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For Tom,

who has a fat cat of his own

Contents

Cover

Half Title Page

More Books by Holly Webb

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Look After Your Cat

Copyright

Purring rumbled through the sleepy sunshine, and Alfie yawned again. It was a warm September Sunday afternoon, and he was full of lunch, and apples, and a squashed bar of chocolate that he’d forgotten was in the back pocket of his jeans. He settled himself more comfortably against the trunk of the apple tree and leaned his arm against the thick branch that jutted out in just the right place. Penguin, who was draped across the same branch like a fat furry rug, leaned forward a little and licked Alfie’s elbow lovingly.

“Don’t fall off,” Alfie murmured woozily. But it was a silly thing to say. Penguin never fell. He didn’t look as though he was in the best shape for climbing trees – one would think his stomach would get in the way, particularly for jumping. But Penguin had perfect balance, good even for a cat. Alfie smiled to himself as he remembered trying to persuade Penguin to walk along the washing line during the summer holidays. Penguin had refused, even for smoky bacon crisps, his favourite. (Although he had stolen the crisps off the table later. ) Alfie had been convinced that Penguin would be a fabulous tightrope artist. They should try again. Perhaps it was the lack of circus music and Big Top atmosphere that had put him off. Maybe a costume… Alfie looked at Penguin thoughtfully. He wondered how easy it would be to get hold of a cat-shaped leotard.

Penguin opened one yellowish-golden eye a slit and stared sternly at Alfie, as though warning him that attempts to dress him in a sequinned cloak would result in severe scratches. But he didn’t stop purring.

“OK,” Alfie murmured. “But I bet it would be good for your tummy. ”

Penguin ignored that.

Penguin hadn’t always been enormous. When Alfie had first found him, sitting on the front doorstep on the way home from school two years before, he had been very skinny indeed, and not much more than a kitten. Alfie was pretty sure he’d been a stray for a while, and that was why he loved food so much – he’d never been quite sure where the next meal was coming from.

Mum and Dad hadn’t been at all sure about keeping the thin little black and white kitten, but Alfie had begged and begged. He had agreed to putting up posters, just in case someone else was looking for their lost cat, and he’d stood anxiously next to Mum as she had phoned all the vets in the local phonebook. But no one had turned up to claim the skinny kitten (who was already less skinny, after a couple of days of Alfie-sized meals). After two weeks, Mum and Dad had given in, and Alfie had announced the secret he’d been saving up.

The cat was called Penguin.

Dad had tried to explain that it was ridiculous to call a cat that. He wasn’t a penguin.

Alfie said he knew that quite well, thank you. The cat just looked like one. And it was true. Penguin had sleek black fur – getting sleeker by the day – and a shining white shirt front. When Alfie had spent his birthday money from Gran on a glow-in-the-dark orange collar, Penguin was a dead ringer for his namesake. When Alfie phoned Gran to tell her what he’d spent the money on, he had got a little parcel back with a silvery tag engraved with his phone number on one side and Penguin on the other. Gran liked cats. And even Dad could not argue now there was a collar with his name on.