In this narrated reading, Lois Letchford—author of Reversed and adult dyslexic advocate—delivers Chapter 14 of Anne Fine’s children’s novel The Killer Cat Runs Away. The cat narrator recounts Miss Whippy’s incessant bragging about her Spanish villa, which the cat finds unappealing. While perched on a large piece of paper, the cat discovers a 24‑hour pet passport application, realizing Miss Whippy intends to take the cat to Spain as a mouser. The cat reads the fine print, which lists a series of onerous travel requirements: a vet letter confirming vaccinations, a wire cage of specific dimensions, a baggage‑hold time limit, and a full‑face passport photo. The cat notes the travel date—5 May—while the current date is 4 May, indicating an imminent journey. Throughout, the cat’s voice is humorous, self‑deprecating, and slightly anxious, providing insight into its personality and the looming conflict.
Chapters
Hello, I'm Lois Letchford, author of the book Reversed: A Memoir and literacy problem solver and adult dyslexic, reading from Anne Fine, The Killer Cat Runs Away, chapter 14, Nightmare Stuff. Miss Whippy talked a lot on the phone to her friends about her villa in Spain. It sounded horrible. I'd find the weather far too hot. I'm not overly fond of garlic, and I hate walking on tiles because they make my claws click. Also, why would I care about a lovely private pool? I'm not a swimming cat. No. Every time I heard her talk about that villa of hers, I shuddered quietly and thought how glad I was that I live here. That's why finding those papers was such a shock. I wasn't snooping. It's just a well-known fact that if there's a bit of paper lying on the table, that's what a cat will sit on. Even if it's as small as a bus ticket, that's where we'll sit. And this paper was full size. I sat on it for quite a while. Okay, okay, so dip my paws in soap suds. I had been trying to spread the leftovers of my supper Out a little bit behind her lupins, and my paw was still chickeny. I made a mess. That's why I glanced down at the paper I was sitting on, to see if there was any more tiny scraps of chicken that had dried enough to be flicked onto the floor. That's when I saw the word passport. I looked a little closer and saw pet. Pet. I lifted my bum and stepped back so that I could read the whole thing. 24-hour pet passport application. Aha! The truth was out. Miss Whippy hadn't taken me to get a photo simply because of my good looks. She wanted it for a passport so she could take me to her villa in Spain to be the mouser There. I read the small print. It was nightmare stuff. First, there was a rule about carrying a letter from the vet that proved your pet was up to date with injections. Injections? In case you live on Mars, I'll have you know that means needles. Not my favourite things. And vets? Not my favourite people. Then came a rule about the size of the wire cage. Cage, you notice, not comfy basket or cosy box. Wire cage. There was a bit about how long your pet would spend in the baggage hold. The baggage hold, like some old suitcase. There was a rule about the photo of your pet having to be full face. A full-faced photograph. Well, didn't all that sweet talking— Puskins, please look this way. Yes, that's much better. Sound a bit different now? And then I read the last line just above Miss Whippy's flowery signature. The date of travel. 5th of May, she'd written. 5th of May. I looked up at the calendar. It was the 4th.
