Ник Сайнт: Purrfect Secret

And the worst part? Dick knew exactly what he’d done to deserve this.

Chapter 1

I opened a lazy eye when some sort of light tapping drove away the slumber I’d enjoyed for the past couple of hours. I know what they say about cats: that they’re never really asleep. That they take ‘catnaps’ and wake up in the blink of an eye, ready to fight or take flight when danger lurks. Poppycock. I’m a cat and I like to sleep. In fact I can sleep so deeply not even the sound of a cannon can wake me up. Not that I’ve ever heard an actual cannon being fired in my vicinity. Do people even still use cannons? Somehow I doubt it.

But whatever. The thing that woke me up wasn’t a sensation so much as a nuisance. An annoyance. A burden, a plague, a pest or even a pain in the neck, if you catch my drift.

For I found myself staring into the impudent eyes of the latest intruder to invade my household: Milo, the cat that belongs to Odelia’s across-the-street neighbor Mrs. Lane.

He was grinning at me now, the white menace. Grinning like a regular fiend.

I closed my eyes again, hoping he hadn’t noticed he’d managed to wake me up. But to no avail. He simply tapped me on the head again with that infuriating cheek he possesses.

“Wakey, wakey,” he said. “Rise and shine, old man.”

“I’m not old,” I growled at him, and now he was grinning even wider—a regular Cheshire grin if ever I’d seen one.

“Oh, you are old,” he said. “Ancient. In fact before I met you I didn’t even realize cats could get that old. You even have hair growing out of your ears, did you know that?”

“You have hairs growing out of your ears.”

“Yeah, but they’re tiny and they’re soft. Like fuzz. Yours are long and hard. Like the hair on the back of a pig.”

I would have snarled at him, lifting my upper lip like a dog and actually snarled, but I’m a cat, and cats don’t snarl. Instead I produced a soft hissing sound, hoping to indicate my displeasure. It only made him grin even wider, the annoying little runt!

“So how old are you, Max? If I’d have to make a guess I’d say you’re pretty ancient. So you were probably around before humans drove around in cars, right? Did you see the horse and buggy? Were you alive during the Civil War? Were you here when the English were bopping around Long Island, creating trouble for Washington and the Colonists?”

I didn’t even dignify this last jab with a response. Instead, I hopped off the couch with as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances, and strode off, my tail high—and a little fluffed-up because of the residual annoyance—and was just about to take the stairs to the second floor to wake up my human when that human came stumbling down those same stairs, looking like death warmed over and almost tripped over me and fell.

“Max,” she muttered. “Sorry, dude. Hey, there, Milo. Settling in all right?”

“Settling in just fine, Mrs. Poole,” said Milo, now scratching his unhairy ears.

“Just call me Odelia, will you?” said Odelia. “I’m too young to be Mrs. Poole.”

Milo cocked an eyebrow, indicating he thought Odelia was pretty ancient, too, and very deserving of the moniker he’d just awarded her, but then strode off in the direction of the kitchen, where Odelia had put out an extra bowl for our latest guest, and dug in.

I kept a keen eye on him, as Milo had been known to dig into my bowl, too, and even drink from my milk.

“What are you doing up so early?” I asked my human.

She gave me an ‘Are you kidding me?’ look and gestured with her head to the backyard, where Grandma Muffin was digging into the soil, dressed like a regular gardener.

“Oh, right,” I said delicately.

Ever since Gran moved in with Odelia things have been a little rocky. Grandma has a way of doing things, and Odelia has a completely different way of doing things, and the twain are hard to reconcile. Like the fact that Gran loves her soap operas and her reality shows while Odelia prefers a good movie from time to time. And then there’s the fact that Gran doesn’t approve of Odelia’s boyfriend hanging around all the time, and even sleeping over. She feels that Chase should just go ahead and propose and make an honest woman out of her granddaughter so she can get all this ‘fooling around’ over and done with.

I doubt whether Odelia approves. She probably feels she’s too young to get married just so she can have her boyfriend stay the night from time to time. And since I’m a modern cat—in spite of what Milo might think—I heartily approve.

My name is Max, by the way, but I guess you already figured that out from the way Milo keeps addressing me. I’m a blorange cat—a very tasteful combination of orange and pink—while Milo is one of those horrible white cats with the bristly, stiff hair. He’s also very young and was obviously raised by a woman who doesn’t know the first thing about cats. She probably never taught him manners which has turned him into an obnoxious monster.

But enough about Milo. I’m sure he’ll only be around for a few days—until Mrs. Aloisia Lane returns from her trip to Florida and is ready to assume command once again.

Just then, Dooley wandered in through the sliding glass door, followed by Harriet and Brutus. Those three are my best friends in all the world—yes, cats have best friends—don’t you believe everything you read on the Internet about us being loners and curmudgeons and all that nonsense. We like our fellow felines just fine thank you very much.

“Hey, Maxie, baby,” rasped Brutus by way of greeting, holding up a paw.

I high-fived him, then low-fived him, then hooked my nail behind his, gave a little tug while we both blew raspberries, then we paw-bumped and shared a hearty guffaw.

Once upon a time Brutus and I were mortal enemies but those days are long gone. Nowadays we get along like gangbusters, whatever a gangbuster might be. Brutus is a strikingly butch black cat, by the way, and Harriet, a gorgeous white Persian, is his girlfriend.

“Hey, Max,” said Dooley, looking like he wasn’t fully awake yet. Dooley is a Ragamuffin, which in his case means he’s on the small side and has a thick gray coat. He’s also very fluffy, which makes him very popular with his human, Grandma Muffin, and a little less popular with Marge, who has to vacuum the carpets and couches at least twice a week.

Milo returned from the kitchen, and immediately my eyes were drawn to the drop of liquid on his chin. It was milk, and I knew for a fact that Milo’s milk bowl had been empty. I pointed an accusing paw at him. “You stole my milk!”

“I did not, sir,” said Milo, quickly wiping away the incriminating evidence.

“I saw you! You had a drop of milk on your beard! Didn’t he have a drop of milk on his beard, Dooley? Tell me you saw that!” I turned to my friends for corroboration but they appeared less than excited to wade into the argument.

“For your information, cats don’t have a beard, Max,” said Milo calmly. “Except for you, of course, but that’s because you’re ancient. Like Methuselah. He had a beard. At least I think he had. What do you think, Dooley? Did Methuselah have a beard? You’re the expert.”

Dooley stared at the young whippersnapper. “Huh?” he said finally.

“Odelia tells me you’re a very smart cat. Smartest one she knows, in fact. A real know-it-all. So I’m asking you: did or didn’t Methuselah have a beard just like Max?”

“I don’t have a beard!” I cried. “You’re just trying to confuse the issue!”

“And what is the issue, Max?” asked Milo kindly, like one addressing a feeble-minded old fogey.

“The issue is that I just caught you stealing my milk!”