Copycat by Colin Dann

homeless and uncared for. I had to feed myself. I joined a group of – um – other homeless creatures and learnt how to hunt. I became the best hunter; better than any of them. I was the King Cat.’ He paused to see if the title impressed Hermione. She was standing now, half in and half out of the window. She seemed to have forgotten the drizzle.
    Sammy continued, ‘But I always longed for those comforts again. I moved around, rambling here and there, hoping for a kind word, a loving hand, real food, warmth and comfort. I couldn’t seem to find any of those things.’
    ‘What a sad story,’ the Church Cat whispered. ‘I’d no idea.’
    Sammy warmed to his theme. ‘The more I had to roam, the wilder I must have appeared. Small wonder I couldn’t attract human compassion. So you can understand how thankful I was to accept Monty’s offer.’
    ‘His – offer?’ the Church Cat murmured.
    ‘Yes. Food and shelter in return for keeping intruders away. At last I have some of the home comforts back again. I feel a new animal and I try, with each day, to become like the happy house pet I used to be with my dear mistress.’
    Hermione jumped into the garden and came towards him. ‘You said you needed me,’ she said archly, ‘that time you followed me home. I didn’t understand before. You meant I could help you to – to become civilized again?’
    ‘That’s it exactly,’ Sammy concurred enthusiastically. ‘You set me the most perfect example. Of course I could never hope to acquire your elegance.’
    The Persian actually began to purr. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘the King Cat hasn’t forgotten how to pass a compliment. Perhaps it won’t be so difficult to help rid him of a few rough edges.’

—11—
    Rabbit search
    When the fox awoke in the copse he couldn’t believe his eyes. There was no sign of Pinkie so he didn’t connect the pigeon fledgeling with her in any way. This carrion was pure bounty for him. His few remaining teeth were soon tearing off the flimsy feathers. There wasn’t a lot of meat, but for the old fox it was a feast. He smacked his lips over it.
    Pinkie returned and feigned surprise. ‘Has it revived you?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes,’ the fox wheezed. ‘For a few moments longer!’
    ‘Perhaps your luck’s changed,’ said Pinkie. ‘How do you feel about hunting rabbit?’
    ‘Embittered,’ the fox replied. ‘You keep talking of it and you know I’m incapable.’
    ‘ Show me the rabbits,’ Pinkie pleaded. ‘Give me a chance.’
    ‘I’ll show you, I’ll show you,’ the fox declared. ‘And then will you stop goading?’
    ‘I never meant to be –’
    ‘Come on!’ the old fox snapped. ‘You have to catch me when I’m mobile.’ And off he went, half limping, half trotting, through the copse to the riverside. The railway bridge straddled the river a short distance ahead. The fox avoided the towpath, which skirted one of the bridge’s great iron supporting pillars, and continued along the bank itself.
    ‘Is that your den?’ Pinkie cried, seeing a dark muddy entrance hole under a lump of sandstone.
    The fox paused and turned. He had been about to go on past. ‘Yes, that’s home,’ he panted. ‘Cosy, isn’t it?’ He gave Pinkie a sarcastic grin.
    The little white cat almost shuddered. ‘There must be . . . somewhere better than this,’ she whispered.
    ‘Find it, then!’ was the response.
    Pinkie looked back at the black mass of the bridge. Just then a train began to rumble across from the opposite side of the river. The rumble became thunder as it approached. The ground on which the animals stood vibrated. Pinkie thought the earth was going to open up and she raced away.
    ‘Nothing comforting for a creature around here,’ the fox growled, bowing his bony body against the deafening noise. When the train had passed over he hobbled after the frightened cat. ‘That’ll have scattered the rabbits,’ he muttered, ‘if there ever were any.’
    ‘How can you live under