“It’s wonderful, sugar plum,” the black cat rasped sleepily. “Absolutely gorgeous.” He opened his eyes. “What am I looking at?” And when Harriet pointed toward her painting with a sort of indulgent smile, I could see how Brutus winced a little, but then managed to plaster a sufficiently appreciative expression onto his mug. “Great stuff!” he finally croaked, but he couldn’t stop one eyelid from trembling at being subjected to such a smorgasbord of riotous color. It’s one thing to practice the novel art of paw-painting, but it’s quite another to do it well, and I think it’s safe to say that Harriet hadn’t yet moved past the novice stage.
She now frowned.“One problem I seem to be facing is that paint is so hard to get off. Just look at my paws.” She held up her paws, which usually are a pristine white, but were now covered in a smattering of color.
I staggered back at the sight. No cat enjoys the prospect of getting even a teensy tiny bit of dirt on their coat. It’s a matter of pride to be clean. And now this!
“Harriet, that’s terrible!” I cried. And I wasn’t even referring to her painting.
“Yeah, how are you going to get that off?” asked Brutus with a frown of concern.
“Oh, stop fussing,” said Harriet. “It’s just paint. The lifeblood of my art.”
“Better be careful,” I warned her. “Some of these paints are poisonous.”
“Yeah, some of it is full of lead,” Brutus added as he regarded his beloved nervously for signs of lead disease.
“I’m sure Odelia wouldn’t buythat kind of paint,” Harriet said dismissively. “She’s a responsible pet parent, and would never put me in harm’s way.”
“Still,” I said. I suddenly found myself wondering about the dangers of art. Hadn’t I heard stories about artists who’d died destitute and in ill health? Some of them living in the gutter? Maybe toxic paint was a factor in these situations.
“You’re absolutely right,” said Harriet after I’d relayed my concerns.
“I am?” I said, much surprised. It’s a rare thing when Harriet agrees with me on anything. Secretly, of course, I was hoping she’d give up painting, which would certainly be beneficial to our mental health.
“And so I’ve decided that from now onyou’re going to do the actual painting!” As she spoke these words, she was directing a proud look at Brutus.
At first, our friend didn’t respond. I don’t think he’d actually realized the implications of Harriet’s words, to be honest. But when he finally did, he gave me a startled look, then said, in a sort of hoarse whisper, “What, me?!”
“Yes, you. You’re a terrific artist, Brutus, and I’m going to prove it. Under my guidance you’ll become almost as good as me.” And she beamed upon him with pride, not unlike a parent looks upon a favorite, even though dimwitted, child.
“But… I can’t paint!” Brutus cried.
“Of course you can paint. Anyone can paint. Now get off your tush and let’s get to work!”
CHAPTER 3
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And while Harriet was grooming her newly discovered assistant and a new burgeoning talent was about to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world, we decided to look for our peace and quiet elsewhere. And that’s how we arrived in the next-door backyard where we came upon Marge, our human’s beloved mom.
Oddly enough, Marge didn’t look her customary relaxed self. She wasn’t reading a hefty page-turner in one of the lounge chairs positioned there just for that purpose. Instead, she was standing behind what looked like an easel, squinting at it with a sort of pensive look in the one eye that was still open.
“What’s that in her hand, Max?” asked Dooley in a sort of hushed tone.
“If I’m not mistaken, Dooley,” I said, studying the object under discussion more closely, “I think that’s called a brush. And it’s commonly used to paint things.”
“Paint what?” he asked.
“Well, I would assume she’s painting something on the canvas she’s staring at.”
“I don’t get it,” said Dooley. “I thought Marge was a librarian, not a painter?”
“If Harriet is to be believed, anyone can paint, Dooley, even librarians.”
We circled the entrancing scene, careful not to disturb Marge, who was obviously in the throes of some artistic mood. Once we caught sight of the canvas, I saw she was painting what looked like a tree. Or at least as much like a tree as can be accepted, taking a liberty with the limitations of the physical universe.
“What are you doing, Marge?” Dooley asked, for he, too, must have wondered why anyone would paint a sort of green blob on top of a sort of brownish blob.
Marge jerked out of her trance, and in doing so, liberally spilled drops of paint all over myself and Dooley.
“Yikes!” I cried as the noxious substance hit my smooth blorange coat.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Max!” Marge said, as she hastened to wipe away the spillage with a rag. Unfortunately the rag was dirtier than the brush had been, and so she only managed to make even more of a mess, if that was possible.
It took her a little while to undo the damage, but when we looked more or less spic and span again, Dooley repeated his question:“What are you doing?”
“I’m painting,” said Marge lightly, as if that hadn’t been obvious from the first.
“What are you painting?” asked Dooley. “Except us, I mean.”
Marge gave my friend a puzzled frown.“Why, a tree, of course. Isn’t it obvious?”
Dooley studied the work of art some more, then finally shook his head.“It doesn’t look like a tree,” he said honestly.
“Well, that’s because this is just a preliminary study,” said Marge, regarding her own work with a touch of doubtfulness. “Once I finish, the real work begins.”
“And why are you painting trees?” asked Dooley, continuing his third degree.
Marge shrugged.“Because I like it. It’s very relaxing to paint, you know.”
I thought back to Brutus and the horrified expression on his face when Harriet announced that from now on he was an artist. Somehow I didn’t associate art with relaxation. Then again, maybe it’s different for humans. Oftentimes they find joy in the most peculiar pastimes. Like hiking in nature. Or riding a bicycle.
Just then, Odelia came wandering into the backyard, hoisting Grace in her arms. The latter was gazing around herself with a sort of curious look on her face, as if wondering what all the fuss was about.
“Oh, hey, honey,” said Marge. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you want to join me for art class tonight? It’s a lot more fun if I bring a friend.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t, Mom,” said Odelia. “I’ve got an article to finish and it can’t wait.”
“Mh,” said Marge, looking slightly disappointed. Ever since Odelia had started work again, her leisure time was limited. She’d always been a busy bee, and now with a baby to take care of, her spare time was even more at a premium than before.
“Why don’t you ask Gran? I’m sure she’d love to go.”
Marge grimaced. Obviously the notion of taking her mother along with her to this art class didn’t appeal to her as much as it should have.
“Love to go where?” asked Gran. She came walking out of the house, wearing brown tennis shoes and a fluorescent green tracksuit, a combination which was oddly compatible with Marge’s tree.
“Art class,” said Odelia before Marge could shut her up. “Mom doesn’t feel like going all by herself, and I’m busy tonight, so we were wondering if you wanted to go.”
“Art class? What are you talking about?” asked Gran, as she cast a skeptical glance at her daughter’s latest creation.
“The library is organizing an art exhibition with works of people from Hampton Cove,” Marge explained, “so I thought why not join the fun and create something myself?”
“How many lessons have you had?” asked Gran as she leaned in and studied the painting, then stepped back and studied it some more, looking very much like an art critic in the way she was cupping her chin and frowning critically.