Purrfect Peril

Excerpt from Purrfectly Flealess (The Mysteries of Max Short)

Chapter One

We were out in the backyard of Odelia’s house, undergoing what at first glance to any observer would have appeared an extremely humiliating procedure: Odelia had put a large washtub on the lawn, had filled it with warm soapy water, and was meticulously dragging a comb through the water and through my fur in an effort to catch those last, hard-to-reach fleas that might still linger on my precious bod. Meanwhile Marge was doing the same with Harriet, and Grandma Muffin with Dooley. Brutus, the fourth cat in our small menagerie, was doing his business in the bushes, waiting for his turn.

“And? Did you find any?” I asked, getting a little antsy.

As a general rule I hate getting wet. Odelia had assured me this washing time business was for the greater good, though, so I had agreed to go with it. Just this once.

“So far so good,” she said as she carefully inspected the comb.

“Why isn’t Brutus getting waterboarded?” I asked. “It’s not fair. We’re all getting waterboarded and he’s getting away scot-free. I think Chase should waterboard his cat.”

“It’s not waterboarding,” Odelia explained. “It’s just a gentle grooming session.”

“Whatever,” I grumbled, as I watched Dooley patiently undergoing similar treatment.

“I like it,” my friend said. “As long as it gets rid of these fleas I’m all for it.”

“I agree,” said Harriet, who now sported a dab of foam on the top of her head. “Anything to get rid of these hairy little monsters is all right by me.”

“Hairy?” asked Dooley, his eyes widening. “Nobody said anything about hairy.”

“Oh, yes,” said Harriet. “Fleas are big, hairy monsters, Dooley. As hairy as they come.”

Dooley gulped. “Get them off me, Grandma. Please get them off me!”

“Hold your horses,” Grandma grunted as she squinted at the comb. She then held it up for her daughter’s inspection. “Do you see anything on there, Marge? Those little suckers are so small I can’t be sure.”

Marge studiously ignored her mother, though, and continued combing Harriet as if Grandma hadn’t spoken. Ever since the old woman had decided to leave Hampton Cove to go and live with her newly acquired grandson, Grandma Muffin was dead to Marge.

Undeterred, Grandma waved the comb in Marge’s face. “Is that a flea or a piece of lint? I can’t tell.”

Marge finally took a closer look at the comb, a dark frown on her face. “Unless it’s an imaginary flea, like your imaginary pregnancy, there’s nothing there.”

“Suit yourself,” Grandma grumbled, and went back to dragging the comb through Dooley’s gray mane. She was using ample amounts of soap, and Dooley was now starting to resemble a drowned rat, hunted look in his eyes and all. “I’ll have you know that that was a great opportunity, Marge, and if you’d have been in my shoes you’d have gone for it, too.”

Marge turned on her mother. “No, I wouldn’t. I would never leave my family to go and live with a bunch of strangers just to get my hands on a little bit of money.”

“It wasn’t a little bit of money,” said Gran. “it was a lot. A big ol’ bundle of cash.”

“Even so. You don’t leave your family just because you happen to strike it rich.”

“I would have brought you in on the deal eventually,” said Gran.

Marge planted a fist on her hip. “And how would you have done that?”

Gran shrugged. “I would have hired you as my maid or something, and Tex as the chauffeur. That way you could have lived in a little room over the garage. Shared the wealth.”

Marge pressed her lips together and made a strangled sound at the back of her throat. Living above the garage and working as her own mother’s maid didn’t seem to appeal to her all that much.

“Dad is a doctor, not a chauffeur, Gran,” Odelia pointed out. “And Mom is a librarian, not a maid.”

“Who cares? The Goldsmiths got money to burn. He wouldn’t have had to do any chauffeuring. Just pretend to go through the motions. Maybe wash a limo from time to time. Wear one of them snazzy peaked caps. Just saying. This family missed a great opportunity.”

“We didn’t miss anything,” said Marge. “All we missed was you going off and showing your true colors.”

Brutus had returned from his business in the bushes, and was stalking across the lawn with the air of a cat whose bowel movements have just proved a source of great enjoyment. If he’d been a human male he’d have carried a newspaper under his arm, folded to the sports section. When he caught sight of the flea party in progress on the lawn, the smile of contentment faded and he started backtracking in the direction of the bushes again.

Marge’s eagle eyes had spotted the big, black cat, though. “Oh, Brutus, there you are. Come over here a minute, will you? We need to check you for fleas.”

“I ain’t got no fleas,” he said promptly. “No, ma’am. I’m officially flea-free.”

Marge smiled indulgently. “Be that as it may, you still need checking out. Now come over here and I’ll give you your checkup.”

“Does that mean you’re done with me?” asked Harriet with a note of disappointment in her voice. Harriet likes being pampered and groomed. The more pampering the better.

“Yup. All done,” said Marge.

“Oh,” said Harriet, and reluctantly relinquished her spot to her beau Brutus.

“You know?” said Dooley as he directed a fishy look at a floating flea. “I’m not so sure this is an entirely humane way to treat these animals, Max.”

“What animals?” I asked as Odelia lifted my tail and checked my rear end.

“Well, we’re all God’s creatures, Max, so maybe all this poisoning and waterboarding and generally slaughtering these poor fleas isn’t the way to go is what I mean to say.”

We all stared at the cat. Even Grandma momentarily paused her combing efforts. “You’re nuts,” was her opinion. “I’ve got a nut for a cat.”

Odelia, however, seemed prepared to give Dooley the benefit of the doubt. “I thought you didn’t like fleas, Dooley? You couldn’t wait to get rid of them?”

“Oh, I do. Hate the little parasites, I mean. And I do want to get rid of them. But maybe we should go about this the humane way. Treat them with kindness. Humanely.”

“Whatever,” said Harriet with a flick of her tail as she licked those last few droplets of water from her shiny white fur. “As long as they’re gone, it’s fine by me.” She then gave me a censorious look. “So have you found your Patient Zero yet, Max?”

I looked up, distracted by Odelia dragging her comb across my sensitive belly. “Huh?”

“Patient Zero,” Harriet repeated impatiently. “I thought you and Dooley were trying to track down the cat who got us into this mess and deal with him or her properly?”

“Yeah,” I said vaguely. “We’re, um, working on it.”

“Well, work faster,” she said. “I don’t want to go through this ordeal again.”

“Are you really tracking down Patient Zero, Max?” asked Marge.

“Sure, sure,” I said. Actually I’d totally forgotten about this elusive Patient Zero. Like Harriet said, as long as the fleas were gone, who cared about Patient Zero, let alone patients one or two or three or whatever? “We’re looking into it, aren’t we, Dooley?”

But Dooley was still thinking about the fate of those poor fleas. “I mean, if the Humane Society cares so much about horses and the way they’re treated in all those Hollywood movies, shouldn’t they look into fleas, too? We’re all God’s creatures, right?”

Brutus emitted a groan. “Fleas aren’t creatures, Dooley. Fleas are a pest. And pests should be terminated. End of discussion.”

“Fleas deserve our consideration, Brutus,” said Dooley with a pained look as he watched a flea float lifelessly in the tub. “Have you ever stopped to consider that this flea right here has a mother and a father who care about him or her? And brothers and sisters?”

“Lots and lots of brothers and sisters,” said Odelia with a slight grin. “Millions of them. Probably billions or even trillions.”

“We still owe it to them to treat them with kindness and respect,” Dooley insisted.

Odelia held up her comb. “This is being kind, Dooley. This is being respectful.”

“Kind and respectful,” Gran scoffed. “They’re not being kind when they suck your blood, are they? So why should we be kind to them?”

“Kill ‘em all is what I say,” said Brutus, with a decisive motion of his paw. “Carpet bomb the suckers to oblivion.”

“Speaking of carpets, did you take the vacuum bags out to the trash?” asked Marge. “They’re probably full of eggs, larvae and pupae. Best to get rid of them immediately.”

And so the discussion went on for a while. Harriet wasn’t to be deterred, though. She was directing a scathing glance in my direction. I rolled my eyes. She wasn’t going to let this go, I could tell. She was going to hound me until I produced this mysterious Patient Zero.

“Fine,” I said finally. “We’ll find your Patient Zero and we’ll find him today, all right?”

She smiled. “Thanks, Maxie. I knew you’d listen to reason. Brutus and I will join you. And together we’ll search this town until we’ve tracked down the cat who’s responsible for this terrible outbreak and make sure he or she is unflead ASAP.”

“I don’t think unflead is a word, honey,” said Marge.

Harriet flapped her paws. “Deflead, then. Whatever. But mark my words, I won’t rest until the last flea of Hampton Cove has been terminated.” When Dooley gasped, she quickly added, “in the most humane and kindest way possible, of course.”

Chapter Two

The moment we were finally declared flea-free, the four of us set out to start hunting high and low for Patient Zero and ‘take care of him,’ in Harriet’s words. She seemed pretty sure this Patient Zero was a male, as only males could be so dumb as to allow themselves to be infested with a bunch of lowly parasites.

“And it’s not just that the female of the species is smarter than the male, we’re more hygienic, too,” she claimed now as we tracked along the sidewalks of Hampton Cove. “I for one would never allow even a single flea to lay its eggs on my precious fur if I could help it.”

“None of us would allow that,” I countered. “Do you think I like hosting a flea party?”

“You tomcats are simply too insensitive to even feel that you’re being ravaged by a bunch of parasites,” she said, tail high in the air as usual. “You could have thousands of fleas feasting on your bodies and you wouldn’t even know. But put one flea on me and I’ll know instantly that something is wrong. Admit it, Max, females are much more conscious of their bodies than males.”

“Like the princess and the pea,” said Dooley, much to my surprise. When we all looked at him, he shrugged. “She could feel the pea, which showed everyone she was a princess. The same way Harriet can feel the flea, which shows us she’s…” He swallowed, and his cheeks would probably have flushed a bright scarlet if they hadn’t been covered in fur.

“Aw, Dooley,” said Harriet. “You think I’m a princess? That’s so sweet of you.”

Brutus gave Dooley a dirty look. Its meaning was clear: she’s my princess, buddy, so paws off.

We passed along the streets of Hampton Cove, the sleepy little town in the Hamptons where life is lived at a more leisurely pace than in other small towns the world over. This morning was different, however, with the sound of vacuum cleaners working at full tilt audible wherever we pointed our antenna-like ears. Windows had been flung open, with duvets, comforters and mattresses hanging from ledges, soaking up the sun’s rays, carpets being cleaned with a frantic energy that told us the flea infestation had left the good people of Hampton Cove scrambling. Some people were even fogging and fumigating their houses, judging from the clouds of acrid smoke wafting through windows and doors and chimneys.

Dooley shook his head. “Maybe we should call the Humane Society, Max. I think they’d have a field day fighting all this cruelty and this utterly senseless suffering.”

“How long do you think a flea can survive inside a vacuum bag?” asked Harriet.

“Not long,” said Brutus. “I imagine they die a slow and painful death of suffocation.”

Dooley uttered a strangled cry. “Oh, those poor, poor creatures.”

“They’re a pest,” Brutus grunted. “And pests should be eradicated. No mercy.”

“Some people consider cats a pest,” I said. “They feel we should be eradicated.”

“Some people are pests,” Brutus countered. “So maybe they should eradicate themselves.”

“Oh, but they do,” said Harriet. “People kill each other all the time. They enjoy it.”

She was right. Only a couple of days ago a grandson had killed his grandfather, just so he could take over the old man’s title as Most Fascinating Man in the World. No cat would ever kill another cat for the mere pleasure of being called Most Fascinating Cat in the World. Humans sometimes can be quite inhumane. Before I could ponder the topic more deeply, however, we’d arrived in the heart of town, and Brutus and Harriet took one side of the street while Dooley and I took the other. We were looking for clues revealing the identity of this Patient Zero, and what better way to go about this pursuit than to talk to other cats?

Cats, as you might imagine, are extremely chatty creatures. There’s nothing a cat likes better than to gossip about his or her fellow cats. And since our human is in the business of providing fresh human gossip to other humans every day through her column in the Hampton Cove Gazette, that works out quite nicely. So we passed by the barber shop and talked to the barber’s Maine Coon Buster, who sat licking his paws in front of the shop.

“First time I laid eyes on a flea I was a young whippersnapper of six months,” he said with a faraway look in his eyes as he temporarily halted his grooming. “My pa showed me. Said a cat’s not a cat without a bunch of fleas burrowing into his skin.” He sighed wistfully. “Ma kicked him out of the house that day and I haven’t seen him since. I miss my old man sometimes. Said he’d fathered a thousand kittens in his time, and felt ready and primed to father a thousand more. Which is probably why Ma kicked him out in the first place.”

“That’s all fine and dandy,” I said, trying to halt the stream of words. Buster likes to gab, and sometimes it’s hard to get him to focus. “But we’re trying to figure out when this flea infestation started, so try to cast your mind back to when you saw the first flea now—not when you were a young whipper… snipper.”

He dabbed at his eyes with his paws. “He said he’d be back for me, Pa did. But I never saw him again. I sometimes wonder if he’s out there somewhere, looking up at the same stars at night, thinking about me and those fun times we shared back in the day.”

“If he fathered a thousand kittens and was ready to father a thousand more it’s highly unlikely he remembers you, Buster,” said Dooley, offering his two cents.

Buster stopped rubbing his eyes and gave Dooley a nasty look. “Who asked you?”

“It’s simple logic,” Dooley argued. “How can a cat be expected to remember one cat out of thousands? And I’ll bet you were not very memorable at six months. None of us are.”

“Dooley,” I told him warningly.

“I stood out amongst the bunch,” said Buster through gritted teeth. “Even as a kitten.”

“I’m sure you did, Buster,” I said pacifically. “Now about this Patient Zero…”

“Are you telling me that my pa never gave me a second thought? Cause let me tell you, you scruffy-faced piece of no-good mongrel, he did. Pa said he’d be back for me and the only reason he would break that promise is if he was detained someplace, unable to come.”

“Probably fathering his ten-thousandth kitty,” said Dooley. “Or taking a breather. Fathering so many kitties causes a lot of wear and tear. Your pa probably hung up his spurs.”

“Why, you little…” Buster began, swinging his paw. “I should knock your whiskers off.”

“Now, now,” I said. “We’re all friends here.”

“Just buzz off,” said Buster, giving us a distinctly unfriendly look.

And as we walked away, Dooley asked, “Is it something I said, Max?”

“No, Dooley,” I said with a sigh. “But maybe from now on you’ll let me do the talking, all right? We are trying to find Patient Zero, not looking to start a fight.”

“Okay, Max. I was just pointing out a flaw in Buster’s logic, that’s all.”

“I know you were, Dooley. I know you were.”

Chapter Three

Next up was Tigger, the plumber’s cat, who, for some reason, sat people-watching on the stoop of Daym Fine Liquor, the local liquor store.

“Hey, Tigger,” I said by way of greeting. “What’s new?”

Tigger, a small hairless cat, held up his paw and I high-fived him. “Hiya, fellas,” he said. “Just waiting on my human. My human likes this store. In fact it’s his favorite store in all of Hampton Cove. He’s in here all the time so I’m out here all the time.”

“Why?” asked Dooley, who was in an inquisitive mood today. “You’re not a dog. You’re not supposed to sit out here and wait for your human.”

“Oh, I know I’m not a dog,” said Tigger. “But once Gwayn has some liquor in him he tends to forget he’s got me to feed, so I like to trail him to remind him I’m still here.”

It was an intensely sad story, though Tigger didn’t seem to see it that way, judging from his chipper demeanor. Just one of those things cats take in their stride, I guess. When your human is a tippler, like Gwayn Partington obviously was, a cat learns to adjust.

“We’re looking for Patient Zero,” Dooley said, getting straight down to business.

“Maybe check the hospitals?” Tigger suggested. “That’s where they keep those. I know on account of the fact that Gwayn has been in one. He has balance issues, you see, and tends to fall on his face from time to time. It’s a terrible affliction. Every time it happens an ambulance comes and a couple of men in white take him down to the hospital.”

“We’re not looking for a particular patient,” I clarified. “We’re looking for the first cat in Hampton Cove who got infested with fleas. If we can track him or her down, we might be able to nip this thing in the bud, so to speak. Eradicate this infestation once and for all.”

Tigger shook his head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, fellas, but you can’t eradicate a flea infestation. Fleas are everywhere! Fleas are all around, just like in the song.”

“Song? What song?” I asked.

“Fleas are all around,” he began to sing to the tune of ‘Love is all around.’

“They weren’t before—not on this massive scale. Someone brought them here.”

He stopped singing and gave me a pensive look. “Maybe ask Chief Alec? If anyone knows what’s going on in Hampton Cove it’s Chief Alec. Chief Alec knows. And he’s nice to cats. I should know. The other day, when Gwayn spent the night at the police station, Chief Alec drove over to the house and gave me a saucer of milk and a piece of his ham sandwich. What a mensch!”

“Gwayn spent the night at the police station?” I asked.

“Sure. He was driving through town when he happened to drive through a red light—Gwayn suffers from color-blindness as well as this falling-on-his-face thing, you see—and so Chief Alec made him walk a line. Apparently that’s what they do when people drive through red lights—make them walk a line. He must have aced the test because the Chief was so kind to offer Gwayn free lodgings at the police station for the night. Like I said, a real mensch.”

Just then, Gwayn Partington came staggering out of the liquor store, a big brown paper bag in his arms, and stared down at us. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “First there was one cat and now there’s three? I must be off a damn lot worse than I thought!”

We watched as Tigger’s human stumbled down the street, his hair sticking up, his bushy beard unkempt, and his blue coveralls a little too tattered to appeal to the average client of his plumbing business. Tigger sighed. “I love my human, I really do, but he doesn’t make it easy.” He turned and started in pursuit of the sauced plumber. “See ya, fellas. And if you see this Patient Zero of yours, tell him next time he should keep his fleas to himself.”

“Wait, I thought you didn’t believe in this Patient Zero theory?” I yelled after him.

“If you believe it, I believe it!” he yelled back, and gave us a cheerful wave.

“He’s a real philosopher, this Tigger,” said Dooley admiringly.

“With a human like that, you have to be,” I said.

“Do you think Gwayn Partington is an alcoholic, Max?”

“Either he’s an alcoholic or a method actor getting into character as an alcoholic.”

We traipsed on, dodging pedestrians as we did, until we reached the Vickery General Store, where two cats sat shooting the breeze in front of the store. They were Kingman, generally accepted as the best-informed cat in Hampton Cove, and a ratty little cat called Kitty. She belonged to a local landscaper and was explaining something to Kingman while gesticulating wildly.

“And then he locked me up in the washer. The washer! Can you imagine?!”

I’d heard the story before so I wasn’t all that interested. Still, being locked up in a washing machine is one of those universal horror stories that gives cats the creepy crawlies.

“Her human locked her up in the washer,” said Kingman, jerking a paw to Kitty. “Can you believe it? What an idiot.”

“At least you didn’t get fleas,” I said.

“Fleas don’t kill you, tough guy,” said Kitty. “The washer will. Unless you’re me, of course.” She shook her head. “No idea how I survived that one. I must be one tough kitty.”

“Maybe your Odelia should write a story about that,” Kingman suggested. “I mean, all she ever writes about is humans doing stuff to other humans, but when is she finally going to write about the things that really matter? Like getting stuck in a washer, huh? Or this flea infestation? That’s the stuff I would like to see featured on the front page once in a while.”

“He’s right, you know,” said Kitty. “I mean, take that big story that’s been all over the news these last coupla days. About that Most Fascinating Dude that got killed by some other Most Fascinating Dude. Who cares, right? I don’t. Dudes be killing dudes all over the place all the time. But how often do you get to talk to a cat that survived three washing cycles?”

“You survived three washing cycles?” I asked.

“It sure feels like it! But do I get asked for an exclusive interview? No, sir! No fair!”

“You should tell Odelia to give me a call,” said Kingman, tapping my chest smartly. “I have an interesting story to tell about the flea epidemic. A story that would rock this town.”

“Or she could call me,” said Kitty. “A cat that survived four washing cycles!”

I stared at Kingman, hope surging in my bosom. “You know something about this flea thing?”

“Sure I do,” said the voluminous piebald, and wiggled one of his chins for emphasis. “Mark my words. If what I have to say gets printed in the Hampton Cove Gazette the good people of this town would be shocked. Shocked, I tell you!”

“Not as shocked as I was after surviving five washing cycles!” cried Kitty.

“Do washing machines even go through five washing cycles?” I asked.

“Ten! A dozen! If not more!”

“Just the one,” said Dooley. “I know because I love to watch the machine go round and round.”

“All cats love to watch the machine go round and round,” said Kingman.

“Well, my human’s machine goes round and round at least two dozen cycles,” said Kitty adamantly, “and I survived every single one of them. So there.” And having said this, she stalked off, ready to pounce on the next cat and start telling her story all over again.

“Look, Kingman,” I said. “We’re on a mission, Dooley and I. A mission to find Patient Zero. So better tell us everything you know about this flea infestation and better tell us now.”

Kingman nodded soberly. “It was a dark and stormy night…” he began.

END OF THIS EXCERPT

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