“Dooley?” I asked. “Are you feeling all right?”
My friend had a strange glint in his eyes. “Oh, I’m fine, Max. Absolutely fine.” When we all stared at him, he suddenly burst into a giggle. “You should see your faces!”
“Is this supposed to be a joke?” asked Harriet.
“Yes, it is!” he cried, still giggling.
“Well, it’s not funny.”
His face fell. “Not funny?”
“Not funny at all.”
“But… the documentary I saw on the Discovery Channel on stand-up comedy said that the trick to humor is to shock your audience. And hit them with your punchline.”
“Whoever made that documentary obviously doesn’t know the first thing about comedy,” said Harriet, shaking her head.
“Not a clue,” Brutus agreed.
“But, you guys! Gran asked me to be Tex’s opening act once he launches his basement rehearsal space. She said I’m the best way to warm up the crowd for her son-in-law.”
“Does Tex know about this?” I asked.
“No, Gran told me not to mention it to anyone. She wants to surprise him.”
“Oh, he’ll be surprised,” said Harriet, and now she actually was laughing.
“Listen. I’ve prepared a couple of jokes,” said Dooley, wetting his lips. “Um… a giraffe, a penguin and an elephant walk into a bar. Says the elephant to the giraffe, ‘So how is the view from up there?’ ‘I guess not as good as the view from down there,’ says the giraffe, and plucks the penguin from beneath his tush.”
We were all silent, then I said, and I think I spoke for everyone, “Dooley, please don’t become a comedian.”
But Dooley wasn’t going to be deterred. “I have to. For Tex. So how about this one? A priest, a nun and a basketball player walk into a bar. Asks the nun of the basketball player, ‘How high do I have to jump to become a professional like you?’”
We all waited expectantly, but when nothing more seemed forthcoming, I asked, “So? What’s the punchline?”
“I’m still working on it,” said Dooley. “But how do you like it so far? Funny, right?”
We all groaned, and would have given Dooley a more thorough criticism if not suddenly the sound of our neighbor Marcie Trapper screaming caught our attention. And as I pricked up my ears, I could clearly hear the sound of four hundred mice clamoring.
Apparently Molly and Rupert had simply moved their colony into the Trappers’ basement.
When we all looked to Harriet, now our official mouse whisperer, she cried, “No way! I did it once but I’m not doing it again!”
Marcie kept on screaming, and soon the Pooles had all passed through the little gate in the hedge and were moving into the house next door, along with Ted, wet feet and all.
“Don’t you think we should go over there?” asked Brutus. “We are cats, after all. We’re supposed to take care of this mouse issue for our humans.”
“I’m not going anywhere near them,” said Harriet with a shiver. “Those mice are vicious.”
“Oh, listen, you guys, I’ve got another one,” said Dooley. “A mouse, a moose and a macaw walk into a bar.”
“Okay,” I said.
“That’s all I’ve got. Hilarious, right?”
“Yeah, a real hoot, Dooley,” I said.
There’s probably a reason there are no famous cat comedians. We’re not that funny.
Just then, Gran popped her head over the hedge and hissed, “Don’t listen to those party poopers, Dooley. You’re doing great. You’ll have Tex’s buddies rolling in the aisles. They’ll keep coming back for more and more!” And then she disappeared again.
“See?” said Dooley. “Tex will be so happy with his surprise. So what do you call Prika’s dad? Paprika. I can do this all night, so stop me if you’ve heard this one before.”
I think that’s the moment we all yelled, “Stop!”
Purrfect Kill
The Mysteries of Max - Book 17
Prologue
Chickie Hay was shaking her athletic frame to the beat, one eye on the floor-to-ceiling mirror, the other on the big screen where her choreo was being demonstrated by her personal choreographer Tracy Marbella. Chickie’s next tour was coming up and she needed to get in shape, which is why she was working up a sweat practicing her moves and rehearsing the concert playlist until she had the songs and the dance routines down pat.
“Baby, baby,” she sang, the music thumping through the room. She was wearing her usual pink leggings and her favorite pink sweatshirt—the same outfit she always wore when she started rehearsals. They were worn out by now, after years of use, but Chickie had a superstitious streak, and wouldn’t wear anything except her lucky threads.
“Baby, baby, baby,” she sang as she swung her hips and thrust out her arms.
She’d have preferred it if her trusty choreographer had been with her in person, to make those small corrections and improvements that make all the difference, but Tracy hadn’t been able to make it. Doctor’s appointment. No worries, though. Tracy always filmed her choreos and gave her clients plenty to work with.
“Baby, baby, baby, baby…”
Chickie frowned at her image in the mirror. Something wasn’t right and she couldn’t put her finger on it. Tracy would know. The experienced choreographer would only need a glimpse to know what was wrong and immediately correct her. ‘No, Chickie—you need to relax those shoulders. And be light on your feet. Lighter! You look like an elephant stomping across the stage. Snappy movements. Snappy, snappy, snappy!’
And Chickie, even though she sometimes had a hard time following instructions, would do as she was told, because that’s how much faith she put in Tracy’s genius.
The fact of the matter was that she had a lot riding on the new album and the accompanying tour. It was her first one in five years, and already the media were calling it her comeback album. Then again, if you didn’t put out something new every six months, you were already a has-been and ripe for a much-touted comeback.
She was proud of the new album. And felt that it was probably the best thing she’d ever done. She just hoped her fans, her Chickies, would like the new stuff. She’d invited a select few of them to the house the week before for a slumber party, so they could hear the new songs, and they’d loved them. Loved them! One or two had even fainted. Fainting was good. It was a sign she still had what it took to inspire her army of Chickies.
The sound of a pebble hitting the window had her look up in surprise. She walked over and looked out. It took another pebble to direct her attention to a tree whose branches reached the fence. One of her most fanatical Chickies sat in the tree and was throwing rocks at her window. Oh, God. Not that guy again. But instead of indicating her displeasure, she gave him a little pinky wave. You had to keep the superfans happy.
She quickly moved back from the window before this self-declared #SuperChickie heaved a brick through the window and hit her smack in the face. Picking up her phone, she dialed Tyson’s number, the man in charge of her small security crew.
“Yeah, Tyson. Olaf is back. He’s sitting in a tree throwing rocks at my window. Can you get him out of there? Be nice about it—he may be nuts but he’s still a fan. Thanks.”
She shook her head in dismay. It was one thing to have fans but another to have crazies who followed you around wherever you went, trying to get a glimpse of you.
Trying to put the incident out of her mind, she resumed her rehearsal. One-step, two-step, pivot. One-step, two-step, pivot. Ouch. A sudden pain shot through her ankle.
“Oh, hell!” she cried, and threw up her hands. “Now see what you did, Olaf!”
And just as she picked up the phone to set up an appointment with her physiotherapist, the door swung open and she glanced up at the new arrival.