The Mysteries of Max: Books 25-27

Chapter 22

“Max?”

“Mh?”

“Are you sure you told Rambo not to use our water bowls?”

We were staring at our water bowls, which were now absolutely devoid of water, but consisted instead of a generous helping of slobber. The same could be said for our kibble bowls, which had expertly been relieved of their contents, only traces of slop left. In fact all of the bowls were now empty, and the copious amounts of slop and slobber left no doubt as to the identity of the midnight marauder who’d performed this impressive feat.

“Odelia!” I bellowed. If there’s one thing I’m very sensitive about it’s of other pets eating my portion of kibble.

Odelia came staggering down the stairs, wearing an oversized sweater that clearly belonged to Chase, as it said ‘I-heart-NYPD’ and was rubbing her eyes. “What is it?” she murmured as she took a right turn into the kitchen, and almost slipped on a pool of drool. “Eek!” she said, lifting one bare foot to see what had attached itself there.

“It’s Rambo,” I announced. “He’s eaten all of our food.”

“And drunk all of our water,” Dooley added helpfully.

“And replaced same with a goodish pile of goo.”

“Rambo!” said Odelia, then thunked her brow. “I totally forgot. Chase took him out for his morning walk.”

“His morning walk?” I said. You must forgive me for not being better acquainted with the ways of the canine species. I’ve never lived with a dog before, you see, so this was definitely a first in every sense.

“Dogs go for a walk in the morning, Max,” she explained. “That’s how they get rid of their morning… doo-doo and wee-wee.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling silly. “Of course. I knew that.”

Odelia stared down at the mess the old dog had made on the kitchen floor—and our neat row of bowls. “I gave him his own bowl of dog kibble,” she said, pointing to a giant bowl that was, of course, empty. “Clearly it wasn’t enough.”

“He’s a very large dog,” I said. “He probably eats a lot.”

“Maybe we should have a talk with him,” Dooley suggested. “Teach him about the difference between mine and thine.”

“Excellent idea, Dooley,” I said. “I’m sure it was a simple misunderstanding that made him eat all of our food, and drink all of our water, too.”

And since Odelia was going to be busy washing out our bowls—and scrubbing the kitchen floor—Dooley suggested we move next door for our first meal of the day.

We ambled into the backyard, then through the hedge and then in through the pet flap and into Marge and Tex’s kitchen. When we arrived there we found Brutus and Harriet staring at their respective bowls, a look of distress on their faces.

“Someone ate all of our food,” said Brutus.

“And drank all of our water,” said Harriet.

“And left some kind of slime behind.”

“I think it might have been aliens.”

“Or ghosts,” Brutus ventured. “Ghosts are always leaving some kind of slimy residue behind. It’s called ectoplasm. That’s how you can tell you’ve got ghosts.”

“I can assure you it wasn’t ghosts, and it wasn’t aliens,” I said.

“It was Rambo,” Dooley said as he inspected his own bowl and sadly had to come to the conclusion that here, too, Rambo had eaten his fill, and had left nothing for us.

“Rambo did all this?” asked Harriet. “But that’s impossible. No dog can possibly eat this much.”

“He ate all the food next door, too,” I said. “And if he’d had a third home to sneak into, I’m sure he’d have emptied the bowls there, too.”

“This is too much!” said Harriet. “First Odelia hires a dog—a dog!—to guard us, and then the silly mutt eats all of our food!”

“At least he didn’t pee in our bowls,” I said with a pointed glance at Brutus. I still hadn’t fully forgiven him for his midnight indiscretions.

“We’re going to talk to him as soon as he gets back,” Dooley announced.

“Wait, where is he?” asked Harriet.

“Out. Chase took him for a walk,” I said.

“Out! So you’re telling me both our canine and our human bodyguards left us all alone—exposed to who knows what kinds of dangers!”

“I’m sure this cat killer won’t attack us when there’s people around,” I said.

“A bodyguard should be present at all times to guard your body,” said Harriet decidedly. “What else are they there for?”

She had a point, I had to admit.

“He does have to do his business twice or three times a day,” I said. “That’s how it works for dogs. And he can only do his business when he goes for a walk.”

“Well, I for one don’t feel safe,” said Harriet. “And I want a different bodyguard. I want a human bodyguard. And I want him to be around twenty-four-seven. Who’s with me?” And she held up her paw to indicate she wanted to put the matter to a vote.

Brutus immediately held up his paw, but I was reluctant to follow his example. “I don’t know,” I said. “I was going to talk to Clarice, and ask her to help us out, but we all know that will be a tough ask. And since we don’t have any other options here… I say we keep Chase and we keep Rambo, at least if we can get him house-trained.”

“Dooley? What say you?” Harriet snapped, giving me a fiery look that meant trouble.

“I’m with Max,” said my friend.

“Of course you are,” said Harriet. “Well, fine! I’ll deal with this on my own. Come on, Brutus. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” asked Brutus.

“Out!” said Harriet, and stalked off.

Brutus gave us an apologetic grimace, then followed his girlfriend out through the pet flap.

“I wonder what she’s going to do,” said Dooley, as he thoughtfully studied his bowl, as if hoping that cat kibble would magically appear out of thin air. “Did you know that dogs could slobber this much, Max?”

“No, I didn’t, Dooley.”

He touched the goo with a look of distaste. “It feels like… the stuff they put on pies.”

“I’m sure they don’t put dog goo on pies.”

And as we discussed the ins and outs of dog goo, suddenly Dudley came bounding down the stairs, looking distinctly cheerful. And why wouldn’t he? He’d just found his long-lost dad—that he hadn’t even known existed. Jerry Springer, if he’d been present, would have handed him a fat contract on the spot.

“Hey, fellas,” said the prodigal son when he spotted us. “What a lovely, lovely day this is, huh?”

And he opened the fridge and started rooting around as if this was his home—which I suppose now it was.

Next to come down the stairs, though she wasn’t bounding but shuffling, was Gran. When she saw Dudley, she frowned. “So you’re still here, huh?” she said, not sounding overly welcoming.

“Yup,” said Dudley. “And can I just say, Mrs. Muffin, how very glad I am to meet you. My own grandmother died when I was three, and I always wanted to have a sweet old lady just like yourself to spend time with.”

“For your information, sonny boy, I’m not an old lady. I’m only seventy-five. And secondly, if you think I’m going to spend time with you, you’re delusional. I’m out of here.” And to show Dudley she meant what she said, she promptly skedaddled.

“Not exactly the sweetest granny in the world, is she?” said Dudley, addressing us, I assumed, even though he wasn’t looking at us but at Gran’s disappearing back.

“Oh, Gran can be very sweet when she wants to be,” I said. “But she can also be extremely testy.”

“I guess I’ll just have to win her over,” said Dudley with a shrug, then took the box of cereal out of the cupboard and dumped a goodish helping into his mouth.