“I’m sure she will. How many men with a strawberry nose are out there?”
“Not many, I’ll bet.”
“Nope.”
Dooley gave me a sideways glance. “Max?”
“Mh?”
“I’m glad we’re friends again.”
“Me, too, Dooley.”
“I don’t like it when we fight.”
“I love you, buddy.”
“I love you, too.”
And it was with a lighter heart that I pranced along the sidewalk, on our way to cat choir. The choir convenes every night, though not all members show up each time. Cat choir is not so much an expression of our artistic sensibilities as an excuse to hang out and shoot the breeze. Cats used to hang out on rooftops and such, but the park is a much better place. Plenty of trees to climb—us cats love climbing trees—and plenty of critters in the undergrowth—us cats love catching critters even more than climbing trees—so it’s all good.
We arrived at the park and saw that it was already humming with activity. Not musical activity, even though some cats were already warming up those vocal cords by performing deep-breathing exercises and singing scales.
“Ooh, eee, aah,” they were screeching.
A sporadic boot was already tumbling down from the windows of the houses overlooking the park, but it was clear the boot-throwers’ hearts weren’t in it, as these boots were old and worn-out. The real nice boots only came later, when choir practice really kicked in and stupefied humans picked up any footwear they could lay their hands on.
“Hey, you guys,” said Shanille, who was cat choir’s conductor. She’s a gray cat with white stripes and belongs to Father Reilly. She sniffed the air. “What’s that terrible smell?”
“Duck dung,” said Dooley before I could intervene.
Shanille looked thoughtful. “I don’t know if I shouldn’t dismiss you. There’s a hygiene rule in the cat choir rulebook about making sure you’re properly bathed and washed before you arrive. Some of our members are very sensitive to pervasive odors, you know.”
“We are washed and bathed,” I said. “This is not our smell. It’s Brutus and Harriet’s. They’re the ones who mingled with the ducks.”
“We only mingled with the rabbits,” Dooley explained helpfully. “One was racist and the other wasn’t.”
Shanille blinked as she took this all in. “I’ll have to consult the other members. We are a democratic organization, after all. I’ll put it to a vote.”
And before I had a chance to file a motion to stay, she’d stalked off.
“Oh, darn ducks,” I muttered.
“Now don’t be a racist, Max,” said Dooley. “Those ducks can’t help how they smell.”
“I’m not racist! I just don’t want to be kicked out of cat choir because of a trifling thing like duck dung.”
“It’s not a trifling thing. Remember, duck dung registers a five on the Richter scale. That’s not something to take lightly.”
“How many times have I told you not to believe a word Milo says?”
“He wouldn’t be lying about something like that. The Richter scale is real. I’ve heard about it on your Discovery Channel.”
“Oh, Dooley,” I muttered.
Moments later, Shanille returned. “Well, I’ve put it to a vote,” she said. “And I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”
Oh, crap. “What’s the good news?”
“A majority of the members feel that a slight odor is acceptable.”
“Yay,” said Dooley.
“And what’s the bad news?”
“A new member has joined cat choir and you know how new members are granted a veto during their very first cat choir practice?”
“So?”
“So this new member has vetoed your and Dooley’s presence here tonight.”
I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly who this new member was. “Don’t tell me. Is his name Milo?”
Shanille looked surprised. “How did you know?”
“Milo? But how did he get here so fast?” said Dooley.
“He must have run like the wind to get here first,” I said bitterly.
“Or maybe he apparated like Harry Potter!” Dooley said excitedly.
We’d sat through a Harry Potter marathon the other day and my head was still hurting. Dooley had enjoyed it, though. “Cats don’t apparate, Dooley,” I said.
“Professor McGonagall does. And she’s at least half cat.”
“Milo is not Professor McGonagall.”
“Maybe he is. Maybe Milo is a wizard!”
“Milo is a pain in the butt,” I said, turning away. At least soon he’d be ancient history.
“Hey, Max,” Milo’s voice sounded behind me. “Dooley. So weird to see you here.”
“Nothing weird about it,” I said, turning sharply. “We’re out here every night. Isn’t that right, Dooley?”
But Dooley was studying Milo intently. “Are you a wizard, Milo?”
Any other cat would have laughed off the silly notion, but not Milo. “How did you guess?” he said seriously.
“Oh, please,” I said. “Don’t fill Dooley’s head with more nonsense, will you?”
Milo turned those placid eyes on me. “And what nonsense would that be, Max?”
“The worms! The scooting! The smearing poop on the walls!”
“Scooting is a very effective remedy for a life-threatening condition, Max.”
“See?!” Dooley cried, the color draining from his nose. “I’ve got worms!”
And instantly he ran for the nearest tree and started rubbing his butt against it.
“I can see right through you, you know,” I told Milo coldly.
He lifted one corner of his mouth. “Can you now?”
“And I’m going to expose you. The game is up, Milo.”
He yawned. “If you say so. Now I’m very sorry, Max, but I have choir practice. And you, I guess, don’t.” And with a supercilious little grin, he stalked off, leaving me fuming.
Chapter 29
The next morning, Odelia was awakened by the smell of duck dung. She grimaced as she blinked against the sunlight streaming in through the curtains. The first thing she saw were five pairs of cat’s eyes staring back at her. It appeared that overnight a regular clowder of cats had convened at the foot of her bed, and gradually, as dawn approached, they’d moved up in the direction of her pillow and now they were practically surrounding her.
Max had placed his paws on her chest, and was breathing heavily. Dooley was still at the foot of the bed, and seemed puzzled why he was the one left behind. Harriet had draped herself across the pillow Chase used when he slept over. Brutus was scowling at her from under her armpit. And Milo had somehow managed to squeeze himself between the headboard and the pillow and was like an oversized pair of earmuffs now, or a hat.
“Hey, you guys,” she said as she yawned and tried to stretch. “Could you… move over a scooch? I need to get up.”
But the cats weren’t budging. If anything, she had the impression they were eyeing each other as much as they were eyeing her. Like the showdown at the O.K. Corral.
“I’ve got a question for you, Odelia,” said Brutus now.
“Shoot,” she said, hoping they’d get this over with soon.
“Who’s your favorite?”
Uh-oh. “My favorite what? Movie? I really like Frozen.”
But he was not to be distracted. “Who’s your favorite cat?”
“I don’t have a favorite, Brutus. I love all you guys the same.”
“That’s scientifically impossible,” said Milo. “The human mind likes to make sense of the world by turning it into a perfectly ordered set of lists. Favorite foods. Favorite socks. Best boyfriends. Best kisses. You get the drift. So you must have a favorite cat, Odelia.”
“Well, I don’t, Milo. Now can you move? I want to get up.”
“Max is your favorite, isn’t he?” Brutus insisted.
“Oh, Brutus,” Harriet snapped. “Not again with this nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense when it’s true! Nobody blames you, Odelia,” Brutus continued. “Max is, after all, your cat. Dooley is Grandma’s, Harriet is Marge’s, I’m Chase’s, and Milo is this Aloisia person’s. So it stands to reason you would like Max the mostest.”