“Maybe we should spread out,” said Brutus. “Isn’t that what Bruce would do?”
Brutus was right. When on a dangerous mission, always ask yourself what Bruce would do. And right now Bruce would probably tell his team to spread out. And since I seemed to have assumed the role of team leader, I now said, “Brutus and Harriet, head up to the farm and talk to those ducks. Dooley and I will look for the dogs.”
“What about me?” asked Milo. “What important task do you have in store for me, Max?”
He was giving me a slightly mocking look, as if on the verge of challenging my authority.
“You better go with Brutus and Harriet,” I said, as there was no way I was going to have Milo cramp my style.
But Brutus and Harriet weren’t all that eager either. Still, they relented, and I watched the trio stalk off in the direction of the stables—or the duck houses, as Odelia had called them.
And then it was just Dooley and me. Just like old times. And I suddenly felt almost cheerful. Dooley might not be the brightest bulb in God’s big bulb shop, but he’s my buddy, and I was glad we’d ironed out those Milo-made differences. Or at least I thought we had.
“Max, if Brutus is my father, and you’re Brutus’s brother, is Harriet my mother?”
“Milo made all that up, Dooley,” I said. “Brutus is not your father and I’m not his brother. My guess is that his human loves her daily dose of Days of Our Lives as much as Gran does and watching all of that stuff for years has somehow turned Milo into a mythomaniac as a consequence. Either that or a psychopath. The jury is still out.”
“A mythomaniac, is that like a nymphomaniac, Max?”
“Not… exactly.”
“Do you think Milo is evil?”
“Like I said, the jury is still out on that one. He does seem to enjoy wreaking havoc in other cats’ lives.”
We’d been traipsing around the duck farm without a single sighting of a dog, duck or other living creature and no hope of catching Odelia’s thieving killers—or killing thieves—when suddenly I caught sight of two large ears sticking out of a hole in the ground. They were twitching anxiously, as if aware of our presence.
I hunkered down behind a tractor tire someone had conveniently discarded.
“Dooley!” I hissed. “Over here!”
“What is it?” he asked, excited. “Do you see something?”
Instead of replying, I pointed in the direction of the ears. And then he saw it, too. A face had surfaced, like a snail from its shell. It was a white, furry face with twitchy nose.
It was a rabbit. A big, white rabbit.
Chapter 25
“What is that, Max?” asked Dooley, both intrigued and terrified.
“That, my friend, is a rabbit,” I said, and emerged from our hiding place.
“Watch out, Max!” Dooley cried. “It could be dangerous!”
“It’s just a rabbit,” I said. “Rabbits aren’t dangerous.”
“It could be a rabid rabbit!” he said.
The fluffy bunny didn’t look rabid, though. So I approached it in the spirit of friendship. “Hey, there, buddy,” I said by way of greeting. “My name is Max and I come in peace.”
“What do you want, cat?” asked the rabbit in a gravelly voice. Almost as if it had been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day for its entire life. It could have been a pipe, too.
“My friend and I are trying to ascertain whether intruders burgled this farm last night,” I said. “They would have stolen both a tractor and a tanker filled with duck poop?”
The rabbit stared at me—insolently, I would have thought. Impossible, of course. Rabbits are fun and cuddly creatures. Lovable and full of joy and love and good cheer.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, cat,” said this rabbit, with distinct lack of good cheer. “What I do know is that you’re trespassing, and if you and that other cat don’t get out of my face in ten seconds I’m siccing the dogs on you.”
“Hey! I said I’ve come in peace!”
“I don’t care. We don’t like strangers around these parts. So you better buzz off.”
“I’m not a stranger. I live in Hampton Cove!”
“You’re a stranger to me, stranger. Plus, you’re a cat.”
“So?”
“Didn’t you get the memo? Nobody likes cats.”
“Everybody likes cats! In fact people love cats!”
“Now, see, that’s where you’re wrong. People love rabbits. They hate cats.”
This was one weird rabbit, I thought. Dooley, who’d also emerged from behind the tire, seemed to think so, too, for he said, “I never met a cat-hating rabbit before.”
“And I’m not the only one. All rabbits hate cats—and so do humans.”
“No, they don’t. Our humans love cats,” said Dooley.
“Huh,” said the rabbit. “Your humans must be weirdos.”
“No, they’re not. They’re perfectly normal humans,” I said.
“If they like cats there must be something wrong with them.”
“They’re normal humans!” I cried. “And like all normal humans they love cats!”
“Look, I’m not having this conversation,” said the rabbit. “You better clear out now before I call in the dogs.”
“What has happened to you that you hate cats so much?” asked Dooley.
The rabbit frowned. “I don’t understand the question. The whole world hates cats.”
“No, it doesn’t!” I said.
“You’re obviously delusional, cat. Of course it does. All life on this planet agrees on only one thing: that cats are the most loathsome creatures ever brought into this world.”
“Who are you talking to, Alfie?” asked a muffled voice.
“Stay where you are, Victorine,” said the rabbit. “It’s not safe out here.”
A second rabbit rose up from the hole. Like its cat-hating friend, it was white and fluffy and looked harmless. When it caught sight of us, it even smiled. “Oh, hi, there, cats.”
“Don’t talk to them, Victorine!” said Alfie. “You know we don’t talk to cats.”
“Oh, don’t be rude, Alfie.” She gave us a look of apology. “Don’t mind Alfie, cats. Ever since he was attacked by a pack of wild cats he hasn’t been the same.” She turned to Alfie. “These are two perfectly nice cats, Alfie. Gentlecats. They’re not going to hurt you.”
“Yeah, we’re nice cats, Alfie,” I echoed Victorine. “All we want from you is some information.”
Dooley was eyeing the two rabbits with trepidation. “Did you say that a pack of wild cats attacked you?”
“Yeah, there were at least a dozen of them,” said Victorine. “Vicious creatures. Not you, of course,” she quickly added. “You’re nice. Now what was it you wanted to know?”
I repeated my request, and I could see this set the rabbits thinking. Alfie probably about calling in the dogs, but Victorine was actually contemplating my question.
“I did see two men last night. They cut a hole in the fence. Before driving off.”
“Don’t help them, Victorine!” her cat-hating mate implored. “We don’t help cats!”
“Oh, shush,” she said kindly. “Um, one was short and one was tall. And the tall one had a little mustache and the short one had a very big nose. Like one of them strawberry noses. He also had a purple spot on his upper lip. I thought maybe he got stung by a bee.”
“Or attacked by a cat,” Alfie growled.
Now we were getting somewhere. “That’s great, Victorine,” I said. “Did you ever see these men before?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “And I haven’t seen them since, either. Did you see them before, Alfie?”
But Alfie was now engaged in a silent protest.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Alfie. Not all cats are bad. These are two perfectly nice cats.”
“I don’t like cats,” Alfie insisted, his fluffy tail twitching defiantly. “Any cats.”
Victorine shook her head. “I’m afraid he’s become one of them whatchamacallits, um…” She thought for a moment, thumping her paw, then her face cleared. “A racist!”