Purrfectly Flealess The Mysteries of Max Short 4
Nic Saint
Contents
Purrfectly Flealess
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
About Nic
Also by Nic Saint
Purrfectly Flealess
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Having barely survived the Terrible Flea Infestation unscathed, Harriet decides that Patient Zero, the first cat to catch the embarrassing affliction, must be found and must be found ASAP! If there’s anything she dislikes it’s disgusting blood-sucking bugs detracting from her natural beauty and grace. So Max, Dooley and Brutus heed the call and go in search of this elusive First Fleabag. Before long, the dragnet yields results, and the cats start closing in on their prey.
Much to their surprise, it’s a cat they know all too well.
Purrfectly Flealess is a 15.000 word short story that ties in with Purrfect Peril (The Mysteries of Max 7). It picks up where that story left off so they’re best read in that order.
Chapter 1
We were out in the backyard of Odelia’s house, undergoing what at first glance to any observer would have appeared an extremely humiliating procedure: Odelia had put a large washtub on the lawn, had filled it with warm soapy water, and was meticulously dragging a comb through the water and through my fur in an effort to catch those last, hard-to-reach fleas that might still linger on my precious bod. Meanwhile Marge was doing the same with Harriet, and Grandma Muffin with Dooley. Brutus, the fourth cat in our small menagerie, was doing his business in the bushes, waiting for his turn.
“And? Did you find any?” I asked, getting a little antsy.
As a general rule I hate getting wet. Odelia had assured me this washing time business was for the greater good, though, so I had agreed to go with it. Just this once.
“So far so good,” she said as she carefully inspected the comb.
“Why isn’t Brutus getting waterboarded?” I asked. “It’s not fair. We’re all getting waterboarded and he’s getting away scot-free. I think Chase should waterboard his cat.”
“It’s not waterboarding,” Odelia explained. “It’s just a gentle grooming session.”
“Whatever,” I grumbled, as I watched Dooley patiently undergoing similar treatment.
“I like it,” my friend said. “As long as it gets rid of these fleas I’m all for it.”
“I agree,” said Harriet, who now sported a dab of foam on the top of her head. “Anything to get rid of these hairy little monsters is all right by me.”
“Hairy?” asked Dooley, his eyes widening. “Nobody said anything about hairy.”
“Oh, yes,” said Harriet. “Fleas are big, hairy monsters, Dooley. As hairy as they come.”
Dooley gulped. “Get them off me, Grandma. Please get them off me!”
“Hold your horses,” Grandma grunted as she squinted at the comb. She then held it up for her daughter’s inspection. “Do you see anything on there, Marge? Those little suckers are so small I can’t be sure.”
Marge studiously ignored her mother, though, and continued combing Harriet as if Grandma hadn’t spoken. Ever since the old woman had decided to leave Hampton Cove to go and live with her newly acquired grandson, Grandma Muffin was dead to Marge.
Undeterred, Grandma waved the comb in Marge’s face. “Is that a flea or a piece of lint? I can’t tell.”
Marge finally took a closer look at the comb, a dark frown on her face. “Unless it’s an imaginary flea, like your imaginary pregnancy, there’s nothing there.”
“Suit yourself,” Grandma grumbled, and went back to dragging the comb through Dooley’s gray mane. She was using ample amounts of soap, and Dooley was now starting to resemble a drowned rat, hunted look in his eyes and all. “I’ll have you know that that was a great opportunity, Marge, and if you’d have been in my shoes you’d have gone for it, too.”
Marge turned on her mother. “No, I wouldn’t. I would never leave my family to go and live with a bunch of strangers just to get my hands on a little bit of money.”
“It wasn’t a little bit of money,” said Gran. “it was a lot. A big ol’ bundle of cash.”
“Even so. You don’t leave your family just because you happen to strike it rich.”
“I would have brought you in on the deal eventually,” said Gran.
Marge planted a fist on her hip. “And how would you have done that?”
Gran shrugged. “I would have hired you as my maid or something, and Tex as the chauffeur. That way you could have lived in a little room over the garage. Shared the wealth.”
Marge pressed her lips together and made a strangled sound at the back of her throat. Living above the garage and working as her own mother’s maid didn’t seem to appeal to her all that much.
“Dad is a doctor, not a chauffeur, Gran,” Odelia pointed out. “And Mom is a librarian, not a maid.”
“Who cares? The Goldsmiths got money to burn. He wouldn’t have had to do any chauffeuring. Just pretend to go through the motions. Maybe wash a limo from time to time. Wear one of them snazzy peaked caps. Just saying. This family missed a great opportunity.”
“We didn’t miss anything,” said Marge. “All we missed was you going off and showing your true colors.”
Brutus had returned from his business in the bushes, and was stalking across the lawn with the air of a cat whose bowel movements have just proved a source of great enjoyment. If he’d been a human male he’d have carried a newspaper under his arm, folded to the sports section. When he caught sight of the flea party in progress on the lawn, the smile of contentment faded and he started backtracking in the direction of the bushes again.
Marge’s eagle eyes had spotted the big, black cat, though. “Oh, Brutus, there you are. Come over here a minute, will you? We need to check you for fleas.”
“I ain’t got no fleas,” he said promptly. “No, ma’am. I’m officially flea-free.”
Marge smiled indulgently. “Be that as it may, you still need checking out. Now come over here and I’ll give you your checkup.”
“Does that mean you’re done with me?” asked Harriet with a note of disappointment in her voice. Harriet likes being pampered and groomed. The more pampering the better.
“Yup. All done,” said Marge.
“Oh,” said Harriet, and reluctantly relinquished her spot to her beau Brutus.
“You know?” said Dooley as he directed a fishy look at a floating flea. “I’m not so sure this is an entirely humane way to treat these animals, Max.”
“What animals?” I asked as Odelia lifted my tail and checked my rear end.
“Well, we’re all God’s creatures, Max, so maybe all this poisoning and waterboarding and generally slaughtering these poor fleas isn’t the way to go is what I mean to say.”
We all stared at the cat. Even Grandma momentarily paused her combing efforts. “You’re nuts,” was her opinion. “I’ve got a nut for a cat.”
Odelia, however, seemed prepared to give Dooley the benefit of the doubt. “I thought you didn’t like fleas, Dooley? You couldn’t wait to get rid of them?”
“Oh, I do. Hate the little parasites, I mean. And I do want to get rid of them. But maybe we should go about this the humane way. Treat them with kindness. Humanely.”