The Diary of a Killer Cat (Puffin Modern Classics) Read online

  Some reviews of

  The Diary of a Killer Cat

  ‘It’s hard to beat this great book’

  – Junior magazine

  ‘How a cat can train an owner is hilariously

  told by Tuffy himself in this witty commentary

  on the strange behaviour of humans’

  – Julia Eccleshare, LoveReadingforKids

  ‘This had me laughing aloud.

  It’s an hilarious and easy read’ – Books for Keeps

  Anne Fine lives in County Durham. She has written numerous highly acclaimed and prize-winning books for children and adults.

  The Tulip Touch won the Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year Award, Goggle-Eyes won the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award and the Carnegie Medal, Flour Babies won the Carnegie Medal and the Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year Award, and Bill’s New Frock won a Nestlé Smarties Book Prize.

  Tuffy’s misdemeanours in The Diary of a Killer Cat and the sequels The Return of the Killer Cat, The Killer Cat Strikes Back, The Killer Cat’s Birthday Bash and The Killer Cat’s Christmas have delighted mischievous children all over the world.

  Anne Fine was named Children’s Laureate in 2001 and was awarded an OBE in 2003.

  annefine.co.uk

  Books by Anne Fine

  The Diary of a Killer Cat

  The Return of the Killer Cat

  The Killer Cat Strikes Back

  The Killer Cat’s Birthday Bash

  The Killer Cat’s Christmas

  Jennifer’s Diary

  Loudmouth Louis

  Notso Hotso

  Only a Show

  The Same Old Story Every Year

  Stranger Danger?

  The Worst Child I Ever Had

  For older readers

  A Pack of Liars

  Crummy Mummy and Me

  Flour Babies

  Goggle-Eyes

  Madame Doubtfire

  Step by Wicked Step

  The Tulip Touch

  The Diary of a KILLER CAT

  ANNE FINE

  Illustrated by

  Steve Cox

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  First published by Hamish Hamilton Ltd 1994

  Published in Puffin Books 1996

  Published in Young Puffin Modern Classics 2004

  This edition published 2011

  Text copyright © Anne Fine, 1994

  Illustrations copyright © Steve Cox, 1994

  Introduction copyright © Julia Eccleshare, 2004

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-141-97156-8

  Introduction

  by Julia Eccleshare

  Puffin Modern Classics series editor

  Can you imagine being right inside your cat’s head? That is exactly where you are in The Diary of a Killer Cat. Once you’ve read this book, you’ll be able to see everything from a new point of view. Think how horrible it is to be stuck in a cage waiting for the vet – especially with a tasty-looking gerbil sitting nearby. Or to be labelled HANDLE WITH CARE. Or to be accused of a crime you haven’t even committed. Poor pussycat! But don’t let the Killer Cat deceive you. Okay, so a cat can be soft and cuddly and furry, but inside every soft pussycat, there’s a cunning little beast.

  After I’d read The Diary of a Killer Cat, I never saw a cat in quite the same way again. I now realize that a cat knows what you are thinking – even if you haven’t said it. It knows what you hate and what you like about it – and, mostly, it just doesn’t care! Above all, don’t ever think that you are in charge of a cat. For every plan you have, a cat will have one to outsmart you …

  Anne Fine stands up for cats in this hilarious story of humans, cats, gerbils, dogs – and a somewhat unfortunate rabbit …

  Table of Contents

  1: MONDAY

  2: TUESDAY

  3: WEDNESDAY

  4: THURSDAY

  5: FRIDAY

  6: STILL FRIDAY

  7: SATURDAY

  1: MONDAY

  Okay, okay. So hang me. I killed the bird. For pity’s sake, I’m a cat. It’s practically my job to go creeping round the garden after sweet little eensy-weensy birdy-pies that can hardly fly from one hedge to another. So what am I supposed to do when one of the poor feathery little flutterballs just about throws itself into my mouth? I mean, it practically landed on my paws. It could have hurt me.

  Okay, okay. So I biffed it. Is that any reason for Ellie to cry in my fur so hard I almost drown, and squeeze me so hard I almost choke?

  ‘Oh, Tuffy!’ she says, all sniffles and red eyes and piles of wet tissues. ‘Oh, Tuffy. How could you do that?’

  How could I do that? I’m a cat. How did I know there was going to be such a giant great fuss, with Ellie’s mother rushing off to fetch sheets of old newspaper, and Ellie’s father filling a bucket with soapy water?

  Okay, okay. So maybe I shouldn’t have dragged it in and left it on the carpet. And maybe the stains won’t come out, ever.

  So hang me.

  2: TUESDAY

  I quite enjoyed the little funeral. I don’t think they really wanted me to come, but, after all, it’s just as much my garden as theirs. In fact, I spend a whole lot more time in it than they do. I’m the only one in the family who uses it properly.

  Not that they’re grateful. You ought to hear them.

  ‘That cat is ruining my flower beds. There are hardly any of the petunias left.’

  ‘I’d barely planted the lobelias before it was lying on top of them, squashing them flat.’

  ‘I do wish it wouldn’t dig holes in the anemones.’

  Moan, moan, moan, moan. I don’t know why they bother to keep a cat, since all they ever seem to do is complain.

  All except Ellie. She was too busy being soppy about the bird. She put it in a box, and packed it round with cotton wool, and dug a little hole, and then we all stood round it while she said a few words, wishing the bird luck in heaven.

  ‘Go away,’ Ellie’s father hissed at me. (I find that man quite rude.) But I just flicked my tail at him. Gave him the blink. Who does
he think he is? If I want to watch a little birdy’s funeral, I’ll watch it. After all, I’ve known the bird longer than any of them have. I knew it when it was alive.

  3: WEDNESDAY

  So spank me! I brought a dead mouse into their precious house. I didn’t even kill it. When I came across it, it was already a goner. Nobody’s safe around here. This avenue is ankle-deep in rat poison, fast cars charge up and down at all hours, and I’m not the only cat around here. I don’t even know what happened to the thing. All I know is, I found it. It was already dead. (Fresh dead, but dead.) And at the time I thought it was a good idea to bring it home. Don’t ask me why. I must have been crazy. How did I know that Ellie was going to grab me and give me one of her little talks?

  ‘Oh, Tuffy! That’s the second time this week. I can’t bear it. I know you’re a cat, and it’s natural and everything. But please, for my sake, stop.’

  She gazed into my eyes.

  ‘Will you stop? Please?’

  I gave her the blink. (Well, I tried. But she wasn’t having any.)

  ‘I mean it, Tuffy,’ she told me. ‘I love you, and I understand how you feel. But you’ve got to stop doing this, okay?’

  She had me by the paws. What could I say? So I tried to look all sorry. And then she burst into tears all over again, and we had another funeral.

  This place is turning into Fun City. It really is.

  4: THURSDAY

  Okay, okay! I’ll try and explain about the rabbit. For starters, I don’t think anyone’s given me enough credit for getting it through the cat flap. That was not easy. I can tell you, it took about an hour to get that rabbit through that little hole. That rabbit was downright fat. It was more like a pig than a rabbit, if you want my opinion.

  Not that any of them cared what I thought. They were going mental.

  ‘It’s Thumper!’ cried Ellie. ‘It’s next-door’s Thumper!’

  ‘Oh, Lordy!’ said Ellie’s father. ‘Now we’re in trouble. What are we going to do?’

  Ellie’s mother stared at me.

  ‘How could a cat do that?’ she asked. ‘I mean, it’s not like a tiny bird, or a mouse, or anything. That rabbit is the same size as Tuffy. They both weigh a ton.’

  Nice. Very nice. This is my family, I’ll have you know. Well, Ellie’s family. But you take my point.

  And Ellie, of course, freaked out. She went berserk.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ she cried. ‘Horrible. I can’t believe that Tuffy could have done that. Thumper’s been next door for years and years and years.’

  Sure. Thumper was a friend. I knew him well.

  She turned on me.

  ‘Tuffy! This is the end. That poor, poor rabbit. Look at him!’

  And Thumper did look a bit of a mess, I admit it. I mean, most of it was only mud. And a few grass stains, I suppose. And there were quite a few bits of twig and stuff stuck in his fur. And he had a streak of oil on one ear. But no one gets dragged the whole way across a garden, and through a hedge, and over another garden, and through a freshly-oiled cat flap, and ends up looking as if they’re just off to a party.

  And Thumper didn’t care what he looked like. He was dead.

  The rest of them minded, though. They minded a lot.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Oh, this is dreadful. Next-door will never speak to us again.’

  ‘We must think of something.’

  And they did. I have to say, it was a brilliant plan, by any standards. First, Ellie’s father fetched the bucket again, and filled it with warm soapy water. (He gave me a bit of a look as he did this, trying to make me feel guilty for the fact that he’d had to dip his hands in the old Fairy Liquid twice in one week. I just gave him my old ‘I-am-not-impressed’ stare back.)

  Then Ellie’s mother dunked Thumper in the bucket and gave him a nice bubbly wash and a swill-about. The water turned a pretty nasty brown colour. (All that mud.) And then, glaring at me as if it were all my fault, they tipped it down the sink and began over again with fresh soap suds.

  Ellie was snivelling, of course.

  ‘Do stop that, Ellie,’ her mother said. ‘It’s getting on my nerves. If you want to do something useful, go and fetch the hairdrier.’

  So Ellie trailed upstairs, still bawling her eyes out.

  I sat on the top of the dresser, and watched them.

  They up-ended poor Thumper and dunked him again in the bucket. (Good job he wasn’t his old self. He’d have hated all this washing.) And when the water finally ran clear, they pulled him out and drained him.

  Then they plonked him on newspaper, and gave Ellie the hairdrier.

  ‘There you go,’ they said. ‘Fluff him up nicely.’

  Well, she got right into it, I can tell you. That Ellie could grow up to be a real hot-shot hairdresser, the way she fluffed him up. I have to say, I never saw Thumper look so nice before, and he lived in next-door’s hutch for years and years, and I saw him every day.

  ‘Hiya, Thump,’ I’d sort of nod at him as I strolled over the lawn to check out what was left in the feeding bowls further down the avenue.

  ‘Hi, Tuff,’ he’d sort of twitch back.

  Yes, we were good mates. We were pals. And so it was really nice to see him looking so spruced up and smart when Ellie had finished with him.

  He looked good.

  ‘What now?’ said Ellie’s father.

  Ellie’s mum gave him a look – the sort of look she sometimes gives me, only nicer.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Not me. Oh, no, no, no, no, no.’

  ‘It’s you or me,’ she said. ‘And I can’t go, can I?’

  ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘You’re smaller than I am. You can crawl through the hedge easier.’

  That’s when I realized what they had in mind. But what could I say? What could I do to stop them? To explain?

  Nothing. I’m just a cat.

  I sat and watched.

  5: FRIDAY

  I call it Friday because they left it so late. The clock was already well past midnight by the time Ellie’s father finally heaved himself out of his comfy chair in front of the telly and went upstairs. When he came down again he was dressed in black. Black from head to foot.

  ‘You look like a cat burglar,’ said Ellie’s mother.

  ‘I wish someone would burgle our cat,’ he muttered.

  I just ignored him. I thought that was best.

  Together they went to the back door.

  ‘Don’t switch the outside light on,’ he warned her. ‘You never know who might be watching.’

  I tried to sneak out at the same time, but Ellie’s mother held me back with her foot.

  ‘You can just stay inside tonight,’ she told me. ‘We’ve had enough trouble from you this week.’

  Fair’s fair. And I heard all about it anyway, later, from Bella and Tiger and Pusskins. They all reported back. (They’re good mates.) They all saw Ellie’s father creeping across the lawn, with his plastic bag full of Thumper (wrapped nicely in a towel to keep him clean). They all saw him forcing his way through the hole in the hedge, and crawling across next-door’s lawn on his tummy.

  ‘Couldn’t think what he was doing,’ Pusskins said afterwards.

  ‘Ruined the hole in the hedge,’ complained Bella. ‘He’s made it so big that the Thompson’s rottweiler could get through it now.’

  ‘That father of Ellie’s must have the most dreadful night vision,’ said Tiger. ‘It took him forever to find that hutch in the dark.’

  ‘And prise the door open.’

  ‘And stuff in poor old Thumper.’

  ‘And set him out neatly on his bed of straw.’

  ‘All curled up.’

  ‘With the straw patted up round him.’

  ‘So it looked as if he was sleeping.’

  ‘It was very, very lifelike,’ said Bella. ‘It could have fooled me. If anyone just happened to be passing in the dark, they’d really have thought that poor old Thumper had just died happily and p
eacefully in his sleep, after a good life, from old age.’

  They all began howling with laughter.

  ‘Sshh!’ I said. ‘Keep it down, guys. They’ll hear, and I’m not supposed to be out tonight. I’m grounded.’

  They all stared at me.

  ‘Get away with you!’

  ‘Grounded?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Murder,’ I said. ‘For cold-blooded bunnicide.’

  That set us all off again. We yowled and yowled. The last I heard before we took off in a gang up Beechcroft Drive was one of the bedroom windows being flung open, and Ellie’s father yelling, ‘How did you get out, you crafty beast?’

  So what’s he going to do? Nail up the cat flap?

  6: STILL FRIDAY

  He nailed up the cat flap. Would you believe this man? He comes down the stairs this morning, and before he’s even out of his pyjamas he’s set to work with the hammer and a nail.

  Bang, bang, bang, bang!

  I’m giving him the stare, I really am. But then he turns round and speaks to me directly.

  ‘There,’ he says. ‘That’ll fix you. Now it swings this way –’ He gives the cat flap a hefty shove with his foot. ‘But it doesn’t swing this way.’

  And, sure enough, when the flap tried to flap back in, it couldn’t. It hit the nail.

  ‘So,’ he says to me. ‘You can go out. Feel free to go out. Feel free, in fact, not only to go out, but also to stay out, get lost, or disappear for ever. But should you bother to come back again, don’t go to the trouble of bringing anything with you. Because this is now a one-way flap, and so you will have to sit on the doormat until one of the family lets you in.’