Sunday morning began at 6.43am.
This was far too early for most members of the Brand household.
It was especially too early for Mr Brand, who had spent Saturday evening telling himself that everything was going to be fine, while simultaneously checking on Snowball approximately every seventeen minutes.
Snowball, meanwhile, had slept beautifully.
She had spent the night curled up in a soft blanket in a quiet corner of the Brands’ bedroom, occasionally opening one eye to check that someone was still there.
Someone always was.
Mostly Mrs Brand.
Sometimes Mr Brand.
And, at around 2.15am, Barry.
Barry had crept into the bedroom, stood silently beside the bed and whispered:
“Is she alive?”
Mrs Brand, half asleep, had opened one eye.
“Yes, Barry.”
“Okay.”
He had gone back to bed.
Twenty minutes later he had returned.
“Is she still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Twenty minutes after that:
“Still alive?”
“Barry.”
“Yes?”
“Go to sleep.”
“But I’m checking.”
“You’ve checked.”
“Oh.”
He had gone.
For approximately forty minutes.
Then he’d returned.
By Sunday morning, Mrs Brand had decided that if Barry was ever employed in a hospital, the NHS would have to introduce a special new department called Children Who Check Things Too Much.
At 6.45am, there was a tiny knock at the front door.
Mr Brand looked at the clock.
He looked at Mrs Brand.
Mrs Brand looked at him.
“Who is that?”
“I don’t know.”
There was another knock.
Then a whisper.
“It’s me.”
Mr Brand opened the front door.
Marmaduke stood outside in his pyjamas, coat over the top, holding a small backpack.
“Morning.”
Mr Brand blinked.
“Marmaduke?”
“Yes.”
“It’s quarter to seven.”
“I know.”
“Why are you here?”
Marmaduke looked slightly surprised by the question.
“To see Snowball.”
Of course.
Mr Brand stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Marmaduke walked in.
He took off his shoes.
He put his backpack down.
Then he looked towards the stairs.
“Is she okay?”
“She had a good night.”
“Is she going to die?”
“No.”
Marmaduke looked relieved.
“The vet said there are no broken bones. Her wound has been cleaned and stitched, and she’s recovering well.”
“What about the blood?”
“The blood tests should come back on Tuesday.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“So we wait until Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
He looked serious.
“Barry will want to know.”
“Barry already knows.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“Good.”
They walked upstairs.
Barry was sitting beside Snowball.
He was still in his pyjamas.
He hadn’t even bothered putting on his dressing gown.
He was simply sitting on the floor beside the cat’s basket, staring at her.
Marmaduke appeared in the doorway.
“Morning.”
Barry turned.
“Marm!”
Marmaduke smiled.
“I’ve come to help.”
Barry nodded solemnly.
“Good.”
“What are we doing?”
“Watching her.”
Marmaduke looked at Snowball.
Snowball looked back.
“Okay.”
They both sat down.
And watched her.
For several minutes.
Nothing happened.
Snowball breathed.
Barry watched.
Snowball blinked.
Marmaduke watched.
Snowball moved one paw.
Barry gasped.
“She moved!”
“I saw.”
“She moved her paw.”
“Yes.”
“She must be feeling better.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“Probably.”
Snowball closed her eyes again.
Barry smiled.
“She likes sleeping.”
“So do I,” said Marmaduke.
Barry looked at him.
“Are you going to sleep?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’m on the vigil.”
Barry nodded.
“The vigil.”
“Yes.”
They sat silently again.
Downstairs, Mrs Brand was making coffee.
Mr Brand wandered into the kitchen.
“Where are the boys?”
“With Snowball.”
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“What are they doing?”
“Watching her.”
Mr Brand looked at the ceiling.
He checked the time.
“It’s now seven.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“They’ve been very committed.”
“They’ve been sitting there for fifteen minutes?”
“Yes.”
Mr Brand took a sip of coffee.
“I give them another ten.”
They heard a voice from upstairs.
“SNOWBALL BLINKED!”
Mr Brand looked at Mrs Brand.
“Eight.”
Mrs Brand laughed.
By eight o’clock, Snowball had become the most closely observed cat in London.
Barry and Marmaduke had established a rota.
Barry was responsible for checking that Snowball was breathing.
Marmaduke was responsible for checking whether she needed anything.
“What does she need?” asked Marmaduke.
“Food.”
“She’s already had some.”
“More food.”
“She can’t have too much.”
Barry frowned.
“Why?”
“Because the vet said she’s on a recovery diet after the anaesthetic.”
Barry nodded.
“What does recovery diet mean?”
“It means she has to eat carefully while her tummy settles.”
Barry looked at Snowball.
“She’s hungry.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“She keeps looking at the food cupboard.”
Barry nodded.
“She is definitely hungry.”
Snowball gave a small meow.
Barry gasped.
“She agrees.”
Marmaduke smiled.
The cat had already worked out that the four-year-old was extremely easy to manipulate.
Mrs Brand came upstairs with a small portion of the food recommended by the vet.
“Right. Breakfast.”
Snowball lifted her head.
Barry leaned forward.
“She’s awake.”
“She knows what food is,” said Mrs Brand.
Snowball ate slowly.
Barry watched every mouthful.
“She’s eating.”
“Yes.”
“She likes it.”
“Yes.”
“She ate that bit.”
“Yes, Barry.”
“She ate another bit.”
“I can see.”
Barry smiled.
“This is exciting.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“Very.”
Mr Brand appeared at the door.
“You two haven’t moved, have you?”
“No.”
“How long?”
Barry thought.
“Forever.”
“It has been about an hour and a half.”
“Exactly.”
Mr Brand smiled.
“Right.”
He disappeared again.
A few minutes later he came back carrying several boxes.
Barry looked up.
“What are those?”
“Things your mother has bought for Snowball.”
Mrs Brand followed him in.
“Not just me. Alfie helped.”
Barry looked inside one of the boxes.
“What’s that?”
“A cat litter tray.”
He looked at another.
“And that?”
“Another litter tray.”
“Why does she need two?”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“So she has a choice.”
Barry considered this.
“She gets a choice?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t get a choice.”
Mrs Brand raised an eyebrow.
“You get plenty of choices.”
“When?”
“Every morning.”
“Which ones?”
“Red jumper or blue jumper. Cereal or toast. Shoes first or coat first…”
Barry interrupted.
“Can I have two toilets?”
“No.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
Marmaduke giggled.
The next box contained cat baskets.
There was a lovely soft one for the sitting room.
Another for upstairs.
And then Mrs Brand pulled out something that looked like a small hammock.
Barry stared at it.
“What is that?”
“A radiator hammock.”
Marmaduke looked impressed.
“She gets a hammock?”
“Yes.”
Barry looked at Mr Brand.
“Where’s mine?”
“You have a bed.”
“I want a radiator.”
“No.”
“I want a hammock.”
“No.”
Snowball stretched.
Barry pointed at her.
“She doesn’t even know how lucky she is.”
Alfie appeared at the bedroom door.
“I do.”
Barry looked at him.
“You bought her things.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s staying here while she recovers.”
Barry smiled.
“She needs a home.”
Alfie nodded.
“Yes.”
Barry stroked Snowball gently.
“She found us.”
Alfie smiled.
“I think she did.”
The cat slowly stretched out a paw and rested it against Barry’s hand.
Barry froze.
Nobody spoke.
Marmaduke whispered:
“She likes you.”
Barry nodded very slowly.
“I know.”
Then he looked at Alfie.
“Can I keep her?”
Alfie laughed.
“That’s probably Dad’s decision.”
Barry looked worried.
“Dad made a decision yesterday.”
“What decision?”
Barry grinned.
“He said he’s her owner.”
Alfie looked towards the hallway.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“It’s official.”
Alfie smiled.
“I think Dad might regret saying that.”
From downstairs came Mr Brand’s voice.
“I heard that!”
Everyone laughed.
The day continued slowly.
Snowball slept.
She woke.
She ate a little.
She drank.
She slept again.
Every time she moved, Barry and Marmaduke noticed.
At one point she stood up.
Barry immediately stood too.
“She’s walking!”
“She is,” said Marmaduke.
Snowball took three careful steps.
Then four.
She had a limp, but she was steady.
Barry looked delighted.
“She can walk.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“She’ll need lots of rest.”
Barry nodded.
“We’ll make sure.”
For the rest of the morning, Barry and Marmaduke remained beside her.
They whispered.
They stroked her gently.
They talked to her.
They occasionally argued about who was allowed to sit closest.
At one point Barry announced:
“You’ve been sitting next to her for seven minutes.”
Marmaduke looked at the clock.
“So?”
“My turn.”
“She’s not a television.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you need a turn?”
“Because she’s my cat.”
Marmaduke smiled.
“Our cat.”
Barry thought about this.
“Fine.”
They both sat down.
Snowball opened one eye.
She looked at them.
Then closed it again.
Clearly, she had already realised that these two small boys were going to be around for quite some time.
By lunchtime, Mrs Brand had given up trying to get Barry to leave.
“Barry, come and eat.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Snowball might wake up.”
“She’ll still be here.”
“But what if she needs me?”
“She has me.”
“And Dad.”
“And Marmaduke.”
“And Alfie.”
Barry thought about this.
“Fine.”
He got up.
Then immediately returned.
“What if she wakes up while I’m eating?”
“Then she’ll still be there when you come back.”
Barry considered this.
“Okay.”
He took three steps towards the door.
Then turned around.
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Can she have some of my lunch?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s on her recovery food.”
Barry sighed.
“Everyone in this house has rules.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“That’s generally how houses work.”
After lunch, the boys returned to Snowball.
She was awake.
Barry’s face lit up.
“She waited for us!”
Marmaduke nodded.
“She’s very thoughtful.”
Snowball gave a quiet meow.
Barry stroked her head.
“You’re going to be okay.”
The room became quiet.
For once, Barry wasn’t joking.
Marmaduke reached over and gently stroked her too.
“We’ll look after you.”
Snowball purred.
Barry smiled.
Then, after approximately five seconds of peaceful silence, he turned to Marmaduke.
“Do you think she wants a television?”
Marmaduke laughed.
“She’s a cat.”
“So?”
“She doesn’t need television.”
Barry looked at Snowball.
“Maybe she likes dinosaurs.”
Snowball purred.
Barry nodded.
“She definitely does.”
Marmaduke shook his head.
“You just made that up.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
Barry pointed at the cat.
“She purred.”
Marmaduke laughed.
“That doesn’t mean she likes dinosaurs.”
Barry smiled.
“It does if you’re me.”
By Sunday evening, Snowball had eaten, slept, drunk water and moved around a little more.
She was sore.
She was hungry.
She still had a limp.
But she was comfortable.
And she was surrounded by people who had already decided, without having a formal family meeting, that she was one of them.
Her blood results would come on Tuesday.
Until then, there was nothing much to do except rest and wait.
Well, there was one other thing.
Barry and Marmaduke had decided that Snowball needed a name badge.
They had found some cardboard.
They had found a pencil.
They had found some string.
Mrs Brand found them sitting on the floor making something.
“What are you doing?”
“A name badge.”
“For Snowball?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
Barry held it up proudly.
It read:
SNOWBALL
VERY NICE CAT
PLEASE DON’T STEAL HER
SHE LIVES HERE NOW
Mrs Brand looked at it. The words were not as clear as the above interpretation!
Then at Barry.
Then at Marmaduke.
“That’s quite clear.”
“Good.”
“Although I don’t think we need to put it on her.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s already microchipped to Dad.”
Barry smiled.
“See?”
Marmaduke nodded.
“She’s definitely ours.”
Mr Brand walked past the doorway.
He stopped.
“Please don’t remind me.”
Barry ran after him.
“Daddy!”
Mr Brand turned.
“What?”
“You’re a cat owner.”
Mr Brand sighed.
“Yes.”
Barry grinned.
“I’m so proud of you.”
And from her new fleecy basket, Snowball opened one eye.
She watched Mr Brand walk away.
She watched Barry follow him.
She watched Marmaduke follow Barry.
Then she put her head down.
For the first time in what was probably a very long time, she had somewhere safe to sleep.
And as Sunday night settled over London, Snowball slept peacefully in her new home.
The house was quiet.
The boys were finally in bed.
The adults were exhausted.
Everything was calm.
For approximately eleven minutes.
Then Barry’s bedroom door opened.
“Mummy?”
Mrs Brand opened one eye.
“What?”
“Is Snowball still alive?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Okay.”
The door closed.
Thirty seconds later, it opened again.
“Mummy?”
“What?”
“Does she know she’s ours?”
Mrs Brand smiled in the darkness.
“I think she does.”
The door closed.
A pause.
Then:
“Mummy?”
“Yes, Barry?”
“Can she sleep on my radiator hammock?”
Mrs Brand sighed.
“Goodnight, Barry.”
“Goodnight.”
A pause.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Another pause.
“Mummy?”
“Yes?”
“I think she’s going to be very happy.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“I think she might be.”
And downstairs, completely unaware of the negotiations taking place above her, Snowball curled up in her basket and purred.
Tuesday suddenly seemed a very long way away.
Alfie, Barry and Marmaduke Stories 
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