“I ‘m not going to play nice with a bunch of mutts,” said Harriet disdainfully.
“It’s either that or death by execution,” I said. “Your choice.”
“I heard they have peculiar methods of execution,” said Brutus. “Like, the gallows? And the ax? Very medieval. And sometimes they lock people up in a place called the Tower of London. Very creepy place. I’ll bet it has rats.”
I gulped. I did not want to get my head chopped off with an ax. Or get locked up with a bunch of rats for company.“We need to find those corgis and make nice and we need to do it as soon as we arrive,” I said.
“I’ll bet the Queen’s corgis smell of lavender,” said Dooley, apropos of nothing.
“What makes you think so?” I asked distractedly, as thoughts of execution by hanging flashed through my mind.
“I don’t know. The Queen just looks like a lavender type of person to me, and I’ll bet she makes sure her dogs smell nice, like, all the time.”
“You’re probably right,” I agreed. Most mutts smell terrible, but the Queen being a clean and hygienic person would make sure hers smelled wonderful.
“Maybe they smell like roses,” said Harriet.
“Or chocolate pudding,” said Brutus.
And as we all speculated on what the Queen’s corgis smelled like, and thought of ways and means to convince them not to murder us by hanging or removing our heads with an ax, the paperwork seemed to be in order and finally Odelia proceeded in the direction of the airplane, the muscular man stacked our pet carriers onto a trolley and started pushing it in the direction of the plane. It was almost as if we were in bunk beds—a truly novel experience.
“Why do you get to be on top, Max?” lamented Harriet.
“Just happenstance,” I said, though I preferred to be on top. I had a nice view, which I didn’t think Harriet had from down below on the trolley.
“It’s because Max is Odelia’s favorite,” said Brutus, harking back to a theme he likes to return to from time to time.
“I’m not her favorite,” I said. “We’re all her favorite.”
“She likes you more than the rest of,” said Brutus. “Admit it, Max.”
“I’m not admitting any such thing. If anything, she likes me less.”
“And how do you explain that?”
I didn’t. I just wanted to get on top of the argument. “Well…” I began.
“It’s because Max is the oldest,” said Dooley. “Everybody knows humans prefer the youngest child. They spoil it rotten and the same goes for cats.”
“Which would mean that she likes you best,” said Harriet.
“Hey, I guess that’s true,” said Dooley, sounding surprised.
“No, it means she likes me best,” said Brutus. “I’m the last one to join the family, so technically that means I’m the youngest child and I’m the favorite.”
“I like none of you guys best,” Odelia suddenly whispered as she bent down. “I like you all the same. And now will you shut up and enjoy the fun?”
I smiled.“See? She likes us all equally.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brutus grumbled. “That’s what she wants you to think. She likes me best, and that’s a fact.”
“I’m the youngest,” said Dooley, “so she likes me best.”
“But I’m the prettiest,” said Harriet, “and it’s a proven fact that humans like beautiful babies more than ugly babies. So she likes me best.”
“I’m strong,” said Brutus. “Humans appreciate strength more than beauty.”
And on and on it went. Cats. You can’t live with them. You can’t kill them.
Chapter 6
Like I said, I’d never flown on a plane before, but I’d heard all the horror stories. About cats being locked up in cages in the cargo hold, freezing their tushies off, or being cooked like a lobster. Or even being stowed in the overhead bin only to suffer a claustrophobic episode. So in all honesty I wasn’t exactly looking forward to my first experience as a passenger on an airplane.
On the other hand, the alternative was to stay home with Marge and Tex, and go without my favorite human for an unknown length of time, while she whooped it up over in England, solving crime and having a great time with Chase and Grandma and the lavender-smelling corgis.
So… when you’re forced to choose between the lesser of two evils, what do you do? Tough one, I know. We’d opted to join the adventure, after a unanimous vote. Harriet was the one most keen to take the plunge, as she’d always wanted to travel to London and see the sights—maybe put in some shopping on Bond Street or Harrods or even spend some time being pampered in some of those fancy pet clinics they have over there, where the rich and famous spoil their pets rotten. Though I pointed out to her that those rich and famous more often than not had dogs, not cats. One of those sad facts of life.
“So we’ll be the first,” she said stubbornly. “We’ll be the avant-garde of a new revolution: out with the pampered dogs and in with the pampered cats!”
“Good luck with that,” I said, reminding her she sometimes got seasick riding in the car with Gran.
“That’s because Gran is a terrible driver,” she snapped. “And I happen to have a very sensitive stomach.”
She does have a sensitive stomach. But then she has a sensitive everything.
“I also happen to think I just might have irritable bowel syndrome,” she went on.
“More like irritable person syndrome,” I said with a light laugh. She would have poked me in the snoot but we were still tucked tightly into our carriers.
The muscular man who’d driven the Range Rover now carried us aboard, along with more muscular men who seemed to be part of a group of muscular men. They all looked similar and I was starting to wonder if they were related.
“Who are all these people?” asked Harriet, as our carriers were deposited on the floor of a spacious cabin that did not look like the interior of all of those airplane movies I’d watched over the years. It looked a lot more luxurious.
“I think they work for Angela’s daughter,” said Brutus. “Tessa Torrance probably has lots of people working for her now that she’s a princess.”
“She’s not a princess,” said Harriet. “She’s a duchess. Duchess of Essex.”
“What does a duchess of sex do, Max?” asked Dooley.
“Essex,” Harriet corrected him. “It’s a place in England where they make reality shows. Or at least that’s what Gran told me.”
I studied my surroundings. The plane was nicely furnished, with cream-colored ceilings, cream-colored floors, cream-colored leather seats, and cream-colored tables where presumably cream-colored beakers with cream-colored non-alcoholic beverages would be served once we had liftoff. I searched around for a cream-colored bowl and a cream-colored litter box with cream-colored litter but didn’t immediately spot one. All in good time, right?
Odelia, Chase and Gran had also come aboard, followed by Angela, who was flying over to England with us.
“Who owns this plane?” asked Odelia as she sat down in one of the snazzy seats and made herself comfortable.
I was frankly dying to take a seat myself, as the leather looked soft as butter and particularly inviting. I would have to refrain from digging my claws in, though. One of those habits that’s very hard to kick for a feline.
“It belongs to one of Tessa’s friends,” said Angela. “A friend whose name may or may not start with a C and end with Looney.”
“Mr. Looney?” asked Dooley. “Who’s Mr. Looney?”
But we all ignored him, surprise rendering us temporarily mum. Who wasn’t mum was Odelia’s grandmom. “Oh, my God,” she said, taking a seat next to her granddaughter. “Don’t tell me we’re flying Air Clooney?!”
“Oh, yes, my dear, we are,” said Angela.
“Does Mr. C. Looney know why we’re flying to England?” asked Odelia.