Purrfect Cover. Purrfect Patsy. Purrfect Son

Chapter 5

I woke up again when Odelia left the house and pulled the front door closed behind her. I found myself staring at that inoffensive dust bunny again, and wondering what the bunny would say if it could talk. Probably a lot of very interesting and fascinating stuff.

It just goes to show I was in the throes of a sudden and unexplainable case of ennui. It happens to all of us at some point, and usually out of the blue. My ennui probably had to do with the fact that nothing much of interest had happened in my life of late.

No particularly juicy cases had come Odelia’s way, no shocking or exciting events had come to pass, and pretty much the only excitement I’d had in a long time was this exact dust bunny, which suddenly had turned into the bane of my existence.

“What are you looking at, Max?” asked Brutus, who’d chosen this moment to walk in through the pet flap.

“Oh, nothing special,” I said. “Harriet told me to take a firm line with dust bunnies, and to tell Odelia to run a tighter ship, hygiene wise, and I’ve been looking for the right opportunity to talk to her about it.”

The big black cat draped himself down right next to me and looked in the direction I was looking. “Harriet should lighten up,” he said as he casually observed the dust bunny and didn’t seem particularly troubled by its presence in our house.

“She’s afraid it will spread fungi and germs,” I said. “The kind of fungi and germs that could prove hazardous to our health and safety. She sounded extremely concerned.”

Brutus’s robust features displayed a slight grin. He did not look like a cat susceptible to the deleterious effects of germs or fungi. “I don’t think we have much to worry about, buddy,” he said. “A germ or even a fungus is not exactly the danger to life and limb that Harriet is making it out to be.”

He got up and walked into the kitchen, in search of something edible, no doubt.

“So you don’t think dust bunnies are dangerous?” I called after him.

“Maxie, baby,” he said after swallowing down a particularly tasty-looking piece of kibble, “I always say ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,’ and as far as I know fungi have yet to kill a cat, so there’s your answer. Straight from the horse’s mouth.”

First off, Brutus, as far as I knew, was not a horse. And secondly I’d never even once heard him say anything about stuff that didn’t kill him but made him stronger, but I was prepare to let these minor verbal transgressions slide. His words had provided me with a certain buoying up of the mood, and I was grateful for that.

“Harriet made it sound as if I was neglecting my duties as a cat, and responsible for potential disaster and mayhem in our home,” I explained when Brutus had eaten his fill and joined me once more on the couch.

“Like I said, Harriet should lighten up,” he said, and emitted what can only be termed a gastro-esophageal eruption. Or in other words a tiny burp, showing that his late breakfast—or early brunch—had arrived at its chosen destination in one piece.

“Lighten up about what?” asked a voice from the door. We both looked up in surprise, and found ourselves once again in the presence of Harriet, quite possibly the most gorgeous white Persian in these parts. But also the most high-maintenance one.

Brutus gulped a little, then said, “I was just telling Max here how every day spent with you is a delight, snookums,” he blustered. “And how much you light up my life.”

The tiny frown that had formed on Harriet’s brow relaxed its grip on her musculature and she smiled. “Oh, sugar cookie, that’s such a nice thing to say. You light up my life, too, you know.”

“Do I?” asked Brutus, gulping a little more.

“Oh, sure.” She then turned to me, and her smile vanished like breath on a razor blade. “I see you haven’t done as you promised. This place still looks like a pigsty. But no matter. I’ve called in reinforcements. They should be here shortly, and I suggest you watch and learn.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, and a question was just forming on my lips when the glass sliding door was shoved open and Marge walked in, carrying a hefty vacuum cleaner and looking ready to do some serious damage with the apparatus.

I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I have a thing about vacuum cleaners. I loathe them. I detest them. I hate them. I cannot be in the same room with them without falling prey to the most abject sensation of naked fear. Fear of being deafened by their horrific sound, or possibly fear of being sucked into their belly never to be seen again.

So it was with a slight cry of panic that I hopped down from my position on the couch and raced up the stairs as fast as my short legs could carry me. Before long, Marge had started up that machine from hell and was hoovering away to her heart’s content, while I was safely ensconced on top of the bed, hoping that this, too, would soon pass.

You might ask why Marge brought her own vacuum cleaner and didn’t use her daughter’s, and I will tell you that something happened to Odelia’s dust sucker recently that made it break down. Someone, it might have been a mouse, or maybe even a rat, had chewed through its power cord, and had rendered the thing useless. Okay, so I chewed through that power cord. Can you blame me? That thing is a menace! A danger to life and limb! If ever the police come to drag me to jail for causing criminal damages, I’ll plead self-defense, and I’ll bet any judge in the nation would readily see my point.

Before long, another, smaller cat had joined me in the form of Dooley. He hates vacuum cleaners, too, and must have walked in through the pet flap before finding himself cornered by Marge’s furious burst of cleaning frenzy.

“She’s cleaning, Max!” he cried, as he jumped up onto the bed and tucked his head underneath the covers, not unlike an ostrich. “She’s going to suck me up and kill me!”

“Kill us,” I corrected him.

“Oh, but you’re safe, Max,” said Dooley. “You’ll never fit inside that machine. You’re too big. Me? I’ll fit just fine!”

I know I should have been upset by these words, spoken by a friend, no less. But I knew Dooley was simply telling it like it is. Like a child, he means no harm, and words sometimes fall from his mouth that may come across as harsh but mean no malice.

And oddly enough his words inspired hope, not anger. Dooley was right. I would never fit inside that vacuum cleaner. Which meant I was probably, and perhaps for the first time in my life, saved by my big bones.

Just then, a third cat came jumping on top of the bed covers. It was Brutus. He may be a tough cat—one of those tough babies who look the world in the eye and spit—but he, too, has an unholy fear of vacuum cleaners and other suctional devices from hell.

“What’s with humans and their obsession to suck dust into a weird machine,” he lamented as he cast anxious glances at the door.

“It’s Harriet,” I said. “She asked Marge to drop by and give her daughter’s house a quick once-over.”

“She should have left well enough alone,” said Brutus, earning himself nods of agreement from both myself and Dooley.

And as if she’d heard our words, Harriet came sashaying into the room, then hopped up onto the bed and Odelia’s fearsome foursome was complete.

“Also hiding from the vacuum cleaner?” asked Dooley.

“I don’t need to hide from a machine that is doing a great job eradicating everything that is hideous and odious about the world we live in,” she announced primly. But she wasn’t fooling me. Like Brutus, she kept darting anxious glances in the direction of the door. And the moment Marge came stomping up the stairs, no doubt intent on giving the upstairs the same treatment she’d awarded the downstairs, the Persian actually whimpered and slipped under the covers, joining Brutus, Dooley and, of course, myself.

We may be fearless in the face of murder and mayhem, but if there’s one thing that can beat us, it’s a simple contraption designed to extract those dust bunnies from their hiding place and deposit them into either a plastic receptacle—Hoover’s bagless variety—or a strange shapeless bag, never to be seen or heard from again. Oh, the horror!

Silly, of course, but I never claimed cats are perfect creatures.

So you’ve discovered our Achilles’ heel.

Don’t use it against us!