Purrfect Secret

Chapter 28

To be absolutely honest, I was glad to be out of that car. Harriet and Brutus and Milo had really gone all out on the duck smell. In fact I was afraid I now smelled of duck dung myself. Dooley must have thought the same thing, for he said, “Do you think duck dung is as deadly as fly dung, Max?”

“Oh, don’t listen to Milo. He’s full of dung.”

“Brutus was acting weird, though, wasn’t he? Do you think the dung got to him?”

“Could be,” I admitted, though it was far more likely Milo had gotten to him.

The silence in the car had been deafening, and I blamed it all on the intruder. Before Milo things had been fine, and now there was this constant tension. It was starting to affect me adversely. As in, my digestion wasn’t as robust as it usually is. Could also be the fact that Dooley had eaten all my Cat Snax to get rid of his make-believe worms and Milo had eaten all of my Fancy Feast Seafood and now all that was left was my usual kibble and some milk.

Bummer.

“You know, Max? I’m glad we finally got to go out with Odelia again. I missed it.”

“Me, too, buddy.”

“And I’m glad we were able to help her. Do you think she’ll catch those killers?”

“I’m sure she will. How many men with a strawberry nose are out there?”

“Not many, I’ll bet.”

“Nope.”

Dooley gave me a sideways glance. “Max?”

“Mh?”

“I’m glad we’re friends again.”

“Me, too, Dooley.”

“I don’t like it when we fight.”

“I love you, buddy.”

“I love you, too.”

And it was with a lighter heart that I pranced along the sidewalk, on our way to cat choir. The choir convenes every night, though not all members show up each time. Cat choir is not so much an expression of our artistic sensibilities as an excuse to hang out and shoot the breeze. Cats used to hang out on rooftops and such, but the park is a much better place. Plenty of trees to climb—us cats love climbing trees—and plenty of critters in the undergrowth—us cats love catching critters even more than climbing trees—so it’s all good.

We arrived at the park and saw that it was already humming with activity. Not musical activity, even though some cats were already warming up those vocal cords by performing deep-breathing exercises and singing scales.

“Ooh, eee, aah,” they were screeching.

A sporadic boot was already tumbling down from the windows of the houses overlooking the park, but it was clear the boot-throwers’ hearts weren’t in it, as these boots were old and worn-out. The real nice boots only came later, when choir practice really kicked in and stupefied humans picked up any footwear they could lay their hands on.

“Hey, you guys,” said Shanille, who was cat choir’s conductor. She’s a gray cat with white stripes and belongs to Father Reilly. She sniffed the air. “What’s that terrible smell?”

“Duck dung,” said Dooley before I could intervene.

Shanille looked thoughtful. “I don’t know if I shouldn’t dismiss you. There’s a hygiene rule in the cat choir rulebook about making sure you’re properly bathed and washed before you arrive. Some of our members are very sensitive to pervasive odors, you know.”

“We are washed and bathed,” I said. “This is not our smell. It’s Brutus and Harriet’s. They’re the ones who mingled with the ducks.”

“We only mingled with the rabbits,” Dooley explained helpfully. “One was racist and the other wasn’t.”

Shanille blinked as she took this all in. “I’ll have to consult the other members. We are a democratic organization, after all. I’ll put it to a vote.”

And before I had a chance to file a motion to stay, she’d stalked off.

“Oh, darn ducks,” I muttered.

“Now don’t be a racist, Max,” said Dooley. “Those ducks can’t help how they smell.”

“I’m not racist! I just don’t want to be kicked out of cat choir because of a trifling thing like duck dung.”

“It’s not a trifling thing. Remember, duck dung registers a five on the Richter scale. That’s not something to take lightly.”

“How many times have I told you not to believe a word Milo says?”

“He wouldn’t be lying about something like that. The Richter scale is real. I’ve heard about it on your Discovery Channel.”

“Oh, Dooley,” I muttered.

Moments later, Shanille returned. “Well, I’ve put it to a vote,” she said. “And I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

Oh, crap. “What’s the good news?”

“A majority of the members feel that a slight odor is acceptable.”

“Yay,” said Dooley.

“And what’s the bad news?”

“A new member has joined cat choir and you know how new members are granted a veto during their very first cat choir practice?”

“So?”

“So this new member has vetoed your and Dooley’s presence here tonight.”

I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly who this new member was. “Don’t tell me. Is his name Milo?”

Shanille looked surprised. “How did you know?”

“Milo? But how did he get here so fast?” said Dooley.

“He must have run like the wind to get here first,” I said bitterly.

“Or maybe he apparated like Harry Potter!” Dooley said excitedly.

We’d sat through a Harry Potter marathon the other day and my head was still hurting. Dooley had enjoyed it, though. “Cats don’t apparate, Dooley,” I said.

“Professor McGonagall does. And she’s at least half cat.”

“Milo is not Professor McGonagall.”

“Maybe he is. Maybe Milo is a wizard!”

“Milo is a pain in the butt,” I said, turning away. At least soon he’d be ancient history.

“Hey, Max,” Milo’s voice sounded behind me. “Dooley. So weird to see you here.”

“Nothing weird about it,” I said, turning sharply. “We’re out here every night. Isn’t that right, Dooley?”

But Dooley was studying Milo intently. “Are you a wizard, Milo?”

Any other cat would have laughed off the silly notion, but not Milo. “How did you guess?” he said seriously.

“Oh, please,” I said. “Don’t fill Dooley’s head with more nonsense, will you?”

Milo turned those placid eyes on me. “And what nonsense would that be, Max?”

“The worms! The scooting! The smearing poop on the walls!”

“Scooting is a very effective remedy for a life-threatening condition, Max.”

“See?!” Dooley cried, the color draining from his nose. “I’ve got worms!”

And instantly he ran for the nearest tree and started rubbing his butt against it.

“I can see right through you, you know,” I told Milo coldly.

He lifted one corner of his mouth. “Can you now?”

“And I’m going to expose you. The game is up, Milo.”

He yawned. “If you say so. Now I’m very sorry, Max, but I have choir practice. And you, I guess, don’t.” And with a supercilious little grin, he stalked off, leaving me fuming.