Blossom's Revenge

1. Prissy Arrives "Look at that cat!" said Prissy Pinkerton. "Why is it so fat?" Honestly! I had never been so insulted in my life! I may not be as slim as I once was, but no one could possibly call me fat! Prissy Pinkerton is a very nasty little girl. She doesn't look nasty. If you could see her, you would almost certainly say "How sweet!" She is six years old. She has curly golden hair. She wears white socks. She sucks her thumb. Her cheeks are dimpled. Her eyes are blue. Nevertheless, she is nasty. I knew she was nasty the moment she opened her mouth to speak. My name is Blossom and I'm one of the Cuckoo Square Cats. There's a garden in the square, with railings all around it and a gate that's kept locked. The flower beds are well dug, and there are plenty of shrubs under whose branches we can hide. We like sharpening our claws on the trees, although it is only young kittens who go scrabbling up to the topmost branches just for the fun of it. My friends and I are too old for that sort of behavior. We sit on the benches or flop about on the soft grass in the summer. The humans have keys to what we cats call Our Place, because we are the ones who use it most often. My particular friends are Perkins (whose people are the Blythes at number 27), Callie (from number 18), and Geejay (whose real name is Ginger Jack, and who curls up in front of the fire at number 2). Perkins is a large, dignified tabby who has lived in the square longer than any of us, Callie is a sweet-natured, gentle calico cat with white fur prettily spotted in orange and black, and Geejay looks like a lion. He has yellow eyes and is the best hunter in the square. As for me, I'm fluffy and black and white, and I like to go through life as calmly and peacefully as I can. Other cats come and go, and we allow them to walk through the square, but only on their way to somewhere else. This is our territory. This is where we come to get away from our humans, to exchange news, and especially to tell stories. Earlier today, we were all waiting for the Pinkertons to arrive at my house with their little daughter. "She is a relation," I told them. "Her name is Prissy. Her parents are bringing her to stay with us for the summer holidays while they find a new house and get it ready. She's supposed to be company for Miles." Perkins opened one eye and announced, "Visitors never turn out to be what you think. We have them all the time." He yawned. "Wake me up when she arrives. I do not like to miss anything, but it is hard to keep one's eyes open." "Perhaps," Callie murmured, "she'll be a lovely little girl." Callie expects the best of everyone. I, also, thought it would be delightful to have another child in our house. My people are called Mr. and Mrs. Randall, but I call them Mum and Dad because that is Miles's name for them. They are good humans, although they have their faults. Mum is house-proud. She prowls through rooms armed with a fearsome device called a Hoover, which sucks dirt out of the carpet and makes a most distressing noise. When I was a kitten, I thought the Hoover was a monster and hid from it under the chest of drawers, but I'm used to it now. Mum has a long metal tube that she attaches to the Hoover sometimes. "This is my Dustbuster, Blossom," she told me once. "It works wonders with cat hairs." Whenever Mum mentions cat hairs, I yawn. She goes on and on about them. They are her favorite subject. She ought to be grateful that I am black and white. I leave pale hairs on the dark things and dark hairs on the pale things, and this allows her to play happily with her Dustbuster almost every day. Dad is a little absentminded. Sometimes he doesn't notice me. He has sat on me, tripped over me, and even driven off in his car while I waGeras, Adele is the author of 'Blossom's Revenge' with ISBN 9780440418146 and ISBN 0440418143.