“OK … OK …” said the Kendal Road cats, backing away together. Malcolm felt, through the pain, a huge wave of relief.

“But why?” one of them said. “Why are you – a cat – trying to save … a bird?”

“Well,” said Zsa-Zsa, “partly because we’ve come all this way …”

“And ve had to break out of ze zzzoo to get here …” said Trotsky.

“And use our sense of smell …” said Ludwig.

“Well, yours is terribly good.”

“Thank you, Mabel … to track where the pigeon went …”

“Yes. But mainly because: he’s Malcolm.”

The Kendal Road cats stared at Zsa-Zsa. Then at each other. Then back at Zsa-Zsa.

“What do you mean?”

“Yeah, what do you mean?”

“It’s a very long story,” said Zsa-Zsa. “Which, frankly, I can’t be bothered to explain to you now. But this is your owner – or one of them, anyway – the boy. Malcolm. Just … in pigeon form.”

“I don’t believe you,” snarled the white cat.

“Neither do I,” super-snarled the brown one.

“Well, I don’t think that really matters,” said Zsa-Zsa, coming further towards them, with the other animals behind. “Because we’re taking him now.”

“Well …” said the super-snarling one, “I don’t know why you’re helping him, even if he is Malcolm.”

“Huh?” said Zsa-Zsa.

“Malcolm…” the brown cat continued, his/her eyes narrowing, “doesn’t even like animals. He doesn’t like you. He doesn’t like ANY OF YOU!”

Malcolm, his head still floppy, tried to speak, tried to explain.

That’s not true any more, he wanted to say. But it wouldn’t come out.

The Orwell Farm animals looked deeply shocked and upset. Zsa-Zsa frowned. Trotsky put his head down. The three Dollys did some very quiet baa-ing. Eventually, Ludwig came forward – it was a bit of a squeeze for him through the front gate – bent his enormous head down towards the pigeon, and said, quietly:

“Malcolm … is that true? That you don’t like animals?”

With all his remaining strength, Malcolm whispered: “No …”

The farm animals looked relieved. But then the white cat raised its head and said:

“OK then, Malcolm. If you are Malcolm. You’ve lived with us for five years. If you like animals so much – if you care about your pets like a normal lovely owner …”

“Yes?” gasped Malcolm.

“Which one of us is Ticky and which one is Tacky?”

There was a long pause. Every animal in that garden – and there were quite a lot of them now – looked at Malcolm. Malcolm looked at the cats, the brown one and the white one. He knew this. He surely knew this.

“Come on, Malc …” said Zsa-Zsa.

“Yes, you can do it, Malcolm,” said Mabel.

“We’ve got faith in you!” said a Dolly.

“Faith!”

“We believe in you!”

“Please, Malcolm,” said Bjornita. “Don’t let us down.”

Malcolm stared again at the cats. They were wearing collars. But he couldn’t see the writing on them. And at some level, he didn’t want to cheat.

Eventually, he said – his voice now a total whisper:

“You – the white one – Tacky. You – the brown one – Ticky.”

There was another long pause. And then the white one put its front paw up, and turned its collar, so that the coin of the collar was resting on top of its paw. “What does that say?” said the cat.

Malcolm could have lied but he didn’t.

“Ticky,” he said.

There was one more long pause, and then all the Orwell Farm animals silently turned, and left the front garden.