“Max,” I said. “And this is Dooley.”
Just then, Elsa hissed, “Hide!” And promptly scooted behind a stack of boxes, quickly followed by Dooley and me. I could see the cook opening the fridge and then closing it again.
“Phew. That was close,” said Elsa, as she wiped the perspiration from her brow. “She’s never caught me once, and it would be too bad if she caught me now, since I have the pleasure of two guests.”
“Why are you being so nice to us?” asked Dooley. “You don’t even know us.”
Elsa gave another one of her hearty laughs. “You just say whatever comes into your head, don’t you? Why wouldn’t I be nice? There’s plenty of food for the three of us, and I enjoy the company for a change. It’s not much fun being the only mouse in the house.”
“You’re the only mouse here?” I asked.
“Yep. Never found the right one, I suppose, to start a little family and settle down.”
“There’s two hundred mice living in our basement,” said Dooley. “And they eat all of our food, and all of our human’s food, too.”
“Two hundred. Now that’s what I call a nice big family. Your humans must be really hospitable people.”
“Well, they are,” I said. “But even they think it’s a little much.”
“Yeah, I suppose two hundred can be taxing for your regular homeowner,” said Elsa, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.
“We’ve been trying to negotiate with them,” I explained. “Ask them to move out. Or if they decide to stay, at least not to eat all of the food. But they refuse. They figure they have just as much right to stay as we do. So they’re not budging. And now my human is upset with me, figuring since I’m a cat I should be able to keep the house mouse-free, if you see what I mean.”
“Yeah, I think I do,” said Elsa. “Though of course I used to live with a dog, and I never had any problems. We respected one another and had a great time.”
“What happened to the dog?” asked Dooley.
“Oh, he died. Last month. Great tragedy it was, too. Maria was crazy about Boomer.”
“What kind of dog was he?” I asked.
“Maltese. Very clever, and a real gentledog, too. Always let me share his food, and let me tell you, if you like this food you should have seen what Maria gave Boomer to eat. Only the very best of the very best. Gourmet stuff.” She shook her head sadly. “Yeah, it hasn’t been much fun with Boomer gone.”
“You should come and live with us,” said Dooley. “I mean,” he added, with a glance in my direction, “what’s one more mouse?”
“Dooley!” I hissed. “We’re trying to get rid of the mice, not add more to the pack!”
“But Elsa is not like the other mice,” he said. “She’s one of the nice mice.”
“You know what?” said Elsa. “I could join you guys and have a word with this Hector and Helga, if you like. I’m sure I could come to some sort of arrangement if you let me. Mice, after all, don’t listen to cats, but they might listen to a fellow mouse.”
I had to admit there was something to be said for this. And if things didn’t work out, she could always come back to live at Maria’s place.
“All right,” I said finally. “You can come. But only if you promise to behave.”
She laughed again. “Behave! Max, I’m the best-behaved mouse you know!”
And with this, we shook paws on it.
Chapter 25
“Are you sure?” asked Fifi. The little Yorkie didn’t look entirely convinced.
“Yes, of course I’m sure,” said Harriet.
“But what am I going to tell them?”
Brutus and Harriet and Fifi were in conference in Odelia’s backyard, Fifi having absconded from her own backyard through one of the holes she liked to dig. Her human, Kurt Mayfield, a retired music teacher, always patched up the holes, only for Fifi simply to dig another one. She didn’t like to be confined to her own backyard, and liked to socialize with the cats next door, much to Kurt’s dismay, as he was a lot less fond of those same cats, especially when they broke into song, which he often responded to by throwing his shoes in their direction as a way of showing his lack of appreciation.
Brutus thought they should probably leave Fifi in peace. He didn’t see how a small dog would succeed where a big dog had failed. Then again, once Harriet had an idea in her head, it was very hard to get it out again, at least until she’d brought it to fruition, often with disastrous consequences.
“You simply tell them they have to leave,” said Harriet. “I’m sure they’ll listen to you.”
“When?” asked Fifi. “When do you want to do this?” She still wasn’t fully on board, Brutus could tell.
“No time like the present,” said Harriet cheerfully.
“What, you want to do this now?!” asked Fifi, looking horrified by the prospect of having to use her powers of persuasion to dislodge two hundred mice from the house.
“Yes, why not? Better get it over with,” said Harriet. “Like a band-aid,” she added.
“A band-aid?” asked the little doggie dubiously.
“Yeah, you have to pull it off quickly. That way it’s not so bad.”
Fifi, who probably never in her life had had a band-aid applied to her corpus, gave Harriet a look that spoke volumes about what she thought of her plan. Still, she followed them into the house when invited, and in the direction of the basement when suggested. She paused on the top step, though, now clearly suffering from a bout of stage fright.
“They’re not… violent, are they?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” said Harriet. “They’re quite peaceful. Very friendly. You’ll see.”
How a dog who was afraid of mice was going to scare them into leaving Odelia’s home was obviously not a thought that occurred to Harriet, and it wasn’t a question Brutus was prepared to raise. Still, as he watched Fifi walk down the stairs, one careful step at a time, the thought ‘dead dog walking’ suddenly came to mind.
“Stop!” suddenly another voice yelled, this one not in Brutus’s head but coming from behind him.
He turned, and so did Harriet and Fifi.
Much to Brutus’s surprise, it was none other than Shanille who’d graced them with her presence.
Shanille, leader of cat choir and Father Reilly’s cat, seldom paid house calls.
It also surprised Harriet, and not in a good way. “What are you doing here?” she growled.
Harriet and Shanille rarely saw eye to eye. Shanille often found fault with Harriet’s nightly solo performances she insisted on giving, and Harriet, who hated criticism of her God-given talents, didn’t like the comments her choir leader habitually directed at her.
“Kingman told me about your predicament,” said Shanille, a little stiffly. “He told me you’ve been suffering from a mice infestation and suggested I pay you a visit. See what I can do.”
“What you can do! Excuse me, Shanille, but we don’t need your help. We have everything under control.”
Shanille directed a critical look at the mess the mice had made of the kitchen, with pieces of cheese having dropped by the industrious mice, forming a trail all the way from the kitchen to the basement door. “Yeah, I can see you do,” she said, then pressed her lips together primly.
“We have our secret weapon right here,” said Harriet, gesturing to Fifi, who’d retraced her steps and was now among them once more, and looking suspiciously relieved at this stay of execution.
“A dog?” asked Shanille. “You’re going to send a dog to do a cat’s job? Oh, dear. This is so much worse than I thought. No wonder Kingman asked for my help.”
“Kingman should mind his own business,” Harriet snapped. “And frankly so should you, Shanille. Fifi, go ahead.”
But the little Yorkie gave them such a look of anguish Brutus decided to intervene. “Why don’t we give Shanille a chance to see what she can do?” he suggested. “She is, after all, Father Reilly’s cat.”