Purrfect Revenge

Chapter 1

Dooley, Harriet and I were seated next to the bed, staring up at our human, who was still fast asleep, even snoring a little. When Odelia Poole had taken me in, I’d vowed a sacred oath never to let her be late for work. And even though keeping my promise was a lot harder than I’d anticipated, on account of the fact that Odelia slept like the dead, I wasn’t giving up.

I’d snuggled up to her, digging my claws into her arm while purring in her hair. I’d mewled, meowed and mewed up a storm. I’d even scratched the closet door, pounding it in a steady rhythm, and all I had to show for my efforts was Odelia muttering something unintelligible and turning over.

“She looks cute,” Dooley said.

“Is she drooling?” Harriet asked.

“She always drools when she sleeps,” I said.

“I think it’s cute. She’s almost like us,” said Dooley.

“Not me,” said Harriet. “I don’t drool in my sleep.”

“You snore, though,” said Dooley. “It’s so cute.”

“Snoring isn’t cute, and I don’t snore.”

“You do, too. Soft, little snuffles. Like a cute, little hamster.”

“I’m not a hamster!”

“I didn’t say you were a hamster. I said you sound like one. A cute one.”

We went back to staring at Odelia. Her blond hair was a mess, her pixie face full of sleep marks, and her sheets were twisted and tangled as if she’d fought off Darth Vader in her sleep. And there was definitely drool. A lot of drool. As if she’d tried to scare off the Dark Lord by spitting at his helmet.

“All right,” I said. “It’s almost nine o’clock. She’s going to be late.”

The three of us were seated on the fuzzy pink bedside rug and could have sat there indefinitely, as the rug’s softness felt great beneath my tush. But we had a responsibility. Being a cat isn’t just about catching critters and looking cool doing it. It’s about taking care of our humans while they’re taking care of us. At least that’s the way I see it. I may be an exception to the rule.

My name is Max, by the way, and I’m a blorange tabby. Yes, you read that right. I’m blorange. It’s a color. It really is. A kind of strawberry blond.

“I think this calls for a serenade,” Harriet said, licking her snowy white fur. She’s a Persian, and pretty much the prettiest cat for miles around. She belongs to Odelia’s mother, who lives next door, but she’s in here all the time.

“A serenade?” asked Dooley. “What do you mean, a serenade?”

Dooley is a beige ragamuffin. You know, the kind that looks like a big, furry rabbit. Only he looks like a small, furry rabbit. A beige-and-white furry rabbit. Dooley is my best friend and neighbor. He comes with Odelia’s grandma, who also lives next door. Yep. We’re one big, happy family.

“I mean, a genuine serenade, like Romeo sang to Juliet?”

“Who’s Romeo?” Dooley asked suspiciously. Dooley is secretly—or not-so-secretly—in love with Harriet, and jealous of every cat sniffing around.

Harriet rolled her eyes. “Romeo is a fictional character in a Shakespeare play. Don’t you know anything, Dooley?”

Dooley raised his chin. “I know plenty. I know that Shakespeare is some dude who’s in love, that’s what I know. In love with Gwyneth Paltrow.”

“That’s not the real Shakespeare,” Harriet huffed. “That’s just a movie.”

“Well, I don’t see the point. There was no singing in the movie at all.”

“I think Harriet is right,” I said, deciding this was not the time for bickering. “We need to serenade Odelia. She loves our singing so much she’ll wake up the moment she hears our sweet voices. Just like a radio clock.”

“What’s a radio clock?” asked Dooley.

“Oh, go away, Dooley,” said Harriet. “Why don’t we try the song we practiced last night? I’m sure she’ll love it. She’ll wake up gently and in a wonderful mood, completely refreshed. Like you said, just like a radio clock, but without those annoying radio jockeys jabbering about the weather.”

“You mean Sorry?” I asked. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not? It was a big hit for Justin. I’m sure Odelia will love it.”

“Who’s Justin?”

“Oh, Dooley,” Harriet sighed.

I stared at her. “Do you really think that song is appropriate?”

She laughed. “Appropriate? When is a love song not appropriate?”

“When is it?” asked Dooley, who had disliked the song as much as I had.

The thing is, Dooley and I had started cat choir a little while back, and had picked out a repertoire of cat-themed songs. You know, like What’s New Pussycat. But when Harriet joined us she decided to glam up our repertoire, whatever that means. And then her boyfriend Brutus came along and took over conductor duties from Shanille, Father Reilly’s tabby.

Things went downhill from there. Harriet started to dictate song choice, relying heavily on her mood. Last night she and Brutus had had a fight, and the big lug had us practicing Justin Bieber’s Sorry all night. Oh, the horror.

We’d still managed, though, much to the chagrin of the neighbors, who hadn’t liked our version as much as Harriet had. She’d been moved to tears when Brutus performed his solo and had responded by giving a rousing rendition of Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On. It was all very disturbing.

“Oh, all right,” I finally said. “Let’s give it a try.”

“Let’s give what a try?” another voice now piped up behind us. I didn’t even have to turn to know who the voice belonged to. Brutus happens to be my personal nemesis. The big black cat belongs to Chase Kingsley, who’s the newest addition to the Hampton Cove police department, and has been making my life miserable ever since he arrived in town. He likes to think that just because his human is a cop he can lay down the law. And to add insult to injury, he’s managed to snag Harriet’s heart and dash all of Dooley’s hopes.

“Oh, Brutus, sweetie,” Harriet cooed. “We were about to try out that wonderful new song you taught us last night.”

“That’s a great idea, honey bunch,” he said in that gruff voice of his.

He punched me on the shoulder, slapped Dooley on the back, and we both toppled over. “Let’s do this, fellas,” he growled, and cleared his throat.

Brutus is just about the worst choice when it comes to conducting a choir. The cat doesn’t have a single musical bone in his big-boned body. But that doesn’t stop him from belting his heart out every time he opens his mouth.

I shook my head. At least when Brutus decided to tackle Justin Bieber, Odelia would finally wake up. Judging from the dozens of angry neighbors last night, and the half dozen shoes thrown at our heads, it was hard to sleep through the racket. Then again, waking up Odelia was what we were here for. She’d told me yesterday the Hampton Cove Gazette is going through a rough patch. Circulation is down, so she needs to buckle down and find a killer story. And the first rule to finding a killer story is getting out of bed.

“One, two, three,” Brutus grunted. He’d taken position in front of us, his back to Odelia, like a genuine conductor. He was even swinging his paw just so, claws extended in case we hit a wrong note. Brutus believes in tough love.

“Is it too late now to say sorry?” Brutus bellowed at the top of his lungs. He was eyeing Harriet intently, who was giggling more than she was singing.

“Cause I’m missing more than just your body,” she responded coyly.

“Oh, God,” Dooley muttered.

"Hey! No bungling the lyrics!" Brutus yelled. "Be a Belieber!"

"I'm a Bebrutuser," Harriet tittered. "Is that all right, too?"

“It sure is, cutie pie,” growled Brutus.

“Oh, God,” I murmured.

“Hey!” Brutus repeated, and he slapped me on the head.

“Hey!” I yelled back. “No hitting the talent!”

“Who are you calling talent?” he said with a smirk.

“Oh, God,” a tired voice came from behind Brutus.

He whirled around, ready to admonish her. But when he saw he wasn’t talking to one of his choir flunkies, he snarled, “Look who’s up!” instead.

“What was that racket?” she groaned.

“Sorry,” said Harriet.

“That’s okay. Just don’t do it again.”

“No, that’s the name of the song.”

"You could have fooled me," Odelia said, rubbing her eyes. "It sounded like a dozen cats being strangled, their heads chopped off with a lightsaber."

I know I should have felt offended, but I was so glad she was finally up I decided to forgive her. Not everyone appreciates great music the way us cats do, and the most important thing was that we’d finally achieved our purpose.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” I said. “Time to go to work.”

“Ugh,” was Odelia’s response. “Just promise never to sing to me again.”

“I promise,” I said, crossing my claws. Until next time.