Mutiny of the Little Sweeties

“And the kids?”

“What kids are in sixth grade? Absolute cuckoo, normal. As everywhere,” Kate said, shrugging her shoulders.

Alena liked the new school. She imparted that two boys had fallen in love with her, well, she believed so, because they were constantly pursuing her, but she was beating them with the wet rag for wiping the board.

“How about you?” Mama asked Vicky.

It goes without saying that everything turned out awful for Vicky. The whole class ran terribly and was horribly noisy, but she was reading quietly on the phone.

After lunch, Kate went to the attic to her pigeons. Over the summer, the pigeons of four became three, because the children forgot to untie the flight feathers of one of the pigeons launching from the balcony. The pigeon hit the ground. When they ran to it, it was completely intact, only a red ball was quivering on its beak. The ball was very bright, rich, perfectly round, and did not change shape, and it was especially scary. Kate took it in her hands, and it died there a minute later, its head hanging down.

Papa buried it where they buried all dead animals – a little away from the mailbox at the fence. Kate then cried for two days and Alena also for some time. But Kate was always crying quietly for a long time, hiding on her wardrobe and covering her head with a blanket. It was like a long drizzling autumn rain. Alena would cry like a summer rain-shower: with claps of thunder and lots of tears. When she cried, she had the capability to wet even a woollen blanket.

After a good cry, Alena began to wander around Kate repeating, “I told you! I told you!” As to what exactly she had said and for what reason nobody remembered, because Alena generally expressed herself a lot. Kate got upset and said that she would pour out her dragon’s water, and on Alena’s head at that, if she would not be quiet. Alena was offended and left.

The remaining three pigeons, their flight feathers having long been untied, flew quite freely, and considered the attic their home. At times some neighbour’s pigeon would join them, and the neighbour would sometimes come for it and sometimes not. In general, a pigeon hangout quickly formed in the attic. Three little eggs appeared in the nest-box; two of them hatched. The chicks had little resemblance to birds and were more like unpeeled pink potatoes.

Kate spent a rather short time in the attic and came tearing along with a shout that someone had attacked the pigeons. The neighbour’s stray had vanished, as did the one that was not part of a pair. Apparently, they had just flown away. The two that remained were scratched. Of the chicks, only one survived.

Mama and Papa went up to the attic and looked at the pigeons. Rita trudged behind them. It turned out that she had learned to climb up the steep ladder to the hatch, which she pushed with her forehead at a starting run.

“Looks like the attack of a predator!” Papa said, examining the pigeons. “They defended themselves from something, but it still dragged away a chick. But what predator was able to climb to our attic? It’s unlikely!”

“Certainly unlikely! The cats haven’t yet managed!” Mama said.

“Impossible. There’s only one window here, that’s it. But a bare wall underneath. A cat can’t climb along the plaster.”

“Jump from the walnut tree?”

Papa leaned out and estimated the distance.

“From the foliage at four metres? What should such a cat be? Moreover, the jump would have to be aslant along the house.”

Someone sneezed behind Papa. He turned around. Rita was standing quietly and unassumingly near the far wall. She was the most noiseless kid in the world, a model for books written about obedient children. An off-white scarf was hanging from Rita’s shoulder. Papa looked at the scarf once, twice, three times. For some reason the scarf bothered him, but Papa was distracted and thinking about something else. Then the scarf began to bother him again and he squinted at it again.

After looking at the scarf for the fourth time, Papa discovered that the scarf was moving. Besides, it was moving somehow in parts. Rushing over to Rita, Papa discovered that the neighbour’s skinny cat was hanging from her shoulder, sagging as if it had no spine. The cat did not even look at the pigeons but the pigeons were behaving as if they had been acquainted with it for a long time. Soaring, they rushed about confusedly around the attic, trying to protect their flightless chick.

“Rita! Have you come here with the cat before?” Papa asked sternly.

Rita shook her head.

“Well, I can read it in your eyes! Did you or didn’t you?”

Rita quickly covered her eyes with her hands.

“Everything’s clear!” Papa said. “This cat will not be in our house anymore! And there will be a lock on the attic door!” He felt like the greatest detective in the world. Sherlock Holmes smoked nervously on the balcony, occasionally interrupting to beat his head against the wall.