“He’s drunk,” said Chase. “He just told me the same story he told the desk sergeant last night.”
“About the werewolf?” Alec grunted.
“It was a werewolf, I swear!” said Victor. “I saw it as clearly as I’m seeing you! He was standing not ten feet away from me, growling and howling and he had these claws, at least three inches long, and his teeth were glittering and dripping with saliva!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Alec. “I think it’s time for you to head on home, buddy.”
“But I really saw it! It was going to attack me but I was too quick. I ran and ran and I came straight here—but when I told them what happened they didn’t believe me!”
“I know you came straight here, and my desk sergeant put you straight into the lockup, as you were drunk out of your skull, Victor.”
“I had a few too many to drink, that’s true,” Victor allowed, “but as soon as I saw that monster I sobered up. I swear I’m telling you the truth, Chief. You have to believe me.”
Chief Alec exchanged a look of understanding with his deputy, and Chase got up. “Let’s get you out of here,” he told Victor.
“But… aren’t you going to finish taking my statement? People need to be warned. You need to call in the army—the National Guard—the FBI!”
“We’ll call in Mulder and Scully,” said Chase, as he clasped a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder. “And you can tell them all about your encounter with that nasty werewolf.”
“And while I talk to this Mully Sculder, you’ll hunt that beast down, won’t you?”
“Oh, of course we will, Victor,” said the Chief with a grin. “We’ll go after that thing with everything we’ve got—don’t you worry. This is now my number one priority.”
“When the reporters show up, tell them I saw it first, will you? And make sure they spell my name right. That’s Victor with a C. And Ball with a B.”
“Let’s go, Victor with a C,” said Chase, and led the man out of the room.
“What a nut,” Alec muttered.
Chapter Three
“Just look at it, Max, Just take a good, close look.”
I didn’t have to take a good, close look. Even from a distance I knew what it was: dog poo.
“It’s a disgrace,” said Shanille. “An absolute disgrace.”
“You’re not wrong,” I said.
Even though Shanille had come to us with the problem, depositing it in our laps, so to speak, she wasn’t the first one to have noticed an issue that was troubling the entire feline community.
Dog poo was a problem that had long irked me, and I’d mentioned it to Odelia many, many times.
“You have to talk to your human,” Shanille said now. “She has to write an article about this. These dogs are defacing our beautiful town—they’re turning Hampton Cove into the garbage dump of the Hamptons. If this keeps up no tourist will want to visit our beautiful town and then where will we be? In the scrapheap of history! The doldrums!”
“It would be very peaceful,” said Dooley, who didn’t seem to grasp the big picture.
“I think Shanille is right,” said Harriet. “Dog poo is the biggest issue of our time. A major menace to public health and safety. Something we desperately need to address.”
“It’s pretty nasty,” Brutus agreed.
The five of us were standing around what could very well be the largest dog turd I’d ever come across in my long and illustrious career as a cat sleuth. And I didn’t even need to take a sniff to know whom it belonged to either: Marge and Tex’s neighbors had recently gotten a dog, and I had every reason to believe this turd belonged to that dog.
“People step in it,” Shanille pointed out as a man carefully sidestepped the pile of steaming dog dung and shook his head in annoyance. “Cats step in it. We all step in it.”
“I don’t step in it,” I pointed out.
“I step in it,” said Dooley.
“We all step in it,” Shanille insisted.
“Eww,” Harriet said as she visibly cringed.
“And then they drag that poo into their homes, and it gets smushed into their carpets and smeared across their nice hardwood floors. It gets dragged into nurseries and kitchens. It ends up in bathrooms and bedrooms. It’s hideous, it’s gross and it needs to be stopped. I know, for Father Reilly curses about the horrible muck every single day.”
“Father Reilly curses?” asked Dooley. “I thought priests weren’t supposed to curse?”
“He uses colorful language, but never takes the Lord’s name in vain,” said Shanille prissily.
Father Reilly is Shanille’s human, and runs one of the biggest churches in Hampton Cove. And since many people set foot in that church, I could only imagine the amounts of dog poo they trailed inside.
“Just think about it for a moment,” she said now. “Let’s take as a very conservative estimate that one out of ten people step in dog poo, and that all of those people drag that poo into my church. That’s a lot of dog poo to clean up for poor Father Reilly.”
“I’m sure Father Reilly doesn’t clean his church himself, though, right?” I said.
“No, he has a cleaning lady, but the principle still stands: someone has to clean up the poo. And why? Simply because dog owners refuse to clean up after their dogs. If you want a dog, you should accept the responsibility and remove the poo,” said Shanille with the kind of forcefulness that has served her well as director of cat choir. I mean, if you can wrangle the entire Hampton Cove cat community, you can wrangle anything.
“I don’t think it’s the owners that should take the responsibility, though,” said Harriet, who hates dog poo even more than the rest of us. Her gorgeous white fur is more susceptible to being sullied and soiled than mine or Dooley’s or Brutus’s.
“You don’t?” said Shanille.
“Of course not. Just look at us cats. We do our business nicely and hygienically in a litter box, which is conveniently scented so as not to let the foul stench upset sensitive noses. Afterward, we clean our tushies all by ourselves. Compare that to dogs. Do they use litter boxes? No, they simply pee against trees and poo on the sidewalk. Yuck! And then, to make matters worse, they don’t even clean themselves! Double yuck! So you can see how the responsibility of this dog poo crisis lies with the dogs, not humans.”
“I think it might be a shared responsibility,” said Brutus.
“No, sweetie pie, if we do our doo next to the litter box, is it Odelia’s fault, or Marge or Gran’s? No, it’s our mistake, and we should be the ones suffering the consequences. But if a dog does his business on the floor, nobody cares! And that’s the big issue here.”
“So what do you suggest?” asked Shanille.
“I suggest we immediately start a campaign to teach dogs to use a litter box, just like cats. I mean, how hard can it be? If we can do it, dogs can do it, too, right?”
“But dogs aren’t as smart as cats,” said Dooley. “Are they, Max?”
“No, obviously they’re not,” I said. “Otherwise they would have learned how to go on the potty a long time ago.”
“Human babies learn to go on the potty when they’re two or three,” said Harriet, “so why can’t we teach dogs to do the same? It would save us the agony of having to look at that.” She wrinkled her nose as she gestured at the big pile of doo, stinking up the street.
“It’s a disgrace,” Shanille repeated her earlier estimation. “But I don’t know if dogs are even capable of being potty-trained. I mean, like you said, dogs are pretty dumb.”
“Yes, but surely they’re not as dumb as that,” said Harriet.
“This is a historic day,” said Shanille, who, as a priest’s cat, possesses the gift of the gab. “This is the day when five cats decided not to take it any longer. When five cats took a stand and said, enough is enough! No more! We are going to tackle an issue that has plagued our community for far too long.” Her face had taken on an appropriately earnest expression. “We, ladies and gentlecats, are going to potty-train dogs.”