Porridge the Tartan Cat Books 1 to 3 Read online

  But what of the Dug o Doom?

  He had bitten through the rope attached to his tail and made a wild dash for freedom. But as he tried to get away, the big orange ball of wool from Chapter 13 thundered into the cave and rolled right over the horrid hound.

  Now the Dug o Doom was all wrapped up like an unwanted present.

  The crowd broke into wild applause, convinced that the falling balloon and the dug were all part of the show.

  “I want a word with this pesky dug’s owner,” muttered Groovy Gran, rushing over really really slowly because old people do that. Really.

  Dug owners put their phone numbers on dug tags because dugs are always running off. To find the dug tag on the Dug o Doom’s collar, I dug through layers of wool. But the collar was sewn onto the dug’s moth-eaten fur.

  Sewn?

  Me-owch!

  Hmmm. There was a wee tag hanging from the collar, shaped like a dug bowl. It said:

  Then I spotted a metal zip running up the dug’s tummy. Suddenly it all made sense. This was no dug, but a pesky person inside an old dug costume, used to advertise dug bowls long ago.

  Who was inside? It had to be someone who had worked in the factory before it made cat bowls. My cat senses tingled and my bell jingled. I knew it! The person in the costume had to be –

  Dawn McYawn!

  I tore through the orange wool and scratched off the hairy costume head to reveal…

  “RAB MCDRAB!” gasped Groovy Gran.

  Me-oops!

  Aye, it was Rab, not Dawn. My mistake.

  “Ay caramba!” Biff shouted, in surprise and Spanish.

  “What have you got to say for yourself?” tutted Isla. “Trying to crash our balloon and scaring people…”

  And cats.

  Rab sniffed and wiped his wet nose with a furry paw. “Sorry. It was me who tore doon the posters. And snatched the papers. And spun that big dish into space. And tried to anchor you to Ben Tankle. And then burst your balloon.”

  That was a lot of ands.

  “We thought it was Porridge playing tricks.” Groovy Gran tutted.

  I tutted too.

  “But why did you do all that?” asked Ross.

  “I didnae want the Tattie Scones tae gig again,” sobbed Rab. A tear dangled off his nose like a shiny tree bauble. “Last time, you said I didnae DING my triangle. But I did. It wisnae my fault the triangle made nae sound when I struck it.”

  Me-hmmm…

  If only he could prove he was telling the truth!

  24

  Proof

  I scratched my itchy neck and found half a torn photograph lodged in my collar! It must have got stuck there when Groovy Gran caught me in her trolley. I held it out on my claw.

  “Look at that! And I’ve got the other piece in ma pocket.” Groovy Gran quickly joined up both halves like a two-piece jigsaw puzzle.

  My mega-super-well-OK-not-bad eyes zoomed in on the grainy image of the band, and I spotted something no one had seen before: a missing link that explained why the triangle didnae DING! I quickly clawed a circle around it.

  “What’s that in Rab’s hand?” asked Isla, squinting.

  “A link sausage!” gasped Groovy Gran.

  “That was ma after-show snack,” whispered an embarrassed Scruff. “I dinnae like tattie scones much.”

  Groovy Gran gave a flabbergasted gasp! Which is hard to say fast.

  Groovy Gran gave a flabbergasted gasp! Groovy Gran gave a flabbergasted gasp!

  “I must have grabbed the sausage in the dark,” sighed Rab.

  Groovy Gran giggled. “You hit the triangle with a sausage?”

  Rab’s face brightened. “Aye. I may have made a wee mistake, but this photo is proof I did NOT forget to DING that day.”

  “Sorry Rab,” said Groovy Gran, and she hugged him like he was the best Christmas present ever (like a scratching post or a truck full of fishy biscuits)!

  The excited fans began to chant, impatient for the gig to begin.

  “I didn’t bring a triangle with me!” said Rab, flustered.

  I handed over my collar with its metal name tag.

  “Porridge wants you to hit the tag,” said Isla. “It makes a delightful DING!”

  Rab’s look of surprise gave way to happiness, but then to despair. “Och, I still need a metal dinger!” he spluttered. “I know I had one around here somewhere, thirty years ago.”

  Cats don’t usually play fetch, but in this case I made an exception. Quick as runny porridge, I dived under the mixing desk and just a few words later, I spotted it.

  “You fantabulous feline!” cried Rab, when I dropped the dinger in his paws. He wagged his tail, padded to the front of the stage and held his dinger so high it glittered under the bright lights, like the legendary sword Excalibur. And some people actually got down on one knee. Maybe they were knights? Or doing up their shoelaces.

  “It’s showtime!” cried Rab, grinning so brightly that the front row put sunglasses on. He nodded at Biff, who bashed his drums.

  BIFF-BASH-CRASH!

  The Big Gig had begun!

  25

  What A Show!

  “This is the best gig EVER!” said Ross, dancing beside Isla.

  Biff bashed and crashed his drum kit on top of the oven, Scruff jangled her guitar strings and Rab tapped his hairy feet along to the beat. Meanwhile Groovy Gran strutted behind the mixing desk, stirring ingredients and singing like a bird.

  Mmmm. Bird.

  Even after thirty years, the fans still knew every word. Except for Mavis Muckle’s friend Doris Prune, who just pretended she did.

  Anita the Postie danced by the stage and tossed fan letters to the band. Mavis Muckle sang from the bottom of her heart and Basil trumped from the heart of his bottom. Doris Prune waved her hat in the air (because elephants can be really smelly).

  After three songs, Groovy Gran dolloped her mega-mix onto a big tray dish. Then eager volunteers surged onto the stage and helped slide it into the oven. They swung the door shut and Groovy Gran turned the temperature up to ELEVEN.

  The tattie-scone mix rose and plumped up like an incredible edible balloon. After nine songs, it was bigger than a shed. After twelve songs, it was bigger than a shedload of sheds!

  The Crystal Cave really rocked as the fans jumped in time to the music. So did a bag of self-raising flour. It fell onto the floor and a chalky cloud billowed up around the band.

  Groovy Gran turned white as a ghost and spluttered and coughed so much her slobbery choppers whirled off into the crowd.

  “I’ve lost ma wallies,” the old lady croaked, desperate to get her false teeth back. “I cannae sing without them!”

  There was only one thing I could do.

  Read a book?

  Eat fishy biscuits?

  Catch a pesky robin?

  OK, so there were lots of things I could have done – but only one thing I had to do. I leapt off the stage into a sea of fans, tossed about like a ship with whiskers.

  Groovy Gran’s voice was now just a thin sloshy whisper. She needed those wallies back!

  “Quick, let’s help,” said Isla.

  The twins grabbed a microphone each and got in on the act.

  Whoops, there goes ma haggis,

  Ma haggis just went splat.

  It landed on the teacher’s heid…

  Now it’s a braw new…

  I saw the wallies bounce off Basil’s trunk and I batted them back towards the stage with my tartan tail. Groovy Gran opened her mouth in astonishment and the wallies plopped right in. She belted out the last word…

  “HAT!”

  On cue, Rab swung his metal dinger and my name tag went DING!

  26

  We Did It!

  The oven door opened and an enormous tattie scone slid out. A gorgeous aroma made the audience dribble – even the babies (but no one noticed, as they dribble a lot anyway).

  What a glorious golden colour the tattie scone was too. Timed and baked to perfe
ction.

  “You did it,” cried Groovy Gran, giving Rab a hug.

  “We did it,” he shouted, proudly placing my name tag around my neck as if giving me a medal for being fantabulous, which I am by the way. Rab told me in Chapter 24.

  “We’ve raised enough money to raise the school roof!” cried Groovy Gran, hugging the delighted twins.

  “And enough tattie scone scrumptiousness to feed all our fans,” added Rab (including any fans who sneaked back for seconds and thirds and fourths and other fractions).

  The hungry fans waved their arms and spoons in the air.

  Me-yum!

  “What a braw gig,” said Scruff, waving the fans goodbye.

  “Aye,” said Biff, knitting a souvenir t-shirt.

  “When will your next gig be?” Isla asked Rab.

  He thought for a moment and glanced at his band mates.

  “In thirty years!” they cried as one.

  That’s about 210 cat years, I meowed, working out the answer with my paws and claws. You can count on me to count on me.

  27

  Knock Knock!

  One sunny Saturday a few weeks later, when Mum and Dad were back from their holiday and the kids were back at school, I explored the new roof. It wasn’t creaky or leaky any more, thanks to all the cash raised by the Big Gig.

  Suddenly I heard a GRRRRR!

  Was it another Dug o Doom out to get me? No, just my grumpy tummy rumbling. By the time you got to the end of this sentence I’d run back home.

  “Here you are, Porridge,” said Ross, tipping some delicious fishy biscuits into my mouth. “Eat up. You’ve got a lot to get through. Someone keeps sending you fishy biscuits in the post.”

  There was a KNOCK KNOCK at the front door.

  “Who’s there?” said Ross.

  “Anita.”

  “Anita who?”

  “Anita give you this package,” said the postie. She handed over a bulky box and cycled off.

  “That looks exciting,” said Groovy Gran, riding up on a funky hover-trolley that Gadget Grandad had just invented.

  “Let’s see what’s in the box,” said Mum.

  I slit through the cardboard with my claws and the sound of tasty tunes by the Tattie Scones filled the room.

  Me-wow!

  “I’ve finally got a golden musical coat hanger!” cried Isla

  “Me too!” yelled Ross.

  “Me three!” chuckled Groovy Gran. “There’s more than enough for everyone.”

  Except me.

  “Nae, worries, Porridge. This is for you,” said Ross. He handed me a golden cat bowl with my name inscribed on the side. “I guess you don’t need a coat hanger as you never take off your coat.”

  Not even indoors, I purred.

  I jumped in the empty cardboard box and made myself comfortable.

  Who needs presents when you’ve got cardboard boxes? (It’s a cat thing.)

  “Porridge! There’s a note stuck to your bahookie,” giggled Isla.

  Charming. I coolly flicked my tartan tail and the note spun into her hands. She read it out.

  I really don’t love being stuck in this box!

  Me-HELP!

  But I do love fishy biscuits.

  Me-yum!

  To the special grown ups in my life, who

  helped a small kid think big. Me-thanks! – A.D.

  To my ever caring and supportive hubby Colin – Y.S.

  1

  It’s only me!

  Hi, I’m Porridge the Tartan Cat.

  Once upon a tin, I accidentally fell in some tartan paint!

  Me-splosh!

  Now I’m totally tartany, which is a real word I’ve just invented.

  I live in Tattiebogle Town with the fantastic McFun family. Gadget Grandad, Groovy Gran, Mini Mum, Dino Dad, Roaring Ross and Invisible Isla are always getting into trouble. And I’m always getting them out of it.

  Me-wow!

  Every evening, I curl up and cat-a-log our brawsome adventures. So why not snuggle up beside me and read Porridge The Tartan Cat and the Kittycat Kidnap?

  It’s packed full of amazing shortbread and jokes and words and ME!

  2

  The Bit Where The Story Starts

  One afternoon, Isla and Ross were busy in the kitchen, brushing their favourite cat. ME!

  Mum was baking. Being a famous scientist, she experimented all the time – especially in the kitchen. She loved to create crazy recipes with anything she found in the cupboards. And I mean anything.

  So the soups tasted of soap and the spaghetti tasted of shoelaces and the fishy biscuits tasted of fizzy bicarbonate of soda!

  Me-yuck!

  Mum put on her safety goggles and took a tray of hot super-short shortbread out of the oven. It smoked and smouldered like a crashed meteorite.

  “Anyone want to munch my super-short shortbread?” she said, chiselling it into chunks. Two pieces pinged towards the twins, who hurriedly stuffed them in their pockets, ‘for later’…

  “There’s plenty more,” trilled Mum. Just then, Dad walked in with a magnifying glass (he loves dinosaurs). He pointed to a muddy trail ahead of him. “These paw prints were made by a rare Porridginus Tartanus Catus!”

  Me-oops.

  Mum pointed to a muddy trail just behind Dad. “And these boot prints were made by Dino Dadus!”

  After he had wiped the floor clean with Gadget Grandad’s Mop-o-Matic machine, Mum offered him a charred chunk of super-short shortbread.

  Dad grabbed two bags of tools. “Sorry, my hands are full. I’m off on a fossil hunt! Bye!” And he dashed out the door.

  That left me.

  I wasn’t hungry. I remembered the last time Mum did a nutty experiment in the kitchen. She tried to make fishy biscuits, but used almonds instead of salmon because they’re almost spelt the same!

  Me-yuck!

  Mum dropped a lump of shortbread in my favourite bowl and it broke in half. (The bowl, not the shortbread.) I took a pretend bite and pushed the shortbread under my cushion, then pulled a that-was-delicious face.

  “I’ll get you another… bowl,” said Mum.

  I thought she was going to say “chunk”.

  Me-phew.

  3

  A Super-Short Chapter (that is Actually Quite Long)

  Even though no one else was keen to try it, Mum couldn’t resist a wee taste of her precious super-short shortbread. The sugar on top glittered like shiny diamonds on a lumpy layer of coal.

  My fur sprang up and my whiskers tingled. There was magic and danger in the air… and the smell of burnt baking.

  Mum took a bite.

  “It tastes a bit buttery,” she said, a bit spluttery. “And I’m getting a strange squish-squashy sensation inside.”

  Mum opened her mouth and let out a BURP!

  “Pardon me,” she giggled.

  And that was when it happened.

  Mum shrank.

  SWOOSH!

  Not a lot. Just a little. About as much as a balloon shrinks when you let out some air.

  Me-wow!

  “That was incredible,” gasped Isla.

  “That was delicious,” Mum squeaked. She took another big bite, and let out another BURP!

  “Pardon me.”

  Och – it was happening again.

  SWOOSH!

  Mum wobbled and gasped as the tiled floor rushed towards her. “Now I detect an itchy-titchy feeling… from my itchy nose to my titchy toes.”

  “Mum! Stop!” cried Ross.

  By now, Mum couldn’t reach the table. She stood in its shadow and scoffed the crumbs in her hand.

  BURP! SWOOSH!

  “Pardon me.”

  Down she went. Smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller until she wasn’t any taller than a mouse.

  Mmmm. Mouse.

  Ross and Isla could not believe their eyes. They gawped at the tiny person by their feet.

  “She’s not a grown-up any more,” said Isla.

  “She
’s a grown-down,” said Ross, trying not to move his toes in case he trod on her.

  Mum had become Mini Mum! She stared up and up and up at the twins and squeaked, “You kids are terribly tall!”

  “You’re terribly small,” grumbled Isla, kneeling down on the kitchen floor for a better look. “Food is meant to make people grow bigger, not smaller. Somehow super-short shortbread makes you super-short!”

  “If you have any more you’ll disappear,” said Ross.

  “Don’t be hasty. It’s very tasty,” squeaked Mini Mum.

  Before you could say ‘DON’T CLIMB A CHAIR LEG!’ she was climbing a chair leg to reach another chunk.

  Seeing the danger, I jumped on the tabletop and batted the tray of super-short shortbread through the open window. It bounced on the grass and scattered crumbly chunks beside six big feathered craws.

  Mmmm. Craws.

  Half a dozen busy beaks pecked until all the pieces were gone.

  Suddenly, a big craw went BURP! and shrank as small as a wee bird that hums instead of sings because it doesn’t know the words yet.

  Mmmm. Humming bird.

  BURP!

  One by one, the birds burped and shrank. Just like that. Until every craw in the garden could fit in your hand.