Miss Chippy

The room was tranquil, warm and cosy. I sat alone in my big armchair in front of a log fire, watching the television news with my supper balanced on my lap. In front of me was a large, low, coffee table on which were scattered papers, books and an electrical appliance that I had just repaired with super-glue. Bear, my great, sloppy male Labrador slept on the mat between the fire and the coffee table after a busy day lounging on the lawn in the sun. Miss Chippy, a much more alert female member of the same breed, sat next to me eyeing my supper and occasionally lifting her appealing eyes to mine in the hope of softening my heart sufficiently for me to slip her a tit-bit. Her stocky frame bore testimony to the success of this tactic. On the opposite side of the coffee table to Bear, two tiny ginger kittens lay curled together on a woolly rug in front of the settee. They had arrived the day before and were settling in nicely to their new surroundings.

As I watched the television, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Chippy had grown more daring and had squirmed a little closer to the plate on my lap so that her muzzle was now almost touching the rim. Gently, she tilted her head onto one side and quietly nicked the nearest potato chip. I looked down sharply and shouted at her to behave herself. Quickly she withdrew. But the angry shout had already set in train the most bizarre sequence of events.

Bear, sometimes nick-named Boo-boo-bear, was a nervous old boy who didn't like loud noises. He was terrified of thunder and spent most of the rainy season cowering in the cupboard in my bedroom. If I raised my voice for any reason, he would rapidly search around himself for anything he could pick up and bring to me as a placatory present. These presents could take any form from a leaf to a matchbox; it just depended what happened to be nearest to him. On this occasion, hearing my shout at Miss Chippy, he jumped to his feet and searched rapidly about himself for a present. The nearest item, which he snatched up into his mouth without hesitation, was the tube of super-glue lying next to him on the coffee table. The tube burst in his mouth before he had a chance to bring it to me.

The burning pain and dreadful taste of the super-glue in Bear's mouth caused him to howl like a banshee, whilst he stood up on his hind legs clawing at his mouth with his forepaws. He dislodged the tube of super-glue, which went flying over the coffee table and landed precisely between the sleeping kittens where they immediately became stuck together and stuck to the woolly rug. Still howling in a pitiful manner, Bear vaulted over the coffee table and set off down the corridor for my bedroom. The kittens, meanwhile, blamed each other for their sudden immobility - each set about the other in a screaming, hissing and spitting ball of ginger fur from which neither could escape.

For a few seconds, I sat frozen in my chair, hardly able to take in the rapidly unfolding events. However, Bear's howls from the bedroom eventually brought me to my senses and to my feet and I tore off down the corridor after him. He was lying on my bed pawing at his mouth. Fortunately, I had read the instructions on the tube of super-glue only half an hour before and remembered the words: 'Don't panic and separate the parts with warm, soapy water'. It was difficult not to panic as I soaped up a flannel in my bathroom listening to Bear moaning on my bed next door and the distant screech of kittens in the sitting room.

The warm, soapy water worked perfectly on Bear's mouth and separated his tongue from his lips just as the instructions said they would. He hopped off the bed as soon as I had finished, sneezed, flapped his ears, shook himself and trotted down the corridor after me as if nothing had happened. The kittens were a different matter; there were claws and teeth in their little pile. I covered them with a towel from the kitchen and cut them from the carpet and from each other with a pair of scissors. They bolted into the kitchen as soon as they were released from their unseen tormentor.

Tranquillity slowly returned to the room, and I returned to my chair. Miss Chippy, who now lay in Bear's place by the fire with her head on the mat between her paws, raised her eyes guiltily to meet mine, without moving her head. The tip of her tail was tap-tapping on the mat. My plate of supper that I left on the coffee table when I set off to rescue Bear, was empty. I dared not raise my voice again for fear of setting off another round of mayhem. Instead, I went to bed hungry.