Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Advice. Purrfect Passion. A Purrfect Gnomeful

She hoped her cats would be fine… and find their way home all right.

Chapter 24

It didn’t take us long to discover that Maria Power was a movie star unlike other movie stars. For one thing we found no trace of a pool behind the house, or a Jacuzzi or sauna. The gardens were also pretty straightforward for a member of the Hollywood elite. No private zoo, no exotic animals lurking anywhere, and no tigers or anything of the kind.

“It doesn’t look like the home of a film star,” Dooley remarked. “It looks more like the house of a retired CEO of a multinational corporation.”

“Yeah, looks like Maria likes to keep things pretty simple,” I agreed. I looked around for a way to enter the house from the back, preferably the kitchen, where usually food can be found, all the while making sure I kept an eye out for the dog I’d sniffed before.

I wanted to have a bite to eat, but that didn’t mean I wanted to become dog food.

Suddenly a door was opened and I said, “Dooley! Let’s go!”

It was one of the servants who’d popped out for a smoke, and left the door open. So we quickly scooted inside and found, to our extreme elation, that we were in the kitchen.

There was nothing sober or simple about the kitchen, though. On the contrary, it was big and loaded with gleaming appliances, two kitchen islands, modern equipment, wall-to-wall cupboards and enough pots and pans dangling from hooks to feed a small army. All in all, it wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Nancy Meyers movie, and just as I was wondering when Meryl Streep or Diane Keaton were going to come walking in, a woman entered who looked so much like a cook she could have starred in a movie as one.

She started chopping veggies on one of the kitchen islands, and before she noticed our presence, we decided to skedaddle. Next to the kitchen was a second, smaller space, where usually, in most households of this caliber, the pets are fed. Not here, though, as we found ourselves in a pantry, full of shelves laden with foodstuffs. No dog or cat food was in evidence, though, much to our disappointment.

And we probably would have walked out again, if I hadn’t detected a strange odor that I nevertheless immediately recognized.

“Mice,” I said, a grim expression creeping up my face.

“See, Max?” said Dooley. “Even the rich and famous have mice.”

If his statement was designed to soothe and comfort, its effect was lost on me. Instead it served to increase my antipathy toward the critters.

And as if reading my mind suddenly a tiny nose came peeping from underneath the shelves, soon followed by a tiny body. But when the mouse spoke, it didn’t do so in an equally tiny voice. Instead, it boomed, “Why, if it ain’t cats! What are you fellas doing here?!”

“We’re visitors,” I said in measured tones, as I didn’t want to pick a fight with this mouse simply because of its species.

“Looking for food, I presume,” said the mouse, still in that same hale and hearty manner, which for some reason got my back up even more.

“Well, we wouldn’t mind having a bite to eat, Mr. Mouse,” said Dooley. “We haven’t eaten since this morning, and we’re both very hungry, I don’t mind telling you.”

The mouse chuckled—actually chuckled!

“Look, mice have stolen our food, and as a consequence we didn’t enjoy a full breakfast,” I said, a little frostily. “So your cheerfulness is highly out of place.”

“Mice have stolen your food, huh? Is that a fact now?”

“Yes, that is a fact, so you’ll forgive me for not being a big fan of your kind, sir.”

“First off, I’m not a sir, I’m a lady. Secondly, you can’t go around blaming the behavior of a few rogue elements on the entire species, now can you?”

“Yes, you’re right, of course,” I said, slightly taken aback. I’d never heard a female mouse speak with such forcefulness before, and it struck me that as far as mice went, I was still pretty much a novice.

“Look, if you want to eat, I can offer you a variety of dishes,” said the mouse, much to my surprise. She pointed to various foodstuffs on the shelves. “We also have a nice assortment of cheeses in the fridge. You have your Cheddar, your Gouda, your Parmesan. Or if you prefer the softer cheeses, I’ve got you covered too. Humboldt Fog, Bergenost, Red Hawk, Monterey Jack… Oh, and cream cheese, of course. Always a favorite.”

When I told the mouse I wasn’t into cheese all that much, and neither was Dooley, she registered surprise. “Then you haven’t tasted these cheeses yet. They are to die for.”

And she tripped out of the pantry and into the kitchen, neatly avoiding being stepped on by the cook, and resolutely making her way to yet another room. After a moment, her head popped out again, and she shouted, “Well, what are you waiting for, cats?!”

So we followed her, and found ourselves in a room with no less than three fridges and two freezers.

“Now this is where you guys come in,” said the mouse. “I could open these myself, but it’s hard going, what with that suction thingy, which is really annoying, if you ask me. Whoever designed these fridges clearly didn’t think of us poor mice. So pop this one open and let’s have a look-see, shall we?”

I did as she said, and before long I was sampling some of the best cheese I’d eaten my entire life.

“I have to admit you were absolutely right,” I said. “This is some pretty good stuff.”

“Right?” she said proudly, then stuck out a paw. “My name is Elsa, by the way, and I’m pleased to meet you, cat.”

“Max,” I said. “And this is Dooley.”

Just then, Elsa hissed, “Hide!” And promptly scooted behind a stack of boxes, quickly followed by Dooley and me. I could see the cook opening the fridge and then closing it again.

“Phew. That was close,” said Elsa, as she wiped the perspiration from her brow. “She’s never caught me once, and it would be too bad if she caught me now, since I have the pleasure of two guests.”

“Why are you being so nice to us?” asked Dooley. “You don’t even know us.”

Elsa gave another one of her hearty laughs. “You just say whatever comes into your head, don’t you? Why wouldn’t I be nice? There’s plenty of food for the three of us, and I enjoy the company for a change. It’s not much fun being the only mouse in the house.”

“You’re the only mouse here?” I asked.

“Yep. Never found the right one, I suppose, to start a little family and settle down.”

“There’s two hundred mice living in our basement,” said Dooley. “And they eat all of our food, and all of our human’s food, too.”

“Two hundred. Now that’s what I call a nice big family. Your humans must be really hospitable people.”

“Well, they are,” I said. “But even they think it’s a little much.”

“Yeah, I suppose two hundred can be taxing for your regular homeowner,” said Elsa, rubbing her chin thoughtfully.

“We’ve been trying to negotiate with them,” I explained. “Ask them to move out. Or if they decide to stay, at least not to eat all of the food. But they refuse. They figure they have just as much right to stay as we do. So they’re not budging. And now my human is upset with me, figuring since I’m a cat I should be able to keep the house mouse-free, if you see what I mean.”

“Yeah, I think I do,” said Elsa. “Though of course I used to live with a dog, and I never had any problems. We respected one another and had a great time.”

“What happened to the dog?” asked Dooley.

“Oh, he died. Last month. Great tragedy it was, too. Maria was crazy about Boomer.”

“What kind of dog was he?” I asked.

“Maltese. Very clever, and a real gentledog, too. Always let me share his food, and let me tell you, if you like this food you should have seen what Maria gave Boomer to eat. Only the very best of the very best. Gourmet stuff.” She shook her head sadly. “Yeah, it hasn’t been much fun with Boomer gone.”