“Philippe,” the kid managed from between the massive mammaries.
“Whatever.”
Uncle Alec blew out a sigh.“Oh, boy.”
Chapter 7
Dooley and I were wandering along the street. It had been tough to get Dooley to relinquish his spot on the ground and return animation to his listless form but finally I’d managed. I’d told him Kingman, whose owner runs the General Store on Main Street, was the town’s expert on fleas, and that if anyone would know how to fight this infestation it was him.
“Do you really think Kingman can help us?” Dooley asked for the umpteenth time.
“Yes, I really think Kingman can help us,” I replied. In actual fact Kingman couldn’t save us if his life depended on it. But I had to get away from Harriet and Brutus who were the perfect double act to lead me straight into a nervous breakdown. As if the fleas weren’t bad enough, now I hadto cure Brutus’s performance anxiety? Give me a break.
So a nice walk was exactly what the doctor ordered.
Soon I felt my mood lift. The slight breeze ruffling my furry flanks. The sun casting its golden rays upon a near picture-perfect world. Sidewalks full of happy people pushing strollers. Kids gurgling cheerfully. Moms merrily gossiping about other moms. I even liked the sight of all the dogs that pranced around, restrained by those nice sturdy leashes and collars.
That’s how you can tell the difference between a dog and a cat: a cat will never allow a human to put a collar or a leash on them. Cats are free-roaming spirits, not slaves like dogs.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” I told Dooley. “Odelia will fix this.”
“I thought Kingman would fix this?”
“Someone will fix this,” I said, my confidence in the happy solution returning.
“I wonder who patient zero is.”
“Patient zero?”
“Don’t you remember from the movie? Gwyneth was patient zero. She got the virus from bat and pig poop after she shook hands with the chef who hadn’t washed his hands.”
“I don’t think it was bat and pig poop, exactly.”
“It was some creature’s poop.” He turned to me, his tail swishing excitedly. “We need to find our patient zero so we can save the world.”
“Maybe we should focus on saving ourselves.”
“It’s too late for us, Max. Even Rose fromTitanic didn’t make it.”
“Oh, will you please forget about Rose fromTitanic! It was just a movie!”
He didn’t speak for a moment, then said somberly, “I’ll bet I’m Rose. And I’ll bet you’re Morpheus fromThe Matrixand you get to live. Or maybe you’re Matt Damon.”
“I’m not Matt Damon and you’re not Rose! It’s fleas, Dooley. Stupid fleas!”
“It’s an infestation,” he said stubbornly. “And we saw that movie for a reason.”
“Not everything happens for a reason, Dooley.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“Not everything.”
“Everything.”
“Oh, God!”
We walked on in silence for a moment. My happy mood dampened, I suddenly wished that instead ofContagionwe’d seen Ratatouille. It was also about a group of critters but these critters lived in Paris and they could cook. I was pretty sure Dooley’s outlook would improve if I could convince him fleas were happy little critters who enjoyed cooking.
We’d arrived downtown and were walking along Main Street, with its throngs of shoppers, honking cars and busy shops, when we noticed a peculiar scene. The hotel across the street from Kingman’s General Store had one of its windows blown out, as if a fire had raged through it. And down on the sidewalk a sort of tent had been put up, with funny-looking people in white coveralls hovering about. They looked like astronauts.
“What’s going on over there?” I asked.
Dooley barely glanced up.“Who cares?” he said. “We’re all going to be dead soon.”
“Nice attitude.”
“It’s true. Nothing Kingman or anyone else can do about it.”
“Shall I tell you something that will cheer you up?”
He shrugged.“Nothing can cheer me up.”
“Do you want to know what Brutus told me in confidence?”
He sighed.“What?”
“He’s having trouble with his cathood.”
Dooley frowned.“Trouble with…”
“His machinery.”
He gave me a blank look and I could see I would have to spell this out.
“His pee-pee has stopped working.”
He blinked.“He can’t go wee-wee anymore?”
“I suppose he can—it’s the other thing he can’t do anymore.”
“What other thing?”
“Sex, Dooley. Brutus can’t have sex anymore.”
His lips formed a perfect O, and for the first time since the fateful discovery of the flea issue, a smile slowly crept up his face, until he was softly chuckling. Dooley has never liked Brutus very much, mainly because he’s had a lifelong infatuation with Harriet. So when Brutus swept in and swept the prissy Persian off her paws, it didn’t endear him to Dooley.
“Brutus can’t get it up?” he chuckled.
“That seems to be the gist of it.”
“And I thought we were screwed.”
“The best part is that he’s asked me to help him.”
Now he was laughing outright.“You told him no, right?”
“Oh, no, I told him I would help him. Why wouldn’t I?”
He abruptly stopped laughing.“You’re going to help him?”
“Of course. He’s a fellow feline. I believe in helping out my fellow feline.”
“Very noble of you, Max,” he said, a scowl returning to his face.
“He’d do the same for me.”
“I’m sure he would.”
“He’s not a bad cat, you know.”
“Oh, he’s a real prince.”
I sighed. Dooley really was insufferable today. I decided to let it go.
We’d arrived at the General Store and I saw that Kingman wasn’t occupying his usual perch on the checkout counter inside the store but instead sat holding court outside. And just like his owner, he seemed awfully interested in the happenings across the street.
“Hey, Max, Dooley,” he said, never taking his eyes off the Hampton Cove Star.
“We need your advice, Kingman,” I said by way of greeting.
Before he could respond, Kingman suddenly broke into a strange breakdancing movement, his body shivering and convulsing while he tried to scratch a spot on his lower back. I could have told him this was impossible. There are spots even the most agile of cats simply cannot reach, and Kingman, an impressively fat piebald, was never the most agile of cats, even in his prime. He finally seemed to realize this and resorted to applying his tongue to the area, licking up a storm. Finally he gave up and said in a low voice,“Stupid critters.”
And then I got it. Kingman had fleas!
“Oh, no,” said Dooley, who’d come to the same conclusion. “Kingman!”
“Yeah, I got ‘em. Everybody’s got ‘em.”
In that moment, as if to confirm his words, both Dooley and I broke into an equally spastic version of the flea breakdance. When Kingman raised an eyebrow, I confirmed the sad news.“We got ‘em, too.”
“Sure you do. Like I said, everybody’s got ‘em. Every single cat in Hampton Cove. From the hoity-toity to the lowliest street cats, they’re all doing the flea dance today.”
“But how?” asked Dooley. “Where? I mean, who is patient zero?”
Kingman frowned.“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“The first one to get the fleas,” I explained. “He or she must have infected the others.”
“Who cares! We got ‘em. Now we gotta get rid of ‘em!” He leaned in. “Little piece of advice. Free of charge. Whatever you do, don’t tell your human.Never tell your human.”
We also leaned in, Dooley pricking up his ears, his eyes wide.“Why?” he asked.
Kingman slowly raised his paw, equally slowly extended a single claw, and tapped a strange contraption located around his neck.