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been able to catch it. I held my tail high as I retreated towards the half-open back door of my house. As I slipped back inside the cool, dark interior I made the second big decision of my life: I would catch one of those creatures one day and get my own back, if it took me the rest of my life.
    Mum must have been watching from the kitchen window, because she met me at the door and tried to comfort me with soft cooing noises, stroking my tail in the way I like. I rubbed myself against her legs and told her I was glad to be back. We went to sit on the sofa, where I cleaned my poor claws and licked the seed husks off my fur. Then I curled up next to her and we watched TV together. Just before I dozed off to sleep, I felt the sofa shake a little, and watching her through half-closed eyes, I saw her quietly laugh to herself. There must have been something funny on TV.

6
    I HAVE A VERY NARROW ESCAPE
    After the incident with the tree running creature, I went out every day to look for possible ways of catching one, but it proved more difficult than I had imagined. They were incredibly nimble and fast, and soon I knew that only trickery could succeed here. Meanwhile, they missed no opportunity of mocking me as they scampered through the trees and chased each other up and down the long trunks, giggling and jeering all the way. It was quite intolerable, but I put a brave face to it and made a point of sauntering along carelessly, pretending not to notice them at all. I could tell they were annoyed when I did that. Occasionally I stopped to sharpen my claws at the base of a trunk, just to let them see how long they were.
    I ventured out a little further each day. Once I followed an interesting creaking noise into someone’s garden. The noise turned out to be a swing, creaking on the rings that attached it to a tree branch. A small child was swinging to and fro. I don’t care for small children, so I took a detour and found myself at the back of a garden shed. Wondering what lay beyond, I rounded its corner – and stared straight into the face of a large dog. One look at his sharp teeth and at his ears, which were pointed sharply forward in anticipation of a good chase, convinced me I had no option but to bolt. And here’s the thing about bolting: you don’t get long to decide on your direction. You have to make up your mind on the spot, then trust your instincts and take off like there’s no tomorrow, or else there’ll
be
no tomorrow.
    In this case, the dog’s athletic build and long legs made me decide against the wide expanse of the lawn in favour of the garden shed. The door was very slightly ajar; I squeezed through and darted up onto a tottering pile of crates that started wobbling even as I landed. Fortunately, they were stacked against an old wardrobe that looked much sturdier, so up I leapt and crouched down low.
    The dog, meanwhile, was frantically working on the door to prise it open further. The shed shook from his efforts – or perhaps it was my heart hammering in my chest, I’m not sure. His mission accomplished, he stormed in, upsetting the crates and crashing into tools that fell over each other with a clatter. The handle of a heavy shovel hit him hard on the head, and for a moment I hoped he might have been knocked out, because he staggered a little. Alas, not for long. Either the blow had affected his judgment, or he wasn’t very bright in the first place, even for a dog, because he made no effort to locate me rationally; he just wrecked the whole place. The noise was deafening; my hair stood on end as I watched tools flying and workbenches toppling. Of course the silly creature never found me. But the owner of the shed must have heard the commotion. He came storming across the garden, shouting abuse at the dog and chasing him from the shed, adding a couple of smarting blows to his other injuries. Then he came back and locked the door.
    Peace returned to the shed and a warm