Finally, I’d had enough. I wasn’t going to miss this interview, as JPG was as much a hero of mine as he was of Odelia’s. The man had taken in more stray cats than the Hampton Cove animal shelter, and all of them had been given such a good life they’d spread the word far and wide: JPG loved cats and they, in return, adored him. Heck, if I wasn’t so fond of Odelia I might have presented myself on the JPG doorstep, looking slightly bedraggled.
I’d talked to more than a few of the cats he’d taken in, and they said he actually served them pâté on a daily basis. The food supposedly melted on the tongue, and was so delicious and plentiful it sounded like feline paradise.
The thought of pâté decided me. I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to sample the best gourmet food in all of Hampton Cove just because Odelia liked to sleep in. So I jumped on top of her, prepared to give her a good back rub, claws extended. If that didn’t do the trick, nothing would.
Just then, Dooley wandered into the room.
Dooley is Odelia’s mom’s cat, a beigeish ragamuffin and not the smartest cat around. He’s also my best friend.
“Hey, Max,” he said now as he leisurely strode in. “What’s up?”
“What’s not up is the more apt question,” I grumbled, gesturing at Odelia, who turned and clasped her pillow with a beatific expression on her face.
“Aw, she looks so sweet,” said Dooley, looking on from the bedside carpet.
“We’ve got an important interview scheduled in an hour, and if she doesn’t get a move on she’s going to miss it.”
“One hour? She can make that. Easy.”
“Well, unless she gets up right now she won’t,” I insisted.
And then I got it. Maybe we could serenade her. Dooley and I had recently joined the cat choir. We got together once a week to rehearse, and even had our own conductor. We sang all the old classics, like Cat’s in the Cradle, Year of the Cat, What’s New Pussycat and things like that. The good stuff. Since we usually practiced at night, though, we were having a hard time finding a regular spot to get together, as the neighbors didn’t seem to appreciate our nascent talent as much as we did.
“What was that song we did last night?” I asked Dooley.
He looked up at me. “Mh? What song?”
“For the cat choir. What was that last song we did? The one that made the mayor throw that old shoe at you?”
Dooley frowned at this, and rubbed the spot on his back where the shoe had connected. “That wasn’t funny, Max. That really hurt, you know.”
“Yeah, but what was the song?” I insisted.
“Wake me up before you go go,” he said. “The old Wham! classic.”
“Of course,” I said with a grin. “Let’s do it now. I’m sure it’ll be a nice way to wake Odelia up, and put her in the right mood for her interview.”
I jumped down from the bed, and took up position next to Dooley. We both cleared our throats, just like our conductor Shanille, Father Reilly’s tabby had taught us, and burst into song.
“Wake me up before you go go,” I howled.
“Don’t keep me hanging on like a yo-yo,” wailed Dooley.
And even though we hadn’t practiced the song a lot—the mayor’s shoe had kinda ruined the moment—I thought we were doing a pretty good job. It probably wouldn’t have carried George Michael’s approval, as cats don’t exactly sing like humans. When we sing, it sounds more like… a bunch of cats being strangled. Nevertheless, the effect was almost magical. We hadn’t even gotten to the chorus yet, when Odelia buried her head in her pillow, then dragged the pillow over her head, and finally threw the pillow at us.
“Stop it already, you guys. You sound horrible!” she muttered.
“It’s Wham!,” I told her. “So it can’t be horrible. And if you don’t get up right this minute, you’re going to be late for your important interview.”
At this, she darted a quick look at her alarm clock, and uttered a startled yelp. The next moment she scrambled from the bed, practically tripped over Dooley and me, and raced for the bathroom.
“Shit shit shit shit shit!” she cried. “Why didn’t you wake me?!”
“Well, I tried!” I called after her. “And failed.”
“You think she doesn’t like our singing?” asked Dooley, who’s very sensitive about his singing skills. Coming after the shoe incident, Odelia’s critique had clearly rattled him.
“I’m sure she loved it,” I told him, padding over to the window.
Unlike humans, us cats don’t need to spend time in the bathroom, or apply makeup, or put on clothes. We do spend half of our lives licking our butts, but apart from that, being a cat is a lot easier than being a human.
“I sensed criticism,” Dooley said now, staring at the door through which Odelia had disappeared. “She said it sounded horrible, Max. Horrible!”
“She’s not awake yet,” I said. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
I hopped up onto the windowsill and watched the sun rising in the East. Outside, in the cherry tree that divided Odelia’s garden from her parents’, cute little birdies were chirping, singing their own songs, and fluttering gaily. I licked my lips. Coming upon the thoughts of pâté, the sight was enough to make my stomach rumble.
Dooley joined me, and we both stared at the birdies, twittering up a storm. There’s nothing greater than waking up in the morning and seeing a flock of little birdies fluttering around a tree. It lifts my mood to such heights I can’t wait to get out there and meet the world head-on. And the birdies. I saw Dooley felt the same way, for his jaw had dropped and he was drooling.
“So how’s things over at your place?” I asked.
His happy gaze clouded over. “Rotten. That Brutus is spending more and more time at Marge’s place than he does at his own.”
Brutus was the black cat that belonged to Chase Kingsley, who was a new cop who’d recently moved to Hampton Cove. He was staying at Chief Alec’s, Odelia’s uncle, until he got a place of his own, but Brutus seemed to feel more at ease at the Pooles than at Uncle Alec’s. And then there was the fact that he was dating Harriet, of course, Odelia’s Gran’s white Persian, who lived in the same house. One big, happy family. Except that it wasn’t.
It had been a tough couple of weeks, Brutus being some kind of dictator, who liked to think he had to lay down the law to us plebeians. And since Dooley had always been sweet on Harriet himself, he was pretty much in hell right now.
“Brutus still being such a pain in the butt?” I asked.
Dooley nodded forlornly. “Last night he told me that from now on I should sleep on the floor. That all elevated surfaces were strictly reserved for him. Something about him having to have the best vantage point in case the house was being burglarized. I swear that cat is driving me up the wall.”
“That’s just plain silly,” I said, shaking my head. Both Dooley and I had been wracking our brains trying to come up with a way to take Brutus down a peg or two. But as long as Harriet was his girlfriend, that was kinda hard, especially since Harriet is pretty much the most beautiful cat in Hampton Cove, and whatever she says goes with humans.
“You can always sleep on my couch, Dooley,” I said magnanimously.
In spite of Brutus’s efforts to take over my house as well, so far he hadn’t succeeded. Fortunately Odelia still listened to me, and kicked him out when he became too much for me to handle. Oh, that’s right. Didn’t I tell you? Odelia is one of those rare humans who understands and speaks feline, on account of the fact that one of her forebears was a witch or something. Her mother and grandmother share the same gift, which comes in handy from time to time. Like when I have some scoop to share. You see, Odelia works for the Hampton Cove Gazette, and with the exclusive scoops we provide her she can practically fill the entire paper, earning her a reputation as the best reporter in town. She’s also the only reporter in town, apart from Dan Goory, the Gazette’s geriatric editor and Odelia’s boss.