Scary Stories - Twist in the Tale Series

Pussy

Gran and her catwere part of each other. That's the way it seemed to me anyway.Whenever I went to visit her it was invariably attached to her insome way. If it wasn't curled up in her lap in a furry ball asshe sat in her old armchair, then it was winding itself in andaround her legs as she pottered about her little cottage. How shemanaged to avoid tripping over it, I will never know.

The cat never had a proper name; it was just Puss. At leastthat's all she ever called it; it was always, "Here, Puss,come to mummy," or "Does my pretty Puss want his dinnerthen?" and "Oh, look at my clever little Puss, he'scaught a mouse," so I guess Puss it was.

As for being pretty - well, you never saw a mangier creature inyour life. He must have had a very mixed heritage, because Pussappeared to be composed of about half a dozen different breeds. Icouldn't really describe his colour, but if I was pinned down, Isuppose I would have to say it was a sort of muddy brown withdashes of ginger, grey, black and the odd touch of dirty whitethrown in as an afterthought.

No, pretty he wasn't. Puss was downright ugly in fact. He onlyhad one eye, the result of a ferocious fight with another cat.That wasn't the only battle of his career by any means, as wasevident from his chewed and torn ears, his various scars, thebald patches in his fur and his half-severed tail. A real bruiserhe was. You could tell he had earned himself a reputation amongthe neighbourhood feline fraternity, because all the cats in thearea gave him a very wide berth when he was on the prowl. Evensmall dogs would cross to the other side of the road when Pusswas abroad.

Another thing he wasn't is little. He was massive. There's noother word. The fact that Gran fed him better than she didherself was no doubt contributory to this. No cans of Whiskers orFelix for Puss. Oh no! It had to be fresh fish and the tenderestcuts of meat, chicken and liver for "my little Puss."Cooked just so too, mark you, I swear it made my mouth water whenshe was preparing Puss's meals.

Gran was getting on a bit and not in the best of health, but shealways put the cat's welfare before her own. I was foreverberating her about it, but she never took any notice. "Buthe's such a helpless little pussy cat, who would look after himif I didn't?" she would say.

Helpless! I ask you! She seemed to ignore that Puss was single-handedlyresponsible for decimating the local bird and rodent population.The garden was littered with the half-eaten corpses ofslaughtered sparrows and mice. If ever there was a cat that couldtake care of itself, it was Puss.

You have probably already worked out that I didn't much like Puss.It's not that I'm not fond of animals; don't get me wrong; I lovethem as much as the next man. It's just that Puss wasn't the mostlikable of animals. And, well - the thing is - Puss didn't likeme.

I know that sounds a bit neurotic, perhaps a touch paranoid, butit's true. Puss really did not like me. Don't ask me why, I neverdid him any harm. You only had to see his reaction whenever Iwent to visit Gran, which was more frequent as she grew older andmore infirm, to know what I mean. He would raise his batteredhead from Gran's lap and that solitary green eye of his, glaringwith tangible malevolence, would fix on me, while from deep inhis throat would issue a snarl of such vehemence it made thehairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"Bless him, he's saying hello to you, the little dear,"Gran would say.

To me it was more like he was saying, "This is my patch, getoff it or I'll scratch your eyes out."

All the time that evil eye would be on me, watching my every movelike I was a big juicy mouse and he was just biding his timebefore he ripped me to pieces.

I tried to be friendly to Puss, but he wouldn't have it. Many arethe scratches he gave my hand when I reached out to stroke him.To this day, I bear the scar from the time he sank his teeth intomy thumb when I failed to get it out of his range quickly enough.It was agony; I thought he would never let go. It wasn't untilGran persuaded him with a piece of best beef that he relinquishedhis hold. "Oh my, you naughty Puss," she said, "Hemust be ready for his tea."

Naughty Puss, indeed. His teeth were like razor blades. My thumbwas in bandages for a week.

It was one Saturday afternoon when I called at Gran's to makesure she was all right that I found her lying on the kitchenfloor. Puss was at her side, lapping up the last remnants ofscattered food. As I entered the room, however, he abandoned thesloppy mess and began to hiss and snarl at me with much more thanhis usual rancour. When I rushed to Gran, he leapt onto herstomach and perched there, arching his back and growlingthreateningly at me. Then, when I knelt down to help her, it wasas if Puss went crazy, howling like a banshee, lashing out withhis paws, and biting angrily at me. He would not let me near, itwas as though the cat had taken it upon itself to guard andprotect Gran from any further harm.

Finally, out of desperation, I dashed to the broom cupboard, gota mop, and held the spitting, demented creature at bay with thatwhile I bent over Gran.

At first, I thought she was dead but as I put my head closer, allthe time warding off the cat with the mop, I detected a faintbreath. It was obvious what had happened. Gran had been makingPuss something to eat when the damned cat had weaved itselfaround her legs in excitement, as it often did at the imminentarrival of a meal. Gran had turned from the cooker, forgettingabout the cat, and fallen over it, landing flat on her back onthe floor. I was always warning her that something like thatwould happen one day.

She was lucky she hadn't split her skull. However, she wasunconscious. I tried calling her name and patting her face, butgot no response. Meanwhile, Puss was becoming ever more viciousin his anxiety to drive me away from Gran. A couple of times healmost reached me, it was only by some dextrous parrying with themop that I kept him at bay. In the end, he resigned himself tosinking his teeth into the head of the mop and to angrily shakinghis head back and forth. I was only glad it wasn't me he had agrip of.

Realising I needed an ambulance, I drove Puss into the loungeusing the mop as a prod and closed the door on him. With thefrenzied animal out of the way I rushed to the phone and rang theemergency services. I then returned to Gran and did my best tomake her comfortable while I waited. Meanwhile in the lounge,Puss meowed in frustration and scratched furiously at the door,still determined to get to his mistress. Anyone would havethought there was a caged lion in there. Fortunately, by the timethe ambulance men arrived he had subsided into silence. I don'tknow how I would have explained the row to them, had he kept itup. No doubt he had finally worn himself out and gone to sleep.

Just before leaving in the ambulance with Gran, I cautiouslyopened the lounge door. I knew Puss would be all right, as therewas a cat flap in the back door and he would be able to come andgo as he pleased. Then we were off, sirens blaring, while themedics worked to revive the still unconscious Gran and I satwatching helplessly.
At the hospital, I was ushered into a waiting room where I pacedthe floor, feeling slightly guilty, as if it was my fault Granwas there. That's the funny thing about hospitals: you alwaysfeel that you are to blame for the condition of the patient.Eventually, after I had leafed through all the out-of-datemagazines and consumed two cups of insipid, machine-vendedcoffee, a doctor came to see me.

Apparently, Gran had suffered a minor heart attack, brought on bythe shock of her fall and it was lucky I had got to her when Idid. They had managed to bring her round, but she was still veryweak and they would be keeping her in for a few days. The doctortold me I could go see her for a short time, as long as I didn'ttire her out too much.

Poor old Gran looked so frail and vulnerable lying there with allthe tubes coming out of her. The over-large hospital gown madeher seem shrunken and ancient, as if she had been turned into amummy. I barely recognised her. I didn't know what to do or say,you always feel so useless in these situations, so I took hold ofher hand and said hello.

She opened her eyes and smiled weakly. She said something, buther voice was so low and feeble I could not make out her words.

I put my ear closer to her mouth and softly asked her to repeatthem, "Take care of Puss for me, won't you?" she said.

Would you believe it? There she was, just back from death's door,and all she was concerned about was that dratted cat.

Of course, I promised that I would, though cat-sitting was thelast thing on my mind at that moment. After that, she appeared tosuddenly look less ill, as if a weight had been lifted off her.The lines left her face, she visibly relaxed and the mummy wasreplaced by the Gran I knew. She sighed, closed her eyes andwithin a few moments she was asleep, a contented smile on herface.

Shortly after that, a nurse came and told me I would have toleave Gran to rest.

The next day, before going to the hospital to visit Gran, Idecided I'd better keep my promise. So, on my way to her house Istopped off to buy a tin of cat food. I know it wasn't what hewas used to, but there was no way I was going to fuss aboutmaking him his usual fare. It's Kitty Chunks for you or nothing,my boy, I thought.

When I got there, Puss was sitting in the kitchen near the cookeras if he had been waiting for me. He must have learned somemanners, because he didn't even snarl at me. Instead, he meowedin a tone that said, "What kept you? I'm starving."

I opened the can, found a dish and spooned the evil-smellingcontents into it. Placing the dish on the floor, I stood back,expecting him to tuck in with his usual gusto.

I was wrong. Puss took one sniff at it, turned his nose up indisgust and commenced to howl in complaint. The noise was awful;it set my nerves jangling.

I said, "I'm sorry, I haven't time to mess with you. If thatisn't good enough for you, go and get yourself a tasty mouse."

It was as if my voice electrified him. He ceased howling,stiffened, gave me a look like the devil and in a blur of motionpounced through the air.

I hate to admit it, but I almost screamed.

Like a dog with a bone, he had closed his mouth on my leg,gripping it like a vice. It was torture. His saw-like teethbiting deep into the flesh, he shook his head back and forth,resolutely attempting to take a chunk out of me.

I had to get him off me. I reached down and took hold of him,meaning to pull him away. That made things worse. He bit downharder and wrapped his legs around me, his claws adding to mytorment. At a loss what to do, I tried shaking my leg about in aneffort to dislodge him.

I must have made a weird sight, hopping about Gran's kitchenfrantically waving my leg about. If there had been anyone thereto witness it, they would have thought I was performing some kindof ritual dance.

I swear I did not mean it to happen this way, but I was desperate.The pain was incredible; I was maddened by it. I had to dosomething.

After trying every other way I could think of to get the maniacalcat off my leg, I resorted to the only option left to me. I wentto the wall, drew back my leg, and banged Puss hard against it.

At last, he let go.

I limped away to examine my leg. There were two rows of holes,streaming with blood, where the cat's teeth had held me, andnumerous scratches from his claws. I found a cloth, dampened itand bathed the wounds, then fastened a tea towel around it as abandage.

Only then did I turn to Puss. He was lying stretched out on thefloor where he had fallen, I didn't have to go to him to know hewas dead. There was a red mark on the wall and his head wasmatted and bloody.

I honestly did not intend to hurt him, believe me.

There was nothing I could do for him and visiting time would soonbe over, so I left him there and hurried to the hospital. All theway there, my mind was churning over, trying to think of how Iwas going to break the news to Gran.

A nurse met me at the door to the ward. I could tell by her facewhat she was going to say. Gran had died a short time before. Shesaid it was totally unexpected, she had improved considerablysince I'd seen her the day before, they had even consideredsending her home soon. Then, without warning, she had suddenlypassed away. It was almost as if she had let go, as if she haddecided she did not want to live any more. It's sometimes likethat with old folk, she told me.

There was one odd thing, the nurse said as she took my arm andled me away, just before she died she cried out. It was difficultto understand her, but it sounded like the same word repeatedover and over. Something like, "Puss, puss, puss, puss."Did I know what she could have meant?

I buried Puss in Gran's garden, under the tree he used to sharpenhis claws on.