Hissy Fitz Read online

  First published by Egmont Publishing, 2015

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806

  New York, NY 10016

  Text copyright © 2015 by Patrick Jennings

  Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Michael Allen Austin

  All rights reserved

  www.egmontusa.com

  www.patrickjennings.com

  www.MichaelAllenAustin.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jennings, Patrick, author.

  Hissy Fitz / by Patrick Jennings; illustrated by Michael Allen Austin. Summary: Hissy, a sleep-deprived British shorthair cat in the extremely noisy Fitz household, recounts his frustrating day trying to find a place to sleep where people–particularly an annoying three-year-old human–will not bother him.

  ISBN 978-1-60684-597-4 (ebook) – ISBN 978-1-60684-596-7 (hardcover)

  1. Scottish fold cat–Juvenile fiction. 2. Cats–Juvenile fiction. 3. Families–Juvenile fiction. 4. Sleep deprivation–Juvenile fiction. [1. Cats–Fiction. 2. Family life–Fiction. 3. Sleep–Fiction.] I. Austin, Michael Allen, illustrator. II. Title.

  PZ7.J4298715

  813.6–dc23

  [Fic]

  2014038492

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher and the copyright holder.

  v3.1

  FOR LOUISE

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. Clueless Georgie

  2. Human Twins

  3. Dad Drops the Ball

  4. Howls of the Monster

  5. Peanut Butter

  6. Smart Kid

  7. The Noisiest Creature

  8. Igloo’s House

  9. Looking for Trouble

  10. Rampage!

  11. Swagger

  12. The Bug

  13. Bath Time

  14. Very Mad Cat

  15. Savage Predator

  16. Sea Sid

  17. Clumsy Quiche

  18. Clumsy Raccoon

  19. Panther of the Night

  20. Cat Teams

  21. Halftime

  22. The Champions

  23. Before the Madness

  24. Awake in a Dream

  25. Up

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  1.

  Clueless Georgie

  “Hissy! I’m home!” Georgie yells as she bursts through the front door.

  I like Georgie. I do. I’ve known her since she was born, more than eight years ago, when I was just a kitten. I was there when she smiled for the first time, when she first sat up by herself, when she said her first word (meow), and when she took her first step. We were about the same size then. She has grown much larger since, larger than me, and much, much noisier. But I am still older. I will always be older.

  My question is, After all we’ve been through together, why does she still treat me like a kitten?

  Why, when we’ve known each other so long, does she insist on waking me from my all-important sleep?

  A moment ago, I was happily napping on the windowsill in the sunshine, dreaming I was flying through the air, catching sparrows in my claws. Now I’m awake. Georgie woke me.

  I wouldn’t do that to her.

  I open one eye.

  She presses her face into my soft, silver-blue fur. “Oh, how I missed you, little Hissy!” she squeals too near my ear.

  I open my other eye, and growl:

  Grrrrrrrrrr!

  “And you missed me, too! Awww!”

  Georgie can’t always tell the difference between a growl and a purr.

  I bare my claws, sink them into the windowsill, and begin to wriggle free. She senses that I’m trying to get away and squeezes tighter. I raise my hackles and let out a long hiss.

  Hssssssssss!

  It does the trick. Georgie lets go of me and plops down on the bench beneath the window.

  “You know what happened at school today?” she asks.

  I do not.

  “Ethan was making towers with his base ten blocks.”

  She looked shocked. I have no idea what base ten blocks are, but she gives me little scratches between my ears as she talks — which I quite enjoy — so I purr my encouragement: Prrrrrrrrrr!

  It’s simple. I hiss when she does something I don’t like; I purr when she does something I like. Why doesn’t she learn?

  “Of course, I told him he shouldn’t, but he said he should, so I said, ‘I mean, you’re not supposed to,’ but he did it anyway!”

  I tip my head upward, trying to guide her hand to my cheeks. I love having my cheeks stroked, a fact I’ve tried to impress upon her for years. She slides her hand down my neck, then glides it over my back toward my tail. This is not what I want. I do not like her near my tail. She has a habit of weaving it through her fingers, which tugs.

  “Ms. Seven saw him and asked him to take the towers apart. They’re for doing math, not for building towers, you know.”

  I did not.

  She slumps backward onto the bench’s plump throw pillows. I slip my tail from her grasp, jump down from the sill, and rub my cheeks against her arm. Sometimes I have to do everything myself.

  She gives a big yawn, stretching her arms out to her side. Her eyelids lower. She often takes a nap after school. In my opinion, human beings do not nap enough, especially the little ones. All that racing around, hopping, and squawking would certainly wear me out. Children should take more naps than cats do.

  I curl up beside her. She smiles sleepily. She likes when I nap with her. So do I. As I said, I like Georgie. I also like napping, and I almost never get enough sleep. It’s because I live in this house, with the noisy Fitz family, with this noisy, clueless girl.

  Georgie’s breathing slows and deepens. Just like that, she’s out. I’m almost there, too, until …

  “Hissy cat!” Zeb yells as he races through the door, his fists pumping, his chin forward. Zeb is one of Georgie’s three-year-old brothers. The untamed one. As usual, he’s looking for trouble.

  I’m not, though I can bring it when necessary.

  It’s necessary.

  2.

  Human Twins

  Hsssssssss! I say.

  I spring from Georgie’s side and cross the room in three quick bounds. My destination is the big square bed in the master bedroom. Zeb can’t get at me when I’m under it.

  “I wouldn’t chase the cat, Zeb,” says Georgie’s dad. He comes in behind his son, holding the hand of his other one. “Hissy doesn’t like it.”

  He’s right, Hissy doesn’t, but Zeb doesn’t listen to his dad.

  I hiss again as I exit the room — Hssssssssss! — then fly up the stairs. Down the hall, I duck into the master bedroom, where I dive under the big square bed.

  Zeb clambers up the stairs. “Cat!” he cries. “Hissy cat! Where ar-r-r-re you?”

  He toddles into the room. He knows my hiding places.

  Hssssssssss! I say again. He really can’t take a hint. He’s worse than Georgie.

  He peeks under the bed. “There you are, Hissy cat. Come here. Come on.”

  Is he kidding?

  When I don’t come out, he climbs onto the bed and starts hopping up and down. He hiccups my name each time he lands.

  I lay my snout on my paws. It’s no wonder I have trouble sleeping in this house.

  Light footsteps skip up the stairs, then Abe steps into the doorway. The other twin. He’s wearing his stuffed-rabbit puppet, Medium Sad Guy, on his hand. Its long silver ears dangle almost to the floor. Ab
e’s head tilts up and down in time with his brother’s bouncing.

  Abe is a nice, quiet boy, who never wakes me or chases me or jumps up and down on my head. Are all human twins so opposite?

  “HISS-sy! HISS-sy! HISS-sy!” Zeb chants.

  Heavier footsteps on the stairs. Dad’s.

  “Come here, Zeb,” he says, entering the room. He steps past Abe. “Give the cat a break.”

  I appreciate this, though Dad, who’s a carpenter, didn’t exactly give the cat a break today. He made a terrible racket out in his backyard workshop with his hammers and his shrieking, grinding power tools. And his radio. His rock ’n’ roll.

  Again, Zeb doesn’t listen to his dad. He continues to hop and chant.

  Dad steps up to the bed. “Come on,” he says. “Jump to Daddy.”

  Zeb hits the bed one more time. Dad grunts. I assume he caught the boy, so I shoot for the door. I swerve past Abe’s ankles into the hall, then down the stairs.

  Georgie appears when I reach the bottom. I guess she couldn’t sleep, either.

  “What’s the matter, Hissy?” she asks. “Is Zeb bothering you?”

  Yes, Zeb is bothering me.

  She bends down and picks me up. I don’t mind being picked up. I don’t love it, but if done properly, it’s not horrible. Georgie doesn’t do it properly. She turns me onto my back, with my belly up, which is how humans carry their babies. It is not how cats carry theirs. It makes me nervous. And annoyed. I growl. Grrrrrrrrr!

  She scratches my chest with her finger.

  I wriggle.

  She holds me tighter.

  I hiss.

  Hssssssssss!

  “Oh, Hissy,” she says, “why are you in a bad mood?”

  I’m not in a bad mood. I’m in a mad mood. I bare my claws and twist.

  “Ow!” she says, loosening her grip.

  I fall perfectly to the floor, onto all four paws. I spring away. I am using all the energy I’ve saved up.

  “You little rascal!” Georgie calls after me. “You scratched me! Come back here and say you’re sorry!”

  I won’t be doing that.

  3.

  Dad Drops the Ball

  I slink into the kitchen, my ears twisting, listening for Zeb. He’s up in his room, pounding on something. The boy takes after his father. Bam, bam, bam! I don’t understand this drive to hammer. Maybe if I had thumbs …

  I make for my food and water dishes. One is nearly empty; the other needs freshening. Dad’s been so busy in his workshop that he forgot about the cat’s needs. He didn’t forget about his own, however. He dipped into the kitchen several times to snack and refill his water bottle from the spout in the refrigerator door. I doubt Dad would care to drink water that had been sitting in a bowl all day.

  I pick up a few kibbles with my tongue then crunch them. They taste as they always do: dry and slightly fishy. I’d prefer actual fish, but I don’t have enough energy to go out and find and kill one.

  I still need water, so I pad into the bathroom. The toilet seat is down. Rats. I won’t risk checking the upstairs toilets. Not with Zeb on the loose.

  It drizzled a little this morning, so I can probably find a pool of rainwater outside. I duck through my door and run down the back porch steps into the yard. The grass is slightly damp. I lick the moisture off a few blades. It’s a start. I roll around in the grass then lie down and lick my fur. This is grooming and drinking at the same time.

  My eyelids feel heavy. Maybe I could steal a little nap here in the grass before —

  “There you are!” Georgie says, pushing open the kitchen door.

  If she comes near me, I will smack her. I know that’s not nice, but it’s how I feel.

  “I filled your food dish,” she says. She sets it down on the porch.

  Okay, now I feel bad.

  I scurry over to it. Oh, she opened a can! It’s Salmon Supper and tastes more like fish than the dry stuff does. She scratches my head as I lap it up. This is more like it. This is good. I love Georgie.

  Bang! This is Zeb slamming the door behind him as he emerges from the kitchen.

  “Hissy cat!” he roars. His hands are curled up like claws. He hisses. Which is my thing.

  Hssssssssss! I say.

  I abandon the food with a heavy heart, but in a hurry. Zeb is a monster.

  I consider dashing away across the lawn, scaling the fence, and disappearing into the neighborhood. But the neighborhood is dangerous during the day. Automobiles, dogs, and kids everywhere. I’d never find a place to sleep, either. Too noisy. Wherever you find humans, you will find noise.

  Instead, I shoot through Zeb’s legs and back through my door into the kitchen. Georgie neglected to close the pantry door after she got the can of food, so I slip inside. I leap over a row of large cans on the floor and hunker down. I feel my pulse in my throat.

  The door bangs again and Zeb’s heavy feet bang on the linoleum. Bang, bang, bang!

  “Leave Hissy alone, Zeb!” Georgie says. The door opens again and she steps inside. “I just got him calmed down. He was real mad after you chased him upstairs. He even scratched me.”

  Zeb roars again. He’s a wild animal. He shouldn’t be allowed inside. He should be an outside boy.

  He runs from the room. I’ve escaped him. For now.

  “Hissy?” Georgie whispers, peeking into the pantry.

  She knows my hiding places, too.

  I’d be mad if she weren’t holding the food dish.

  I mew.

  She giggles. “I thought you might be in here.”

  She pulls the door almost shut behind her, then crouches. I leap back over the cans and dive into the Salmon Supper.

  Georgie scratches my back. I prefer the head, but I let it pass. I do complain when she weaves my tail in her fingers.

  Hsssssssss!

  “Shhh,” she says. “We don’t want Zeb to find out where we are.”

  She’s right. She brought me food. She’s protecting me from the toddler. She can tug my tail all she wants. She’s only human, after all.

  4.

  Howls of the Monster

  I’m now fed and lying on Georgie’s lap. She’s on her bed. I’d love to sleep; however, Georgie will not stop yakking.

  “In the library today Mr. Fairchild read a story about a cat named Due Date that lived in a library. It was called Library Kitty, which isn’t a very creative title, is it? The cat lived in the library, and was really sweet, and everyone loved her, and then one day she disappeared, and everyone got so sad, even the people who didn’t really like cats. There are people like that, you know, Hissy. Not everybody loves cats the way me and Tillie do.”

  Tillie is Georgie’s best friend. She has a white cat named Igloo, whom I sometimes prowl with during the night.

  As Georgie relates the story of the missing library cat, she strokes me. She seldom pays attention to what she’s doing while she’s yakking, so I guide her hand toward my cheeks. I purr loudly to show my approval. Prrrrrrrrrr!

  “At the end, Due Date just walks into the library followed by the cutest little baby kitties you ever saw! Me and Tillie thought that was a perfect ending, though we both had a feeling the story was heading that way. Ethan made a sound with his mouth — what do you call that when you make your lips go …” She blows through her closed lips, which makes a spluttery sound.

  I don’t know what you call that. Unattractive?

  “He didn’t like the ending. He didn’t like the story, because he doesn’t like cats. Like I said, not everyone does. Mr. Fairchild asked him to go sit at a table by himself, and I guess he found a piece of a broken eraser on it and put it in his mouth and started choking. It was pretty funny, but then scary, because his face turned all red. Mr. Fairchild rushed over and gave him the Heimlich, and Ethan went hunh! The eraser shot out of his mouth and landed on the table. That was pretty funny, too. And scary. But we all laughed.”

  Maybe it’s the steady stream of Georgie’s talking, or maybe it�
�s the expert petting I’m forcing her to do, but I feel drowsy. I yawn a huge, fang-baring, tongue-curling yawn and stretch out my toes. My eyelids slide shut.

  “Yowwoooooooooo! Daaaa-deeee!” howls Zeb from somewhere. “Yowwoooooooooo!”

  I’m wide awake.

  “That’s Zebby,” Georgie says, brushing me off her lap and jumping to the floor. “It sounds like he’s really hurt.” She pulls her heavy backpack away from the door — she put it there to keep him out — then runs out of the room.

  I move to the warm spot she left behind. Maybe I can get back to where I was before Zeb started screaming.

  Yes, he’s still screaming.

  Heh, heh.

  I know it’s not polite to be happy about it. Maybe it’s just a mild injury that will prevent him from chasing cats for a while.

  Heh.

  5.

  Peanut Butter

  I nod off, and, just like that, I’m in flight again. I swoop down from the branch of a tall tree, a fat robin in my sights. I bare my claws and —

  Woof! Woof! Woof-woof-woof! Woof!

  I wake up on the bed. The dog wasn’t in my dream. I rise up to the window and peek outside. Ethan and his huge puppy, Peanut Butter, are coming up the sidewalk. They live down the street. Ethan needs to train the beast not to bark. He doesn’t even try to shush him.

  I leap up and screech, Yeeeowwwooorrrr!

  Peanut Butter gallops into our yard. He’s loose, of course. Ethan never leashes him.

  “Can you keep that dog quiet?” a voice from below me asks. It’s Georgie, on the front porch. “Zeb had an accident.”

  And your cat is trying to sleep.

  “Really?” Ethan asks. “What happened to him?”

  “That’s none of your business. Can you make Peanut Butter be quiet?”

  “Not really. He doesn’t listen to me. What happened to Zeb?”

  “I’m not listening to you, either — Help!”

  Peanut Butter has bounded up the steps and is licking Georgie’s face with his long, pink tongue. Peanut Butter is a golden retriever. Though he’s only a year old, he probably weighs as much as Georgie. His tongue alone is enough to knock her over.