Though the latter contrived a look of bewilderment very similar to Dooley’s. He probably hadn’t expected when he started dating Odelia that at some point in the near future he’d find himself negotiating with a colony of mice, a cat officiating the peace treaty.
“I still don’t see why the basement should be off-limits,” said Dooley. “It’s still our house, and they’re just guests.”
“Look at it this way, Dooley,” I said, deciding to try a different tack. “It’s as if you’re a property owner. And the mice are your tenants.”
“Tenants who don’t pay rent.”
“True, true,” I admitted. “The point I’m trying to make, though, is that a landlord can’t simply walk into a tenant’s house or apartment, see?”
“He can’t?” asked Dooley, much surprised by this strange legal quirk.
“No, he cannot. There are laws protecting a tenant’s privacy, and a landlord can’t simply barge in whenever he likes. He has to get the tenant’s permission first.”
“So I have to get Hector’s permission before I can set paw in the basement?”
“Pretty much,” I agreed.
“And what about Odelia? Does she have to get Hector’s permission, too?”
“Um, no, I guess she doesn’t. The arrangement is between cats and mice only.”
His face cleared. “Great! Then I’ll simply ask Odelia to ask Hector why they like it here so much. And I’ll tag along as Odelia’s official translator, just like a delegation of Swaziland would bring along their translator when attending the United Nations General Assembly.” And with these words he trotted off in the direction of the staircase, presumably to rouse Odelia from sleep so she could pose this all-important question.
This time I did roll my eyes, then lay down my head on the sofa cushion I’d singled out for my own, and went back to sleep. The plight of the rodent family that had moved into the basement might fascinate and intrigue my friend, but it certainly did not fascinate me. You may say I’m a lousy cat for allowing mice to move into my domain, and I’d tell you that my peace of mind is worth a lot more to me than any slings and arrows you can aim at me. That and my daily dose of kibble, of course.
And I’d just fallen into a peaceful slumber once more when the sound of a flapping pet flap told me that the prospect of a nice nap was not in my near future just yet. When I opened my eyes I found myself gazing into the familiar face of Brutus, and he wasn’t looking very happy at all. His next words confirmed my assessment of his mental state.
“Max, you have to help me. It’s Harriet. She’s gone completely mad!”
Chapter 2
To be absolutely honest with you, Brutus’s announcement didn’t surprise me. I’d already had the feeling that Harriet was brooding on something. Even her customary solo performance during cat choir had had a different quality last night, as she’d seemed distracted and a little surly, and had dropped even more notes than usual. Even Shanille had felt compelled to ask the prissy Persian if everything was all right, receiving a typical snappish response for her trouble.
“What is it this time?” I asked therefore, starting to feel as if this nap I’d been anticipating with such eagerness was starting to look like a lost cause.
“She wants to put our relationship to the test by joining a reality show,” said Brutus.
I frowned. “I’m sorry, Brutus, but you’re going to have to run that by me again. I didn’t quite catch your drift.”
He was too wired to take a seat, and had resorted to pacing the rug, going so far as to extend his nails and plucking little tufts of fiber from Odelia’s nice carpet. It just goes to show the extent of his exasperation. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve remained a bachelor until now: my closest friends are frankly the best advertisement for bachelorhood.
“She’s been watching this reality show with Gran lately. Passion Island? Gran is hooked on the thing, and so is Harriet. It’s all they talk about. And now Harriet has decided she wants in. She figures it’s the best way to see if we’re really meant to be together.”
“But… I didn’t even know she had doubts about that.”
“Me neither! But watching Passion Island has made her think.”
“Uh-oh,” I muttered.
“And she’s been pushing Gran to get her on the show, and it looks like Gran thinks this might not be such a bad idea, only cats aren’t allowed anywhere near the island.”
“For a good reason,” I said, nodding. No reality show fans want to be distracted by the sight of a couple of cats slinking into the frame and obscuring their view.
“Yeah, but Gran says she can probably make the producers change their minds. Or maybe even get them to create a spin-off. Cat Passion Island. She figures it would give people the best of both worlds: adorable cats doing what cats do best, and a healthy dose of drama.”
“But… no viewer would understand what the cats are saying,” I pointed out. “And where would be the fun in that?”
“Exactly what I said!” said Brutus, becoming more and more agitated. “But do you think they’ll listen to the voice of reason? Oh, no.”
“I’m sure nothing will come of it,” I tried to reassure the butch black cat. “You know what Gran is like. She always has some bee buzzing in her bonnet, but rarely has the wherewithal to see her wild ideas through to fruition.”
He gave me a look of hope. “You think so? You’ve known Gran longer than I have.”
“Trust me,” I said. “This idea will simply fizzle out and die before you can say kibble.”
“Kibble,” said Brutus earnestly, and plunked himself down, slightly mollified. And I could see his point. Gran may have the attention span of a goldfish, but Harriet is one of those cats that don’t stop until they get what they want. If she had her mind set on being in some goofy reality show, she’d keep harping on the theme until she got her wish.
I decided not to share this little insight into Harriet’s psyche with the latter’s mate, though, as I was still holding out a tiny hope I’d get the chance to have that sweet nap.
And as Brutus mulled over my words, I shifted in my seat and accidentally hit a button on the remote control, inadvertently turning on the TV. And while I was wondering why the TV had suddenly started pouring out its usual dose of frenetic programming on an unsuspecting world, Brutus sprang to his paws again, vibrating with excitement, his nose pointing in the direction of the darned thing like a pointing dog.
“That’s it!” he cried. “That’s the show that’s ruining my life!”
I directed a curious eye at the goggle box and saw that a small group of young women was seated around a fire, all staring intently at a tablet computer, held up by a platinum-haired and sophisticated-looking woman. On the tablet’s screen, grainy footage of a man and a woman lying in bed together appeared, and suddenly one of the women brought her hands to her face and started sobbing uncontrollably.
“Prepare yourself for a shock, Sookie,” said the sophisticated woman, who appeared to be the show’s host. “The next images will be tough for you to watch.”
We were regaled with images of the same couple in bed, only this time all that was visible was a shapeless form underneath the sheets, and those very same sheets were moving in a very suspicious way indeed. It was obvious the couple were in the throes of a passionate spate of lovemaking, bumping and grinding with careless abandon.
The woman named Sookie, the one who’d been sobbing, now wailed like a banshee. “Not my Bennie-ie-ie-ie!” she cried.
“Yes, I’m afraid your Bennie has succumbed to the wily ways of seductress Mia,” said the show host, barely suppressing a hint of satisfaction.