Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Cut

“Yes, donkey?” I said politely, for Odelia has always taught us to be polite.

“Is it true that you’re some kind of detectives?”

“No, we’re not,” I said. “Well, technically we are,” I admitted when Dooley gave me a curious look, “but right now we’re on strike so we’re not allowed by our union to perform any detective-related activities.”

The donkey was silent while he absorbed this important information, then said, “Is it true that the boss is dead?”

“Yes,” I said, not seeing how confirming the man’s death broke the union decree. “Yes, he is. At least that’s what a usually reliable source told us.”

“How did he die?”

“Stabbed in the chest. By his live-in lover, a man called…”

“Gabriel Crier,” said the donkey somberly. “I know Gabe. We all do.”

More animals had gathered around. I saw a horse, a cow, a goat, two rabbits, two sheep… Quite the collection.

“I liked Leonidas,” said one of the rabbits. “He always gave me fresh grass and hay. Who’s going to give me fresh grass and hay now?”

“I’m sure someone else will come along to take care of you all,” I said. “By all accounts Mr. Flake was a very wealthy man and I’m sure he’ll have made provisions for you in his last will and testament.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t,” bleated the goat, who seemed like a somber sort of fellow. “I’ll bet he forgot all about us.”

“I’m sure he didn’t,” countered the donkey. “I actually asked Gabe about it last week.”

“And what did he say?”

“Well, always considering the fact that Gabe doesn’t actually speak donkey, the impression I got was that he cares for us a great deal and would never leave us to fend for ourselves.”

“What does that even mean?!” cried the cow.

“It means that he will have made sure we’d be taken care of.”

“But he’s in jail, isn’t he? For murder!” said the sheep. “So if he’s gone, and the old man’s gone, who’s going to need me? Who’s going to feed me?”

Somehow this reminded me of a song, though I couldn’t quite place my finger on it.

All the animals now started talking across one another, and things were getting a little heated. So Dooley and I decided to withdraw. We were still on strike, so there was very little we could do for these poor creatures. And as we walked in the direction of the house, Dooley said, “So sad, right, Max?”

“Yes, very sad,” I said.

“Poor animals. They’ll probably end up being sold to the highest bidder.”

“Or end up like Bubbles.”

“Bubbles?” he asked.

“Michael Jackson’s chimpanzee. He was a global celebrity back in the eighties and nineties, until he got too big and unruly, and he was transferred to a sanctuary for chimps and orangutans.”

“Is that’s what’s going to happen to us, Max?”

“I’m sure provisions will have been made…” I began, then realized what I was saying. We shared a glance. “Whatever happens,” I said, “we can always turn to the streets, and go and live with Clarice.”

“Clarice scares me, Max.”

“I know. She scares me, too. But she won’t let us die of hunger or thirst. She’ll take care of us if need be.”

“By feeding us rats! Like she did with Brutus, remember?”

“She meant well,” I said.

Once when Brutus was in the dumps, he’d adopted the street life, and Clarice had come through for him, by leaving him the best and juiciest rat she could find behind the dumpsters she considered her personal feeding bowl.

I shivered, and thought of the delicious kibble Odelia always provided us with, and the wet food from those aluminum pouches she liked to buy.

“Too bad humans are so untrustworthy,” said Dooley.

“I hear you, buddy.”

We’d arrived at the deck that had been constructed at the back of the house, and looked for a way in. We finally found one when we discovered someone had left a window open. A burly guard stood sentry—probably part of a collective of burly guards protecting the place against burglars or sensation seekers. He didn’t take any notice of us so we entered the house.

The place was huge, albeit a little sparsely furnished. The floors were all concrete, as were the walls and the ceilings.

“Very modern,” said Dooley appreciatively.

“I guess,” I said as I studied a very large portrait of Leonidas Flake that adorned one wall. It was a black-and-white painting of the famous designer only dressed in a leopard-print G-string and his trademark large sunglasses.

“Huh,” was Dooley’s only comment as he took in the arresting image.

Like the painting, the rest of what I assumed to be the living room was also dominated by the same color scheme: black and white. Very… soothing.

“We need to find the kitchen,” I said. “Or Pussy.”

So we both stuck our noses in the air and sniffed for a hint of either food or Pussy or both. Soon I’d picked up the scent of the Instafamous cat, and we trotted in the direction my powerful sense of smell told me to go. We passed through another sparsely furnished room, this one looking like a study or a library, with plenty of books (all black and white spines) and another room that only held two pianos: one black and one white. Frankly my eyes were starting to hurt.

We finally entered a room at the end of a long corridor that was filled with the kind of paraphernalia only cats would enjoy: plush animals, scratching posts, climbing trees, balls and tunnels… An overpowering smell of catnip filled the air but, like the other rooms, everything was in black and white.

“Where’s the color, Max?!” asked Dooley, on whom the lack of hue was starting to weigh, too. “Is it my eyes? Is everything black and white, or is it just me?”

“It’s not just you. I don’t see any color, either.”

“We’re color-blind!”

I held up my paw in front of his face. “What color is this?”

“Um… orange?”

“Blorange,” I corrected him, and was gratified to see a smile light up his face.

“I can still see color! I’m not color-blind.”

“No, you’re not. It’s this house. Someone has removed all the colors.”

Just then, Pussy came shuffling into the room, looking distinctly depressed. She halted in her tracks when she saw us. “Hey, you guys,” she said, perking up. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, we just thought you’d appreciate some company,” I said.

“Food,” said Dooley, who’s not the diplomat I am. “We’re hungry.”

Pussy nodded mournfully, as if the topic of food disgusted her, but she could still understand where we were coming from. “Follow me,” she said.

“Has this house always been like this?” I asked, gesturing to the endless piles of black-and-white plush animals.

“Like what?” she asked.

“Devoid of color?”

She nodded sadly. “Leo only liked black and white and shades of gray. He hated color.”

“Must be a terrible way to live.”

“It is—or was. Once Gabe gave me an orange Garfield and Leo bust a nut when he saw it. He made Gabe send it back to the store and have it replaced with a gray Garfield. It’s not the same thing.”

“No, it’s not,” I agreed.

“I can’t imagine a gray Garfield,” said Dooley. “Garfield should be orange.”

“Yeah, he should,” said Pussy. She was dragging her heels as if the weight of the world rested on her slender shoulders. Finally we passed the stairwell: concrete stairs set in a concrete wall, and then finally into the kitchen—all concrete floors and walls and plenty of gleaming steel. “In here,” she said.

We now found ourselves in a side kitchen, completely devoted to Pussy and her needs. There were large plastic bins hooked to the far wall, with some kind of receptacles below.