I, Houdini. Lynne Banks Reid

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘was’ because luckily it happens less and less now. The Father is my worst enemy in this respect. He has very fixed ideas about ‘pets’ (as I suppose I must laughingly call myself, taking the human point of view). “Pets are all right in their place,” he keeps on saying. (He does tend to repeat things, a sign of a small mind). His notion of my place is, of course, my cage, and wherever and whenever he catches me, he grabs me up and stuffs me back through that dreaded little entrance-tunnel, and claps in the round stopper. He never seems to believe it when the boys tell him I’ve even found a way round that.

      Anyway, it doesn’t worry me too much any more. The Mother, or one of the children, will soon take pity on me if I just go about it the right way, if I can’t get out by myself. So I just whip up the tubes into my loft, unearth something tasty from my store, and then curl up and go to sleep. I must say it’s quite cosy up there since they put the bits of flannel shirt in, though I much prefer my nest under the kitchen floor. One does tend to prefer a home of one’s own choice, arranged and decorated to suit oneself.

      Here I go, rambling on about the present when I really meant to tell the story of my life. I just wanted to make it crystal clear that I am – well, shall we say, rather unusual? Rambling has always been one of my weaknesses, I just have to follow my nose wherever it takes me – and some fine scrapes it’s led me into, I must say!

      Well, so I am, as I say, a rather extraordinary and quite exceptional ‘little furry animal’ as some people call anything smaller than a pony which runs around on four legs and can’t actually talk. I call them large hairless animals, and I try to use, in my thought, the same degree of superiority that humans do about us. I must admit that nothing infuriates me more than being treated as a pet, picked up, stroked (usually the wrong way), made to climb or jump or run or whatever it is my supposed owners want – and as for eating from their hands and all that sort of degrading nonsense, I’ve no time for it.

      Mind you, my protest against this sort of thing is, nowadays, limited to trying to avoid it by escaping, which is my speciality (hence my name). I wouldn’t dream of biting, which I regard as very uncivilised behaviour. ‘Brain, not brawn’ is my motto. Besides, they’re so vulnerable with their bare skins, it’s not really sporting when you’ve got jaws and teeth like mine. I won’t say I’ve never bitten anyone, but the feeling of shame I had after letting myself go was awful, not to mention the disgusting taste…

      Anyway, as I said, I was bought (it sounds so quaint!) from wherever-it-was and brought here at an early age. I wasn’t half the size I am now, and of course I was entirely ignorant. I didn’t even know that I was a hamster, let alone a golden one – I learnt that from listening to the children, whose speech I soon picked up just by keeping my ears open.

      At first I was too agitated to learn anything, however. I well remember my first night here. They put me into a deep cardboard box with some water and grain in separate bowls. I don’t suppose they meant to keep me there.

      They hadn’t bought a cage yet, which was silly of them, because inside ten minutes I had discovered that my claws could get quite an easy grip on the roughish sides of the box, provided I used the corner to give myself purchase as I climbed. It took three or four attempts, but I am nothing if not persevering and I was soon hanging over the top. It looked rather a long way to the floor (amazing, when I think of the heights I can jump now!) but even then I was no coward, and half-jumped, half-slithered down the outside, head first.

      I was in a large, open area which I now know like the back of my paw, but which was a whole unknown world to me then. Like the idiot I am not, as a rule, I hadn’t stored any of the grain in my cheeks before leaving the box, and now I was free I could have done with a morsel of something, but it was too late to think of that. Escape was then, as now, my main objective, and I was about to sample my first taste of real freedom.

      The area was a room which the Father uses as a kind of workshop. Apart from the kitchen, where my nest is, I think it’s now my favourite room in the house, because it is so beautifully untidy. It is full of things to explore and wonderful places to hide, and I spent the rest of that night doing both to my heart’s content. You must remember, I’d never been free before, and I’m certain that this first blissful taste of it was what gave me my life-long passion for escape, concealment and exploration.

      I climbed into tool boxes and under heaps of sacking; clambered up a big soft mountain which turned out to be a battered armchair, and fell off into a wastepaper basket (fortunately wicker – those smooth-sided metal ones are death-traps to me). I ran behind huge bits of furniture and took a quick nap under a lovely warm radiator (after foolishly trying to climb up it and burning my paws. I was always very wary of sources of heat after that).

      I made several attempts to climb the telephone wire, and got so exasperated because I couldn’t that I eventually chewed it right through. I chewed quite a lot of other things as well. I didn’t know any better in those days, or for quite a while afterwards, to tell the truth. I’m afraid those teeth of mine, with their constant need of being worn down lest they grow through my skin, led me to be very destructive when I was young. I’ve often made excuses for the Father’s intolerant attitude to me because of this. But of course I didn’t know anything about destructiveness then. When I saw something chewable, I just chewed, and I chewed a fair amount that first night, I can tell you. Apart from anything else I was trying to find something to eat.

      Eventually the obvious solution occurred to me. I went back to the box. It wasn’t hard to find, even in that vast area, because of the delicious smells of food and water pouring over the top of it. I didn’t think I could climb back into it because the corners were the wrong sort from outside, but I walked round it and found they’d carelessly left it standing against a pile of telephone directories. Of course I was up these like a flight of steps, plopped back into the box, had a long drink and stuffed my cheeks till they would hold no more. It was a lot harder to climb out with all that load weighing me down, but determination won the day and soon I was safe and warm under the radiator having a good feast before settling down for my day’s well-earned sleep.

      Well, I didn’t sleep long, needless to say. I had hardly dozed off before an appalling hullabaloo broke out in the vicinity of my abandoned box.

      “He’s gone! Goldy’s gone!” shrieked Guy, who was then only five. He’d come to say good morning to me before going to school, and, finding me gone, fell into an uproar. Floods of tears, wails and cries – dear me, it was all very unpleasant and deplorable. I knew nothing about the modern child in those days and was both alarmed and shocked. (I seem to remember now that my Mother used to nip us if we so much as squeaked. Perhaps that’s why I hardly ever utter a sound.)

      His two brothers, Mark and Adam (as I later learnt were their names) came running in, followed by the Mother. A search was put in hand, and I would have been speedily found if I had not scurried off, keeping to the wall which was luckily blocked in by furniture for most of its length, to a tailor-made hiding-place I had noted the night before. I had not chosen it for my day-nest for two reasons. One, I hadn’t known I was in any danger, so security had not seemed more important than warmth and comfort. Two, it was dirty. I never liked the smell of dust, and I am fastidious, so I have never ventured into dirty places except in an emergency. But this was one – I could see the Mother’s feet bearing down on me across the boarded floor – so I just slipped through a hole in the skirting and found myself in a draughty dark cave.

      Instinct told me I was now perfectly safe. There were so many places I could have been concealed that, to the boys’ rage and dismay, the Mother soon told them that the hunt was hopeless. They were bundled off to school, bitterly complaining, and Guy still, alas, in tears. Later in my life I gained enough sensibility to feel uneasy if I had made any of the children sad, but at that time I had no room in my heart for anything but selfish satisfaction that I had evaded them.

      I made a rough nest for СКАЧАТЬ