Clyde sighed.
"For one thing, he'll be twice as heavy, twice as hard to lift when he pulls that stuff. What you ought to do, is-"
"You're going to hand out advice whether I want it or not. You can never keep your opinions-"
"You're losing him, Clyde. You're losing him before you have a good beginning. You can't train a puppy like this-you're going to make him untrainable."
"And how do you know so much? What makes a mangy tomcat an authority on dog training?"
"I'm an animal. I know how an animal's mind works. Cat or dog. You're not thinking like a puppy. You just-"
Clyde stepped closer to the fence, fixing Joe with an enraged stare. "You are an expert in every facet of life. You not only read the editorial page and treat me to your learned interpretations, you are now a dog-training expert. To say nothing of your unmitigated conceit in furnishing the law-enforcement officers of this community with your invaluable consultation."
"Can't you move on past that incident? You've been chewing on it for days." Joe glanced around at the neighbors' houses. All the windows were blank, the yards empty; but he kept his voice low. "What was I supposed to do? The guy's lying dead in his car, brake fluid dripping all over the place from a brake line that was cut as straight as if it had been sliced with a meat cleaver, and I'm supposed to walk away and say nothing?
"I hear a second car on the highway, hear it honk its horn just before the skid, and there are no other witnesses that I know of, and just because I'm a cat, I'm supposed to withhold that information from the law.
"Well, thank you very much, Clyde, but I don't think so. And as to the dog training, if you're so stiffnecked you can't accept a little friendly advice when it's offered in a kindly manner, then screw it. Go ahead and ruin a good dog!"
Selig, driven to madness by the lack of attention and his need to play, reared up against the fence, drawing his claws down the wood in long gouges-knowing that if he kept at Clyde long enough, Clyde's ridiculous attempt at lessons would end and they'd have a nice roughhouse, rolling in the grass. Leaping at Clyde, raking at his arm and cheek, Selig left four long red welts down the side of Clyde's face, narrowly missing Clyde's eye, all the time barking with excitement into Clyde's left ear. Joe imagined Clyde's eardrum throbbing and thickening from the onslaught of those powerful sound waves. Clyde whacked the pup across the nose with the folded leash, his face red with pain, anger, and embarrassment, and his cheek bleeding.
Joe said no word.
"All right," Clyde shouted, tossing the leash at the tomcat. "If you're so damned smart, you train him!" And he spun around and slammed into the house.
Joe stared down at the leash lying in the grass. Selig began happily to chew it, working the good leather into his back incisors and gnawing with relish, his brown eyes rolling up to Joe, filled with deep satisfaction.
Joe considered taking the leash away from the pup and settling him down to a lying position with a sharp command and a few claws.
But he'd only make Clyde more angry, and more out of control.
And what good, for Clyde, if he, Joe Grey, trained the pup? What would Clyde learn?
A cat had to balance his willingness to help humankind with the knowledge that people must learn to do things for themselves.
After all, Clyde had bought a highly recommended dog-training book, and had actually read it. He had registered for, and attended two sessions of the dog-training class that Charlie insisted on-though so far, nothing seemed to have sunk in.
All Clyde did was baby the pups, laugh when they acted silly, and get mad when they didn't mind him. The trouble with Clyde was, he was a pushover. He wanted the puppies to love him, he wanted to play with them and have fun.
If he'd just figure out how to make learning the best game of all, he could teach them anything. If he could make those babies love their obedience routines, he wouldn't have a problem.
Trotting along the top of the fence to the maple tree that had become Dulcie's second home, Joe stuck his nose in among the leaves.
Dulcie, curled up atop the fence, was glued to the scene at the Greenlaw house like ticks to a hound's ear. The sporadic hammering he'd been hearing all afternoon came from a second-story dormer, where Dirken, perched on a tall ladder, was replacing some siding, nailing on the boards none too evenly. Joe nudged her. "You want to hunt? It's getting cool. The rabbits…"
She shook her head, watching Dirken. "He ripped the siding off and looked all around inside with a flashlight. There's a dead space in there, I think it goes under the attic. Those boards he took off, they're maybe a little bit soft, but not really rotted. I had a look-until he chased me away." Dulcie smiled. "I don't think Dirken likes cats.
"Anyway, that siding's no worse than the rest of the house."
She glanced at Joe, saw his expression, and her eyes widened. "Okay, so I'm hanging out here too much. So come on," she said softly. "Let's hunt. Whatever he's looking for, I guess he didn't find it." She gave him a sweet, green-eyed smile. "Come on, Joe. Let's go catch a rabbit." And she fled along the fence, dropped down into the next yard, and led Joe a chase through the village and up the tree-shaded median of Ocean, slowing at the cross streets, racing across the park above the Highway One tunnel and up into the hills.
There, among the tall, dense grasses, they killed and feasted, reveling in warm blood-for a few hours, indulging their wild, pure natures, forgetting the tedious intricacies of civilization and the trials of the human lives that touched them. Racing across the hills, madly, deliriously dodging and leaping, they came to ground at dusk in the ruins of an old barn and curled up together for a nap, daring any fox or raccoon to approach them.
But just before dawn they shrugged on again the cares of civilized life. Trotting home, they indulged in a detour up the roof of the Blankenship house and heard, through the open window, Mama talking to black-and-white Chappie, whom Dulcie had brought to her when he was a kitten. Chappie was grown now and handsome. Mama talked, but Chappie didn't reply; nor could he, except with soft, questioning mews. A good thing, Dulcie thought, that he's just an everyday cat. If he could talk, Mama wouldn't let him get in a word. Leaving the Blankenship house, they fled through the village to Jolly's alley-a lovely example of civilization, the brick paving regularly scrubbed, the stained-glass windows of the little shops all polished, the jasmine vine neatly trimmed and sweet-scented, and the gourmet offerings always fresh, set out for village cats.
There they breakfasted on Jolly's cold prime rib, leftover shrimp cocktail, and a dab of Beluga caviar; and it was not until the next night that Joe's opinion about dog training was vindicated, that Max Harper gave Clyde exactly the same advice, word for word, that Joe Grey had given him.
Joe was sauntering up the back steps to the dog door when he heard dog claws scrabbling inside, on the linoleum, and Harper's angry voice. "Get down! Stop that!" There was a yip, and puppy claws skidded across the kitchen floor.
Pushing inside to the heady smell of broiling hamburgers, Joe paused in the laundry, where old Rube and the three cats were taking refuge.
The kitchen was alive with the two gamboling pups rearing and bouncing like wild mustangs crazy on loco weed. Max Harper sat at the kitchen table, his long legs tucked out of the way, observing the enthusiastic youngsters in much the same way he might watch a gang of hophead street kids tearing up his jail.
Harper did not hate dogs. Harper loved dogs. When his wife, Millie, was alive they always had several German shepherds around their small ranch.
But Harper's dogs, like his horses, were well mannered, carefully and patiently trained. As Joe stepped into the kitchen, Harper was saying, "I don't mean to tell you your business, Damen. But these young dogs need a bit of work."