws.
I was starting to feel really, really mean for scolding poor Mabel. I wanted to give her a big cuddle and say sorry.
‘Back in a minute, Gran,’ I said, and I went charging upstairs to my bedroom, Mabel’s usual lurking spot.
My bed was empty. Well, Minnie Mouse was lying there with her yellow heels sticking up at an angle – but no Mabel.
‘Where’s Mabel?’ I said, tossing Minnie onto the floor.
I looked underneath my bed. Mabel might be really embarrassed about being sick on the hall carpet. She’d hidden underneath my bed in the past. But she wasn’t there now.
‘Mabel?’ I called. ‘Where are you, Mabel?’
I looked all round my bedroom. I searched through the toys and clothes on the carpet. I looked on the windowsill behind the curtain. There was no sign of her anywhere.
I went to look in Gran and Grandad’s bedroom. Though Gran always kept their door shut to stop Mabel exploring, Mabel had long ago learnt the knack of nudging it sharply with her hip so that the catch sprang open. I looked on the bed, the rug, the rocking chair, even under the dressing table.
I looked in the bathroom although Mabel detests water and shrieks if I splash her when she noses in and I’m having a bath.
I went charging downstairs and into the kitchen. Gran was stirring her lemonade.
‘Gran, I can’t find Mabel!’
‘She’s not on your bed? Though I must say it’s not a very hygienic habit, especially if Mabel’s poorly. We don’t want her being sick on your bed now, do we?’
I wanted Mabel so badly I wouldn’t have cared.
‘Where
is
she, Gran?’
‘What about the living room?’
One of Mabel’s favourite snoozing places is the rug in front of the fire. The fire isn’t on during the summer but Mabel doesn’t seem to notice. She lies there as if she’s toasting herself, first lying on one side, then after a little yawn and stretch, settling down to give the other side a turn. I sometimes sit on the chair by the fire and gently rest my bare feet on Mabel’s back. She feels like my big furry slipper.
But she wasn’t on the rug, though there were cat hairs in a Mabel shape to show she’d had a little lie-down since Gran vacuumed this morning. Mabel wasn’t in the chairs or on the sofa or under the table. She wasn’t anywhere at all.
‘Gran, I can’t find her!’
‘Mabel?’ Gran called. ‘Puss puss puss! Come on, old lady. Ma-bel!’
Mabel didn’t come.
‘I wonder if she’s in the garden?’ said
She laughed, but she still looked a bit worried. My tummy clenched.
‘Gran, there’s nothing
seriously
wrong with Mabel, is there?’ I asked. ‘She has just got a little tummy upset, hasn’t she?’
Gran hesitated. ‘I hope so. I think she’s just getting older, dear, like I said.’
‘Maybe we should take her to the vet’s?’
‘I’m not sure there’s much they can do for her.’
My tummy clenched tighter.
‘But she will be all right, won’t she, Gran?’ I said. ‘I mean . . . she’s not going to die or anything?’
I felt myself blushing as if I’d said a really rude word. We hardly ever say words like ‘die’ or ‘death’ in my family.
‘Well . . .’ said Gran, swallowing. ‘We’ve all got to pass away at some time.’
‘But not for ages and ages. Mabel isn’t going to die
soon
, is she?’
Gran didn’t answer properly. She just wriggled her shoulders. ‘Shall I make some of my special home-made lemonade? And then maybe you’d like to watch television?’
Gran only makes her lemonade on special days and she usually nags me
not
to watch television. She likes me to read a book or draw a picture or play in the garden.
I started to feel panicky. Gran seemed to think that Mabel might be going to die soon. It sounds so silly but I’d never ever thought about Mabel
dying
. I knew she was old but I sort of assumed she’d stagger on for ever on her soft spreading paws.
I was starting to feel really, really mean for scolding poor Mabel. I wanted to give her a big cuddle and say sorry.
‘Back in a minute, Gran,’ I said, and I went charging upstairs to my bedroom, Mabel’s usual lurking spot.
My bed was empty. Well, Minnie Mouse was lying there with her yellow heels sticking up at an angle – but no Mabel.
‘Where’s Mabel?’ I said, tossing Minnie onto the floor.
I looked underneath my bed. Mabel might be really embarrassed about being sick on the hall carpet. She’d hidden underneath my bed in the past. But she wasn’t there now.
‘Mabel?’ I called. ‘Where are you, Mabel?’
I looked all round my bedroom. I searched through the toys and clothes on the carpet. I looked on the windowsill behind the curtain. There was no sign of her anywhere.
I went to look in Gran and Grandad’s bedroom. Though Gran always kept their door shut to stop Mabel exploring, Mabel had long ago learnt the knack of nudging it sharply with her hip so that the catch sprang open. I looked on the bed, the rug, the rocking chair, even under the dressing table.
I looked in the bathroom although Mabel detests water and shrieks if I splash her when she noses in and I’m having a bath.
I went charging downstairs and into the kitchen. Gran was stirring her lemonade.
‘Gran, I can’t find Mabel!’
‘She’s not on your bed? Though I must say it’s not a very hygienic habit, especially if Mabel’s poorly. We don’t want her being sick on your bed now, do we?’
I wanted Mabel so badly I wouldn’t have cared.
‘Where
is
she, Gran?’
‘What about the living room?’
One of Mabel’s favourite snoozing places is the rug in front of the fire. The fire isn’t on during the summer but Mabel doesn’t seem to notice. She lies there as if she’s toasting herself, first lying on one side, then after a little yawn and stretch, settling down to give the other side a turn. I sometimes sit on the chair by the fire and gently rest my bare feet on Mabel’s back. She feels like my big furry slipper.
But she wasn’t on the rug, though there were cat hairs in a Mabel shape to show she’d had a little lie-down since Gran vacuumed this morning. Mabel wasn’t in the chairs or on the sofa or under the table. She wasn’t anywhere at all.
‘Gran, I can’t find her!’
‘Mabel?’ Gran called. ‘Puss puss puss! Come on, old lady. Ma-bel!’
Mabel didn’t come.
‘I wonder if she’s in the garden?’ said
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