Purrfect Cut

Chapter 9

Cats can be difficult. For one thing, we don’t like the cold, but neither do we like the heat. Which is why, after having spent an hour soaking up the rays, both Dooley and I felt we needed a change of scenery. So we got up and went in search of a touch of shade, which we found at the back of the house. As is customary in the homes of the rich and famous, we fully expected to find a pool back there, or at the very least a nice jacuzzi. Nothing doing, though. The only thing Mr. Leonidas Flake had indulged in was… a petting zoo.

“Oh, cool!” said Dooley as we found ourselves staring out across a sea of barnyard animals. Even at first glance I could detect a donkey, complete with long ears and a dumb expression on its face, a couple of rabbits, a goat, a flock of sheep, a horse, and even a cow. The whole thing would have excited Noah.

“It sure beats the celebrity penchant for orgies,” I said.

“Or drug parties,” Dooley added.

As you can well imagine, in the course of our investigations we’ve seen our fair share of celebrity depravity, and to find a dead celebrity who enjoyed spending time surrounded by barnyard animals was a nice change of pace.

And as we went in search of a place to spend the remainder of our strike, we discovered that one section of the petting zoo was empty. There was the nice little patch of grass, there was the sturdily-built wooden house, and there was the bowl of water, accompanied by a similar bowl filled to the brim with nuggets of food. What there wasn’t a trace of was its occupant, whether large or small. So Dooley and I shared a quick glance of understanding, and we moved as one cat into this enclosure, took a sip from the water, took a few bites from the frugal meal, and took a peek inside the little wooden house to see if the owners weren’t home by any chance, and when we’d determined to our satisfaction that they weren’t, stretched out on the grass and dozed off.

It wasn’t until I felt a tickle in my backside that I woke up again. Glancing back, I saw that we’d been joined by… the Siamese cat we’d seen earlier.

“You Max?” the cat asked gruffly.

I answered in the affirmative, happy in the knowledge that my reputation had spread to these faraway parts of Hampton Cove. For a brief moment I experienced what every celebrity must feel like when someone asks for a selfie.

“Just wanted to tell you face to face that your days are numbered, fatso.”

I blinked, rudely awakened from my roseate dream of selfie-loving fandom. “Wait, what?” I asked. “What did you just call me?”

“What’s going on, Max?” asked Dooley, also waking up from his slumber. I’d never before realized how comforting petting zoos can be. You have your own little space, you have plenty of food and drink, and you get adoring fans who gather round to give you all of their love and affection—apart from the occasional prod in the ribs with a stick from a wayward child.

“You heard me,” growled the Siamese. He directed a nasty look at Dooley. “And you must be Dooley. You look even dumber than I thought you would.”

We both stared at him. He wasn’t a large specimen, but what he lacked in size he made up for in venom. “Who are you?” I cried, greatly disturbed.

“Name is Tank, and I’m here to tell you that there’s a new game in town.” He tapped his own chest for some reason. “Move over, bozos. Tank is here.”

“Tank?” I asked. “Your name is actually Tank?”

“You don’t look like a tank,” said Dooley.

“Got a problem with my name?” Tank asked in a challenging, macho way. Like a bully looking for a fight, which I guess he was.

“Oh, no, just an observation,” said Dooley.

“Yeah, we never met a cat named Tank before,” I said.

“Well, you met him now,” Tank growled.

“What do you mean when you say there’s a new game in town, though?” asked Dooley. “What game? And which town?”

Tank grinned, displaying some very sharp teeth. “Oh, you are dumb.” He tapped my chest, hard. If he’d expected me to roll over, though, he was mistaken. Not because of my extreme courage and superior physical strength, but because of my unique body type. I’m big-boned, you see, and Tank’s paw merely disappeared into those big bones of mine, which made a gentle ploinking sound, then wrapped themselves around his paw. Much like Jell-O. Yes, I know most bones aren’t made of Jell-O, but mine are, all right?

“My God you are fat!” cried Tank, then tapped my chest again. There was more ploinking and quivering as my body adjusted itself to his touch, and after a while I got quite tired of the whole experience and got up.

He must have been impressed by my sheer size, for he stopped poking me. I may not be strong, or courageous, but what I lack in bravery I make up for in size. Twice the size of Tank, in fact. And even though I’m as docile as a butterfly, size does tend to impress.

He took a step back, and eyed me from beneath glowering brows. “Tell your cronies Harriet and Brutus that from now on I’m the bee’s knees, okay? Odelia Poole’s reign is over. The name to remember is Christopher Cross.”

“I thought it was Tank?” said Dooley, curious.

“Chris Cross and Tank! We’re taking over!”

“So who is this Chris Cross?” I asked.

“Don’t you play dumb with me, Max,” he said, baring his teeth once more. “You know who Chris is—and you know who I am, too.”

Dooley and I shared a look, then we both shook our heads. “Never heard of you, I’m afraid,” I said.

“Or this Chris Cross person,” Dooley added.

“Oh, I see what you’re doing. Clever. Very clever. But psyching me out won’t work. Chris Cross is the best pet detective in the county—maybe even the country. So it’s goodbye to Odelia and Max and hello to Chris and Tank!”

“Hello,” said Dooley good-naturedly. “Nice to meet you, Tank.” He glanced around. “So where is this Chris?”

“We’re taking over the investigation,” said Tank, ignoring Dooley. “Just so you know.”

“That’s all right,” said Dooley. “We’re on strike anyway.”

Tank gave Dooley a strange look, then held up a paw, extended his claws and pretended to slice his own throat for some reason. “Game over,” he said, and then he was off, leaving us to stare after him.

“What was that all about?” asked Dooley finally.

“Beats me,” I said. “Something about Chris Cross and some game.”

“Do you think he understood why we’re on strike?” asked Dooley.

“No idea,” I said, and I plunked back down again.

“I like this strike thing, Max,” said Dooley, closing his eyes.

“I know. You said it before.”

“No, but I really like it.”

“Me, too, buddy.”

“Very relaxing.”

“Very.”

And then we slept.