The Kitten Hunt by Anna Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

articles we read? Cats have a sixth sense, right? They know when something’s up.
Kaboodle will have definitely been freaked cos his mummsie is away. And now I think
I’ve
got a sixth sense about what’s happened. I’m sorry to say this, Bertie, but . .
.’
    She paused dramatically as if she were a detective on a whodunnit who was about to announce, er, whodunnit.
    ‘. . . considering all the evidence, and taking into account all the facts at our disposal . . . I can hardly bear to even
think
this, but I – I – I have to say . .
.’ She gulped and put a hand dramatically up to her throat. ‘I reckon he’s – oh my goodness, I reckon he . . . he’s got to be
dead
, Bertie! I’m sorry, but
there’s no other explanation.’
    Tears spurted out of the corners of her eyes and she slumped down on to one of the pink kitchen chairs and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.
    I stared out of the window at the cherry tree in Pinkella’s garden and peered at the branches. Blimey, even the trees in her garden were pink! Was Kaboodle up there somewhere, hidden among
the leaves?
    ‘There’s only one thing to do,’ Jazz rasped, blinking up at me through her tears. ‘We owe it to the poor little thing. After all, we are responsible for him while Ms P is
away.’
    ‘What are you on about now?’
    ‘We’re going to have to give Kaboodle a good send-off,’ Jazz sniffed.
    ‘What?’ I repeated.
    ‘A good send-off – you know, a memorial service type thing.’ Jazz stood up and tore a piece of pink kitchen roll from where it was fixed on the wall. She blew her nose noisily
and went on with her latest bonkers idea. ‘When someone dies you have a funeral, right?’ She broke off and glanced at me, blushing.
    ‘It’s OK,’ I said, waving a hand at her. ‘Go on.’
    ‘And sometimes you have a memorial service – you know, you say beautiful poems and things about the person who’s died. We did it for Nan. She had always loved the sea, so when
she died we had a day trip to her favourite beach in Kent and we said poems and sang songs. It – it was a n-nice way to remember her,’ Jazz hiccuped.
    ‘Yes, lovely,’ I said. ‘But you’re forgetting one small yet important fact: Kaboodle isn’t dead. At least, we don’t
know
he is. He’s only been
missing a few hours. You can’t give up on him that easily.’
    Jazz sniffed again and wiped her nose on her sleeve. ‘It can’t do any harm having a little service for him,’ she said. ‘And if he comes back, it’s not like
he’ll know or be offended or anything.’
    I shook my head. ‘What is wrong with you?’ I snapped, suddenly fed up with the whole conversation. Jazz jumped like a startled deer. ‘The cat’s gone away for a day and
you immediately leap to the conclusion that he’s dead? If he’d been run over we’d have seen a body –’
    But Jazz was in full flow with the memorial idea, and once she’s in full flow, there is no stopping her.
    ‘Can’t you just think of it as a lovely symbolic thing to do?’ she wheedled. ‘We could write our own poem or song, and then we’ll go out into the garden and say
some words in memory of Kaboodle.’
    I huffed. This sounded like just another excuse for Miss Jasmeena Brown to take centre stage in an Oscar-winning performance. But more big fat tears had started rolling down her cheeks. She was
getting really emotional so I thought I’d better agree quickly to her loony-brain plan so that we could get it over and done with.
    Jazz perked up when I told her I liked her idea (even though it would’ve been pretty clear to even the doziest dormouse on the block that I really didn’t) and she suggested we have
the service right there and then.
    ‘I’ve just had a poptastic idea!’ she said, bouncing around the house with all her previous tragic misery miraculously forgotten. ‘Let me just get some paper and a pen .
. . right.’ She started scribbling on a pink notepad she’d filched