You know these humans don’t half get themselves in a right old lather – huffing and puffing, effing and blinding, moaning and groaning! I mean even Maurice when he’s in one of his tantrums doesn’t go quite so doolally, and that’s saying something! When we were in Molehill with our old master the vicar, we saw a lot of that kind of PAL-AV-ER – him in a muck sweat rushing all over the shop tearing his hair and his dog collar, throwing down pills and crunching gobstoppers. Oh yes, he was generally in some sort of stew … but that was because he had done something BAD like getting rid of that silly Fotherington lady or like me when I rattle the cage of those stupid chinchillas. And after that he got into a lot more scrapes, so you can see why he was always so het up. The cat says that some humans can cope with being BAD but others can’t, it sort of churns them up. Well F.O. was often in a state of CHURN, which for a lively fellow like me made things quite interesting.
I mention this because when we came to live here I thought life might be a bit flat and pi-ahn-o (as Maurice says) because P.O. is very different from her brother – just as tall and thin but sort of cooler, more in charge, if you see what I mean. And at first I thought she wouldn’t get ruffled about things. I’m a pretty smart dog, you know, but for once I was wrong. The Prim does get ruffled but it’s a different kind of ruffle from her brother’s. His ruffle would be the blue funk sort; hers is the stroppy-poppy type. She gets in bates – like when she’s tearing strips off her friend Enema or cursing that galumphing Manus person. I quite like that because it ‘pro-vides a die-vart-ing KABARAY’, to quote the cat again. (Phew! It’s taken me weeks to learn that lot!)
So, as our mistress is usually bossy and tough, we were quite worried when she came back the other evening all white and windy. I mean, if she was a cat her fur would have been stuck up like bristles on a yard brush; and I bet if she was a dog the old tail would have gone all droopy just like mine does when I’ve been given a clip round the ear or can’t find my bone.
Anyway, I had a word with Maurice. ‘What’s up with the Prim, then? She looks like something the cat’s brought in.’
‘Or the dog’s spat out,’ he replied.
We watched her as she poured a whopping glass of pink stuff and then slumped into the chair looking glazed and twitchy. ‘You know what,’ I said, ‘she needs cheering up. I’ll lend her my rubber ring.’
‘Must you?’ Maurice muttered. He’s not keen on the thing – don’t ask me why.
Anyway, I went to my basket in the kitchen, rummaged about for it and then came back and dropped it on the floor next to her chair. She didn’t seem specially keen to play with it, but I think she was pleased all the same because she pulled my ear; then I put a friendly paw on her knee and she closed her eyes. Mind you, it’s tricky keeping a paw on a human’s lap because after a bit your leg goes numb. So I put it down again and went to sleep – though not before I had seen Maurice jump up and start to purr down her neck. He’s not always that chummy and I thought it was pretty decent.
When I woke up, I could see that she was her old self again and looking all sharp and thoughtful … too thoughtful, because by this time I was dead keen for some nosh and she didn’t seem to notice my helpful hints. Typical of humans, they get wrapped up in themselves and take their eye off the ball – in this case Bouncer’s grub!
As things turned out, when supper did come it was JOLLY GOOD. The Prim started to eat like a horse, wolfing it down at the rate of knots. And then when she’d had enough fodder and I had finished mine she scraped the rest into my bowl. Cor, what a feast! The cat was hoity-toity, picked at its pilchards and said that being with the two of us was not unlike feeding time at the zoo. Still, after she had gone off early to bed and I had pulled his tail (which he quite likes) we put our heads together and had a big bow-wow.
‘I think things are frort,’ Maurice said.
‘Frort? What’s that?’ I asked.
He explained that it meant things were heating up and reaching a stage of threat and ten-shun.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Like when I’m stalking some bastard bunnies or when you are about to be hosed down by the doctor’s wife for frightening her budgerigar?’
He seemed to think for a moment, and then said, ‘Yes, Bouncer, on the whole I think you could say that.’
Well, of course I could. I had just said it, hadn’t I? (Sometimes talking to Maurice can be a bit like one of those crossword things humans are always doing; a dog doesn’t half have to keep his wits about him!) Anyway, I asked him if it was to do with the CONTRITOMPS with the mad woman and did he think the Prim was in danger.
‘Indubitably,’ he said. Now that’s one of the cat’s favourite words so I often hear it and know just what it means. It means: Yes, you are damn right, Bouncer.
‘Hmm. But she’s dead,’ I said, ‘and you have to sit on the other gatepost and—’
‘Yes, Bouncer, I am aware of my discomfort, thank you, and I also know that its cause is dead. But there are other humans just as troublesome who need to be quelled – and I don’t just mean the Brighton Type, vexing though he is. We must keep our eye on the distasteful policeman, the big MacManus with the rumbling voice. You may recall he has crossed our mistress’s path before. She doesn’t like him and if he stirs up trouble for her it will rebound on us. He must be kept under close observation and—’
‘Shall I duff him up?’ I barked eagerly.
Maurice flattened his ears and hissed. ‘Be patient, Bouncer! On no account bite his backside unless I tell you to, otherwise we shall all be in the can!’
When he wants to the cat can speak quite clearly, so I got the message pronto. ‘Right-o,’ I said, ‘but meantime you want me to be the crafty hound and sniff about a bit, taking mental notes while looking gormless.’
He blinked and studied his left paw, the white one. ‘Ye-es,’ he said slowly, ‘you have a natural flair and could do that exceedingly well.’
‘You bet I could,’ I roared, ‘no fleas on Bouncer!’ And, giving him a friendly shove, dashed off to chivvy the chinchillas.