I was having serious problems with my voice box. I stared at the kitten wildly. Was he really talking? I couldn’t see his lips moving.
His whiskers twitched as if in amusement and his primrose-yellow eyes twinkled.
‘Ye-es,’ he said, talking to me as if I was a certifiable fruit-and-nutcase, instead of a very shocked and on-the-verge-of-a-nervo us-breakdown eleven-year-old girl. ‘I –
am – Ka – boodle. Or at least, that’s what Ms Pinkington chose to call me. My mother, Samirah, named me Obadiah de la Chasse. But we cats don’t believe in biting the hand
that feeds us, so we put up with the frankly idiotic names you humans choose for us. When you’re as sophisticated as we are, you can carry off any name really. So, to put it succinctly, I
won’t be offended if you want to call me “Kaboodle” too. I think that poor woman thought it was a clever name – you know, a play on the expression “kit and
caboodle”?’ He yawned in an exaggerated fashion and examined one neat little paw, as if the whole conversation was about as exciting as a dead beetle.
I looked around, panic-stricken. This must be Jazz playing a trick on me, I thought. She was furious with me for laughing at her singing and now she’d gone and found Kaboodle and was doing
that voice-throwing thing that those guys do with a puppet on their knee to make it look as if the puppet is really talking. I had no idea whether or not this was one of Jazz’s many talents
but at this point in my life I was beginning to believe that anything was possible.
Anything except a kitten appearing out of nowhere and talking to me, calm as custard.
As I continued to stare with my mouth wide open, Kaboodle stopped yawning and laughed at me. At least, I think it was a laugh. It was a sort of shaky, long-drawn-out miiia-oow, and he
threw his head back like a human would, as if he was having a good old chuckle.
‘Your face !’ he said, still miaow-chuckling. ‘I can see you’re impressed with the way I’m expressing myself . . . ’
‘Er, I – oh wowsers!’ I gulped and stuttered and got up off the bench, edging my way nervously towards the garden gate.
This was all Dad’s fault. I had spent so much time thinking and dreaming about having a pet of my own that I had succeeded in persuading myself that there was such a thing as a talking cat
who could be my friend. It was official: I had flipped. Call the men in white coats, someone, please.
‘Firstly,’ I said slowly, trying to calm myself down, ‘cats don’t talk. Secondly, we – that is, Jazz – thought you were dead. So that means that thirdly . . .
I must be imagining all this,’ I finished up, thankful that I was alone with Kaboodle at that particular moment in time. Kaboodle looked as if I’d just waved his silver plate of prawns
in his face and then run off with it and eaten the lot myself. He opened his eyes wide and flattened his ears. ‘I take huge offence at what you have just said,’ he hissed,
arching his back angrily ‘I am very much alive and well – no thanks to you, I might add.’
I shook my head and stammered, ‘O-OK, I believe that you’re alive . . . Hey! What do you mean, “no thanks to me”? What have I done? I’ve spent all day
looking for you.’
Kaboodle backed up on to his hind legs, waving his forepaws at me as if preparing for a fight. ‘Don’t I know it,’ he spat. Then he seemed to pull himself together and sat back
down. ‘I was trying to catnap in that tree over there after my first night of er . freedom,’ he said, vaguely waving a paw in the air And then you and your little friend come crashing
into the garden, screeching my name in voices fit to wake the dead (no joke intended), and then, to cap it all, that girl starts up with her hideous racket. “Memory” is my least
favourite song from Cats . Ms Pinkington is always playing the ro tten thing. Why she’s so fond of it beats me. The whole performance is laughable. Humans
His whiskers twitched as if in amusement and his primrose-yellow eyes twinkled.
‘Ye-es,’ he said, talking to me as if I was a certifiable fruit-and-nutcase, instead of a very shocked and on-the-verge-of-a-nervo us-breakdown eleven-year-old girl. ‘I –
am – Ka – boodle. Or at least, that’s what Ms Pinkington chose to call me. My mother, Samirah, named me Obadiah de la Chasse. But we cats don’t believe in biting the hand
that feeds us, so we put up with the frankly idiotic names you humans choose for us. When you’re as sophisticated as we are, you can carry off any name really. So, to put it succinctly, I
won’t be offended if you want to call me “Kaboodle” too. I think that poor woman thought it was a clever name – you know, a play on the expression “kit and
caboodle”?’ He yawned in an exaggerated fashion and examined one neat little paw, as if the whole conversation was about as exciting as a dead beetle.
I looked around, panic-stricken. This must be Jazz playing a trick on me, I thought. She was furious with me for laughing at her singing and now she’d gone and found Kaboodle and was doing
that voice-throwing thing that those guys do with a puppet on their knee to make it look as if the puppet is really talking. I had no idea whether or not this was one of Jazz’s many talents
but at this point in my life I was beginning to believe that anything was possible.
Anything except a kitten appearing out of nowhere and talking to me, calm as custard.
As I continued to stare with my mouth wide open, Kaboodle stopped yawning and laughed at me. At least, I think it was a laugh. It was a sort of shaky, long-drawn-out miiia-oow, and he
threw his head back like a human would, as if he was having a good old chuckle.
‘Your face !’ he said, still miaow-chuckling. ‘I can see you’re impressed with the way I’m expressing myself . . . ’
‘Er, I – oh wowsers!’ I gulped and stuttered and got up off the bench, edging my way nervously towards the garden gate.
This was all Dad’s fault. I had spent so much time thinking and dreaming about having a pet of my own that I had succeeded in persuading myself that there was such a thing as a talking cat
who could be my friend. It was official: I had flipped. Call the men in white coats, someone, please.
‘Firstly,’ I said slowly, trying to calm myself down, ‘cats don’t talk. Secondly, we – that is, Jazz – thought you were dead. So that means that thirdly . . .
I must be imagining all this,’ I finished up, thankful that I was alone with Kaboodle at that particular moment in time. Kaboodle looked as if I’d just waved his silver plate of prawns
in his face and then run off with it and eaten the lot myself. He opened his eyes wide and flattened his ears. ‘I take huge offence at what you have just said,’ he hissed,
arching his back angrily ‘I am very much alive and well – no thanks to you, I might add.’
I shook my head and stammered, ‘O-OK, I believe that you’re alive . . . Hey! What do you mean, “no thanks to me”? What have I done? I’ve spent all day
looking for you.’
Kaboodle backed up on to his hind legs, waving his forepaws at me as if preparing for a fight. ‘Don’t I know it,’ he spat. Then he seemed to pull himself together and sat back
down. ‘I was trying to catnap in that tree over there after my first night of er . freedom,’ he said, vaguely waving a paw in the air And then you and your little friend come crashing
into the garden, screeching my name in voices fit to wake the dead (no joke intended), and then, to cap it all, that girl starts up with her hideous racket. “Memory” is my least
favourite song from Cats . Ms Pinkington is always playing the ro tten thing. Why she’s so fond of it beats me. The whole performance is laughable. Humans
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