“This time you’ve gone too far, Vesta,” growled Kurt. “Show me where it says I can’t take my dog out for a walk. Show me this new rule of your son and I’ll gladly comply.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about the new rule. It is coming, and faster than you think. As soon as Alec is appointed mayor, the rule is going to be voted in so fast it’ll make your head spin. In fact it’s the first policy he’ll put to the vote, his crowning achievement.”
Kurt stared at Gran for a moment, then declared, “I always said you were nuts.”
And slammed the door in her face.
Which had as a consequence that five members of the CCREC were now effectively locked in with this irate cat-hating neighbor, and one presumably vicious dog.
While I’d stayed behind to keep an eye on the proceedings, my fellow CCREC’ers had gone in search of Kurt’s mutt, and now returned, their search having proven fruitless.
“I don’t think this man has a dog, Max,” said Shanille, reporting from the trenches.
“Oh, yes, he has,” I said. “He got his dog around the same time Marcie and Ted Trapper got Rufus. It’s a happy little yapper that answers to the name Fifi.”
I decided to head into the backyard, which was an easy feat to accomplish, as Kurt had installed a pet door similar to Odelia’s. I squeezed myself through the thing—it was a lot smaller than Odelia’s—and found myself in Kurt Mayfield’s backyard, which wasn’t as nice as my own, but nice enough for a man living by himself. You hear these stories about confirmed bachelors: how their houses are a mess, and their backyards are complete jungles, but Kurt obviously was a man who appreciated order and cleanliness, and both his house and his backyard were nicely maintained, I had to admit.
“Fifi,” I called out. “Where are you?”
And then I saw her. The little Yorkshire Terrier was hiding behind a tree near the back fence, and just about all I could see were two beady eyes and a quivering snout.
“Oh, there you are,” I said, and approached the little doggie carefully. She might be small and cute, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t also be vicious—a happy little biter.
“There’s something we need to discuss, Fifi,” I said. “Something that will benefit you.”
“Don’t hurt me, cat,” said the Yorkie. “Don’t scratch me with those claws of yours.”
“Scratching you is the furthest thing from my mind,” I assured the sweet little thing.
Behind me, four more cats had squeezed through the pet flap, and now joined me as I prepared to give Fifi the CCREC talk, as outlined and drilled into us by Grandma Muffin.
“The thing is, Fifi,” I began, “that there’s a revolution sweeping through Hampton Cove right now. Dogs from all shapes and sizes are taking part in this revolution and joining this popular movement and I’m sure you don’t want to be left behind, right?”
Fifi didn’t respond, but merely crawled further behind the tree, looking even more scared than before. Then again, if one cat scares the bejesus out of you, five probably are a living nightmare.
“Why is she hiding, Max?” asked Dooley. “Doesn’t she like us?”
“I think she’s scared of us,” I intimated.
“A dog? Scared of a cat? I didn’t think that was possible,” said Shanille.
“Well, it is possible, and Fifi is obviously very scared, so maybe you guys should back off a little and give her some space,” I suggested.
“You don’t have to be scared, little Fifi,” said Shanille. Instead of backing off, she was advancing on the creature. “I’m Father Reilly’s cat, and the Bible teaches us to love all creatures great and small, so I can assure you I’m not a threat to you. On the contrary, I think you’re one of the Lord’s creatures, just like me and my dear, dear friends here.”
“Go away, cat,” said Fifi, indicating she wasn’t impressed by this lecture. “Leave me alone.”
“Look, I’ll just say my piece and then we’ll be out of your hair,” I said, which, I now noticed, was adorned with a big pink bow. Very cute. “Dogs all over Hampton Cove are joining the litter box revolution, and I’m sure you don’t want to be left behind. If you learn to go on the litter box now, you’ll be part of the avant-garde of a new and exciting movement. For only nine ninety-nine your owner can pick up a litter box at the General Store, and get two bags of litter thrown in. You simply enter the box, do your business, and you’ll come out smelling like roses—or baby powder, whichever you prefer. Join the litter box revolution now and be a cool dog. There, that was my sales pitch. Questions?”
Gran had really drilled the speech into us, but I still had a feeling it was lacking that je ne sais quoi. Then again, I’m not a salescat, so I probably had fumbled my delivery.
“What’s a litter box?” asked Fifi now, showing her first sign of interest.
“Well, it’s a big box with litter inside it,” I said, “and it magically absorbs your pee and your poo. Pee and poo go in, and you come out, clean as a whistle and smelling, as I said, like roses—or baby powder—but the latter will set you back eleven ninety-nine.”
“Why is that, Max?” asked Dooley. “Why are babies more expensive than roses?”
“Shush, Dooley,” I said. “I’m in the middle of an important sales pitch here.”
“It sounds really nice,” Fifi admitted. “I would love to smell like roses. Pink roses. Pink is my color, you see. I have everything pink. Pink bowls, pink basket, pink pillows….”
“Oh, but it is nice. Us cats have been using litter boxes for years and years and years, and now it’s your turn.”
“You mean you were part of the beta test for this litter box thing?”
I paused. “Um, sure. Cats were part of the beta test group, and now this cool gadget is being rolled out to all pets, dogs included. So you don’t want to miss this opportunity.”
“I think it might be cool,” said Fifi, carefully emerging from behind her tree.
“Oh, yeah, it’s the coolest thing possible,” Harriet assured the little doggie. “You’ll be the coolest dog in school.”
“I don’t go to school, though,” said Fifi, eyeing Harriet uncertainly, nose twitching.
“It’s just a figure of speech,” I said. “What Harriet means to say is that if you become part of the litter box vanguard, you’ll be the coolest dog in town. And who doesn’t want to be the coolest dog in town, right?”
“I’m not cool,” said Fifi sadly. “At least that’s what other dogs keep telling me.”
“This will change all that,” I promised her. “This will make every dog treat you with the respect that you deserve.”
“They’ll look up to you,” said Brutus. “They’ll think you’re the hippest dude on the block.”
“I’m not a dude, though,” said Fifi.
“Okay, fine. You’ll be the hippest chick,” Brutus amended his previous statement.
“I’d like to be a hip chick,” said Fifi, now fully out from behind her tree.
She was obviously overcoming her fear of cats, a testament to the transformational power of the CCREC message and the litter box revolution sweeping our town.
Oh, boy. I guess I’d drunk the Kool-Aid, too.
“Will it make me prettier?” asked Fifi now. “This litter box thing?”
“Oh, sure,” said Harriet without batting an eye. “Litter does wonders for your skin and your fur. Just look at me.” She preened a little, showing off that shiny white coat.
Fifi stared at it with rapt fascination. “You have such lovely fur, Harriet. I’ve always admired you from afar—ever since I was adopted by Kurt. I think you look amazing.”
“Why, thanks, Fifi. And it’s all due to the amazing powers of litter,” said Harriet, unashamedly plugging litter as a regular panacea. I guess she is a born salescat.
“The power of litter will also make you stronger,” said Brutus. “Make you butch like me.” He flexed his muscles. “No dog is going to mess with you when you’re muscular.”