How to Save Your Tail (6 page)

Bob and Cindy were both tickled pink when the invitation arrived at the cottage. Bob was happy he had something new to read, even if it was a bit short:

Cindy was thrilled at the chance of an evening out. She danced about the kitchen with a song on her lips and Bob in her pocket. Birds fluttered to the window to sing along.

Suddenly, a spine-tingling cackle split the air.
The witch!
The birds flew off.

Cindy had forgotten about the No Singing rule.

The old hag flew into the room, and Bob peeked through a tattered hole in Cindy’s pocket.

“Don’t think
you’re
going to the ball,” snarled the witch when she saw the invitation. She ripped the card from Cindy’s hand and left, as quickly as she had come.

A teardrop splashed on Bob’s head. He looked up.

Cindy blew her nose.

“I wish … Oh, how I wish …”

Presto-bingo
, from out of nowhere, in a puff of purple smoke, popped a little lady with wings.

She had a sparkly wand, a big book, and a nervous twitch.

Bob climbed out of Cindy’s pocket to get a closer look.

“I—am—your—Fairy—Godmother,” said the lady, reading from her book. “My name is—Twinkle. Wish do you what? I mean, what—do—you—wish?”

Cindy blew her nose. Again. “To go to the ball, please,” she said. “And wear silver and gold and dance under the stars and meet the Prince and eat something new and different and—”

“Goodness sakes alive,” said Twinkle. “Please slow down. This is my first job and I’m a bit rattled.”

Just then, with a screech, the witch burst into the kitchen. Twinkle poofed away in fright. Bob skooched under the rug, and the witch dragged Cindy away to sweep gingerbread crumbs.

The kitchen was quiet.

Bob skooched back out and spotted Twinkle’s wand and book. He could not resist. He flipped through pages and pages of mysterious magical words. One charm reminded him of his friend Blue Sue, a niece of Justine’s. I’m sure you remember Justine. She was the goose who laid the golden eggs. Anyway, it was a catchy little thing. It started:
“Blue goose, true goose,”
and so on and so forth. Bob smiled, but then he remembered Cindy and turned the page.

“Look!” he said when Cindy returned.

“It’s a book of spells! And I found one for you!”

“Really?” she asked.

“Sort of,” he said. “It’s called ‘Perfect for Parties.’ It looks like it includes everything—dress, slippers, fancy hairstyle—everything.”

“Okay,” Cindy said.

The witch shrieked from the parlor. Again.

“But hurry!” said Cindy.

“Icanbeyourhorseandweneedapumpkinfora coach,” said Bob.

“I don’t have a pumpkin,” said Cindy. “Only a seed.”

“That will have to do,” said Bob. “Now be still.”

But Cindy was too excited to be still. When Bob waved the wand, slowly intoning,
“Sparkle and splendor, scribbily scrat,”
Cindy turned a
cartwheel, knocked over a chair, and banged into the broom. It was very distracting. And noisy. Bob lost his place in the spell. The witch must have heard the racket, because she stormed in and grabbed the book.

It’s now or never
, Bob figured, and guessed the rest:
“Pumpkins and ponies—poofily splat.”

Okay, okay, so it wasn’t a great guess.

Glitter swirled about the kitchen. Bob’s legs felt funny. When the air cleared, his handsome fur was gone. He was smooth and silky and much too tall. Instead of a tail and whiskers, he wore glass slippers and a blue gown. A diamond tiara encircled his head and, if truth be told, Bob was the fairest maiden in the land.

Bob looked at Cindy, who was now a magnificent white horse adorned with a golden saddle and silver feathers.

The witch had turned into a pumpkin.

The pumpkin seed was still just a pumpkin seed.

“Oops,” said Bob. His new voice was soft and sweet.

Cindy snorted. “Shall we go?”

“But … but …”

“But what?” asked Cindy. “I’m wearing gold and silver. I can go to the ball. And who knows, maybe I can still meet the Prince and dance under the stars.”

“Okay,” said Bob. “But we can’t stay long. It
says here that the magic ends at midnight, and I don’t wish to be under all those feet when I turn back into myself.”

Trumpets blared as the fair maiden rode up to the palace on the golden horse. The maiden smiled, and the horse tossed its head and flared its nostrils.

Prince Charming was thunderstruck.

The King and Queen swooned and sighed. “Our baby’s in love!”

Charming helped the maiden down from the saddle. Their eyes met.

Then off he rode on the horse.

While Cindy pranced under the stars with Charming and ate rare grasses from faraway lands, Bob was the toast of the ball. He smiled and danced and chatted with the King and Queen.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss—?”

“Bob,” said Bob.

“Yes, Miss Bob. Miss Bob, say hello to the Duke.”

Miss Bob dazzled palace partygoers. Then he—I mean she—well, you know who I mean—heaped a plate with cheese puffs, pork rinds, and apple pie, and stole off to the library to read.

Hours ticked by.

At length, Miss Bob heard Cindy neigh beneath the window.
One minute to midnight!
The maiden dashed through the castle, out the door, and into the moonlight. Below him, Cindy waited at the foot of the stairs, Charming still on her back.

Miss Bob hurried down the steps, which is tricky in glass slippers. One broke when he tripped. As he stopped to pick up the pieces, the clock struck twelve.

A flurry of glitter put Bob back into his own
fuzzy skin and Cindy back into her torn, tattered frock.

Charming, without a horse beneath him, fell on his you-know-what.

“Where’s my horse?” he asked. Then he looked at the servant girl. “Who are you?”

Cindy tossed her hair and flared her nostrils.

Charming looked into her eyes. “Do you like horses?” he asked.

“Love them,” she said.

And the two walked off to see his stable and make wedding plans.

Alone, Bob scurried back to the library and chewed a nice roomy nest in an overstuffed throne. He’s lived there ever since—reading and baking, baking and reading—except when Cindy visits her in-laws and brings along her children. After tea, Bob tells the children a story or two, and then they run outside to dress the Queen’s cats in doll clothes and send them down the hill in a baby carriage.

Back at the cottage, the witch rotted into a stinky puddle of moldy mush. Because once a pumpkin, all one can turn into is that. Or a pie.

“I
remember that ball,” said Muffin.

“The smoked salmon was divine!”

“I remember that horse,” said Brutus. “She almost stepped on me.”

“Wait a minute,” said Muffin, looking at the rat and thinking hard. “You bake cookies—just like Bob.” Her tail swished while she considered
the coincidence. “And Cindy visits you all the time!” A light flashed in her eyes. “So if the horse was Cindy,” she reasoned, “then the maiden must have been …” She studied the rat’s face. “What am I saying? You couldn’t be. I mean, you’re too short, and besides …”

“Maybe you’re on to something, Muffin,” said Brutus. His eyes narrowed. “Was that
you
in that dress, Mack?”

“The name’s Bob, sir, but yes … yes, it was,” said Bob.

“Well, Bob,” said Brutus, “you looked great.”

“Thanks,” said Bob.
“You
look great in doll clothes—especially that little blue bonnet.”

“You really do, Brutus,” said Muffin.

“Thanks,” said Brutus, washing his paw.

“So, do you know any more rat stories?”

“Nope,” said Bob, “that’s all there is.”

“Then tell us again!” begged Muffin.

“You’d listen to them all over again?” asked Bob.

“Yes!” said Muffin.

“You wouldn’t eat me halfway through?”

“I guess not,” said Brutus.

“Thanks!” said Bob. “You’re a pal. But I’m all storied out.”

“Then we might as well eat you,” said Brutus.

“Might as well,” said Bob. “Unless—”

“Unless what?” said Muffin.

“Unless you want me to write all the stories down. Then you could read them whenever you want.”

“Oh yes!” said Muffin.

“Do it,” said Brutus.

Muffin fetched pen and paper. Brutus found some ink.

“I can’t do it here,” said Bob.

“Why not?” said Muffin.

“I need quiet,” said Bob. “I need to be alone … perhaps in the library.”

“We’re not allowed in the library,” said Muffin.

“That’s a shame,” said Bob. “But I promise to have the stories ready by morning.”

Brutus looked doubtful.

“With pictures?” asked Muffin.

“Sure,” said the rat.

“Well, okay,” said Brutus. “And then we’ll have you for breakfast.”

“Of course,” said Bob.

In the morning, when Bob had written the last word of the last tale, Brutus and Muffin were still asleep on the Queen’s feather bed. Bob could hear them snoring.

But they would wake up, and soon.

The rat paced back and forth, thinking and
thinking and thinking some more. If he tried to run away, they would catch him. If he tried to hide, they would sniff him out. There was no escape.