Purrfect Secret

Chapter 24

The nocturnal blanket of darkness swept down on Hampton Cove, covering the picturesque Hamptons community in a cloak of peacefulness, most of its human inhabitants now fast asleep, while its cat population moved out of their houses in droves, led by that ancient hunting instinct and the desire to protect their domain from other felines.

And so it was that Odelia hopped into her car, watched her small cat menagerie gracefully jump into the backseat, and launched us on what she hoped would be a very fruitful night of snooping around on someone else’s property. For where humans fear to tread, cats have absolutely no compunction to trespass with absolute impunity.

Our destination? Geary Potbelly’s duck farm.

Our mission? Elicit the descriptions and possibly the names of the miscreants who had so dastardly stolen Mr. Potbelly’s equipment to carry out their murderous scheme.

Five cats rode in the backseat in relative silence. Relative, I say, because wherever there is more than one cat present, banter inevitably enters the picture. Cats hate those uncomfortable silences even more than humans do and are quick to fill them with chatter.

“Is duck poop smelly?” asked Dooley now.

“All poop is smelly,” I said.

“No, but I mean is it more smelly than cat poop—or even human poop?”

Harriet wasn’t in a chatting mood. “Didn’t you hear what Max said? All poop is smelly.”

“I know. But what I want to find out is how smelly duck poop is in comparison with our own poop and human poop. On a scale of smelliness, where would you place duck poop?”

Brutus was grunting something. He was keeping a close eye on Milo, who he suspected of having secretly developed a crush on Harriet. Why else would he have gone to such lengths to try and break up this love affair he and the feisty white Persian enjoyed? “Who cares how smelly duck poop is?” the black cat said now. “It’s a nonissue, Dooley.”

Dooley seemed to beg to disagree. He was also begging for a smack on the snoot if he kept this up.

“I think duck poop probably rates a five on the Richter Poop Scale,” said Milo, throwing his two cents in. “Human poop rates a six, and cat poop a solid seven.”

“Richter scale?” I said with a frown. “I thought the Richter scale was for earthquakes?”

“Oh, Dr. Richter worked on a lot of scales,” said Milo. “The earthquake thing was only one of them. For a long time he was actually more famous for his Poop Scale than for the Earthquake Scale. Of course he didn’t call it the Poop Scale. Scientists dislike simple names. He called it the Defecation Magnitude Scale. Worked very hard on it. Involved a powerful olfactory machine of his own design called The Sniffer. Now mainly used in the perfume industry.”

Dooley was interested. “So if cat poop is a seven on the Richter scale, what’s an eight or a nine or even a ten?”

“Elephant poop, obviously, is an eight. Mice poop a nine. And it will surprise you to know that fly poop is a ten. But because fly poop is so tiny it is very hard for us to detect its odor. Richter set up this massive experiment where he collected fresh fly poop in large Mason jars then subjected its contents to The Sniffer. It registered as a ten.”

“Wow,” said Dooley, wide-eyed. “That’s amazing, Milo. Fly poop. A ten!”

“Yes. It is said even The Sniffer was impressed. And out of commission for a while.”

“Out of commission?”

“A smell that registers as a ten on the Richter scale is lethal for humans and very disruptive even to machines.”

I have to say that I took this Richter story with a sniff of salt. Then again, stranger things have been examined by the leading scientists of our time so why not fly poop?

“We’re almost there, you guys,” said Odelia. “I’m going to drop you off at the fence, all right? From there it’s not that far to the duck houses.”

“We’ll just follow our noses,” Milo suggested mildly.

Odelia parked the car and opened the door. “Good luck,” she said. “I’ll wait here, okay? And watch out for those dogs.”

“We’ll be fine,” I said. “We’ve handled dogs before.”

“Yes,” said Brutus. “I still have to meet the first dog who can best us.”

Odelia smiled. “I’m so happy you invited Milo onto the team. This is what friendship is all about.” And with these words of encouragement, she sent us off on our secret mission.

The fence was designed to keep deer out, and therefore presented no obstacle for five clever cats. For one thing, we’re a lot smaller than deer, and for another, we can climb trees that are located right next to the Potbelly fence, with a nice overhanging branch that drops us right on the other side.

“I’m worried about the smell,” said Dooley as we deftly landed on all fours.

“Oh, will you shut up about the smell,” said Harriet irritably.

“If fly poop is deadly for humans, duck poop might be deadly for cats!” Dooley said.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said. “Now keep your eyes peeled, you guys. And remember: we’re on a fact-finding mission. So first let’s see if we can’t talk to one of those guard dogs. If anyone knows what went down here last night, it will be them.”

“Maybe we should spread out,” said Brutus. “Isn’t that what Bruce would do?”

Brutus was right. When on a dangerous mission, always ask yourself what Bruce would do. And right now Bruce would probably tell his team to spread out. And since I seemed to have assumed the role of team leader, I now said, “Brutus and Harriet, head up to the farm and talk to those ducks. Dooley and I will look for the dogs.”

“What about me?” asked Milo. “What important task do you have in store for me, Max?”

He was giving me a slightly mocking look, as if on the verge of challenging my authority.

“You better go with Brutus and Harriet,” I said, as there was no way I was going to have Milo cramp my style.

But Brutus and Harriet weren’t all that eager either. Still, they relented, and I watched the trio stalk off in the direction of the stables—or the duck houses, as Odelia had called them.

And then it was just Dooley and me. Just like old times. And I suddenly felt almost cheerful. Dooley might not be the brightest bulb in God’s big bulb shop, but he’s my buddy, and I was glad we’d ironed out those Milo-made differences. Or at least I thought we had.

“Max, if Brutus is my father, and you’re Brutus’s brother, is Harriet my mother?”

“Milo made all that up, Dooley,” I said. “Brutus is not your father and I’m not his brother. My guess is that his human loves her daily dose of Days of Our Lives as much as Gran does and watching all of that stuff for years has somehow turned Milo into a mythomaniac as a consequence. Either that or a psychopath. The jury is still out.”

“A mythomaniac, is that like a nymphomaniac, Max?”

“Not… exactly.”

“Do you think Milo is evil?”

“Like I said, the jury is still out on that one. He does seem to enjoy wreaking havoc in other cats’ lives.”

We’d been traipsing around the duck farm without a single sighting of a dog, duck or other living creature and no hope of catching Odelia’s thieving killers—or killing thieves—when suddenly I caught sight of two large ears sticking out of a hole in the ground. They were twitching anxiously, as if aware of our presence.

I hunkered down behind a tractor tire someone had conveniently discarded.

“Dooley!” I hissed. “Over here!”

“What is it?” he asked, excited. “Do you see something?”

Instead of replying, I pointed in the direction of the ears. And then he saw it, too. A face had surfaced, like a snail from its shell. It was a white, furry face with twitchy nose.

It was a rabbit. A big, white rabbit.