Ник Сайнт: Purrfect Peril

“Fleas deserve our consideration, Brutus,” said Dooley with a pained look as he watched a flea float lifelessly in the tub. “Have you ever stopped to consider that this flea right here has a mother and a father who care about him or her? And brothers and sisters?”

“Lots and lots of brothers and sisters,” said Odelia with a slight grin. “Millions of them. Probably billions or even trillions.”

“We still owe it to them to treat them with kindness and respect,” Dooley insisted.

Odelia held up her comb. “This is being kind, Dooley. This is being respectful.”

“Kind and respectful,” Gran scoffed. “They’re not being kind when they suck your blood, are they? So why should we be kind to them?”

“Kill ‘em all is what I say,” said Brutus, with a decisive motion of his paw. “Carpet bomb the suckers to oblivion.”

“Speaking of carpets, did you take the vacuum bags out to the trash?” asked Marge. “They’re probably full of eggs, larvae and pupae. Best to get rid of them immediately.”

And so the discussion went on for a while. Harriet wasn’t to be deterred, though. She was directing a scathing glance in my direction. I rolled my eyes. She wasn’t going to let this go, I could tell. She was going to hound me until I produced this mysterious Patient Zero.

“Fine,” I said finally. “We’ll find your Patient Zero and we’ll find him today, all right?”

She smiled. “Thanks, Maxie. I knew you’d listen to reason. Brutus and I will join you. And together we’ll search this town until we’ve tracked down the cat who’s responsible for this terrible outbreak and make sure he or she is unflead ASAP.”

“I don’t think unflead is a word, honey,” said Marge.

Harriet flapped her paws. “Deflead, then. Whatever. But mark my words, I won’t rest until the last flea of Hampton Cove has been terminated.” When Dooley gasped, she quickly added, “in the most humane and kindest way possible, of course.”

Chapter Two

The moment we were finally declared flea-free, the four of us set out to start hunting high and low for Patient Zero and ‘take care of him,’ in Harriet’s words. She seemed pretty sure this Patient Zero was a male, as only males could be so dumb as to allow themselves to be infested with a bunch of lowly parasites.

“And it’s not just that the female of the species is smarter than the male, we’re more hygienic, too,” she claimed now as we tracked along the sidewalks of Hampton Cove. “I for one would never allow even a single flea to lay its eggs on my precious fur if I could help it.”

“None of us would allow that,” I countered. “Do you think I like hosting a flea party?”

“You tomcats are simply too insensitive to even feel that you’re being ravaged by a bunch of parasites,” she said, tail high in the air as usual. “You could have thousands of fleas feasting on your bodies and you wouldn’t even know. But put one flea on me and I’ll know instantly that something is wrong. Admit it, Max, females are much more conscious of their bodies than males.”

“Like the princess and the pea,” said Dooley, much to my surprise. When we all looked at him, he shrugged. “She could feel the pea, which showed everyone she was a princess. The same way Harriet can feel the flea, which shows us she’s…” He swallowed, and his cheeks would probably have flushed a bright scarlet if they hadn’t been covered in fur.

“Aw, Dooley,” said Harriet. “You think I’m a princess? That’s so sweet of you.”

Brutus gave Dooley a dirty look. Its meaning was clear: she’s my princess, buddy, so paws off.

We passed along the streets of Hampton Cove, the sleepy little town in the Hamptons where life is lived at a more leisurely pace than in other small towns the world over. This morning was different, however, with the sound of vacuum cleaners working at full tilt audible wherever we pointed our antenna-like ears. Windows had been flung open, with duvets, comforters and mattresses hanging from ledges, soaking up the sun’s rays, carpets being cleaned with a frantic energy that told us the flea infestation had left the good people of Hampton Cove scrambling. Some people were even fogging and fumigating their houses, judging from the clouds of acrid smoke wafting through windows and doors and chimneys.

Dooley shook his head. “Maybe we should call the Humane Society, Max. I think they’d have a field day fighting all this cruelty and this utterly senseless suffering.”

“How long do you think a flea can survive inside a vacuum bag?” asked Harriet.

“Not long,” said Brutus. “I imagine they die a slow and painful death of suffocation.”

Dooley uttered a strangled cry. “Oh, those poor, poor creatures.”

“They’re a pest,” Brutus grunted. “And pests should be eradicated. No mercy.”

“Some people consider cats a pest,” I said. “They feel we should be eradicated.”

“Some people are pests,” Brutus countered. “So maybe they should eradicate themselves.”

“Oh, but they do,” said Harriet. “People kill each other all the time. They enjoy it.”

She was right. Only a couple of days ago a grandson had killed his grandfather, just so he could take over the old man’s title as Most Fascinating Man in the World. No cat would ever kill another cat for the mere pleasure of being called Most Fascinating Cat in the World. Humans sometimes can be quite inhumane. Before I could ponder the topic more deeply, however, we’d arrived in the heart of town, and Brutus and Harriet took one side of the street while Dooley and I took the other. We were looking for clues revealing the identity of this Patient Zero, and what better way to go about this pursuit than to talk to other cats?

Cats, as you might imagine, are extremely chatty creatures. There’s nothing a cat likes better than to gossip about his or her fellow cats. And since our human is in the business of providing fresh human gossip to other humans every day through her column in the Hampton Cove Gazette, that works out quite nicely. So we passed by the barber shop and talked to the barber’s Maine Coon Buster, who sat licking his paws in front of the shop.

“First time I laid eyes on a flea I was a young whippersnapper of six months,” he said with a faraway look in his eyes as he temporarily halted his grooming. “My pa showed me. Said a cat’s not a cat without a bunch of fleas burrowing into his skin.” He sighed wistfully. “Ma kicked him out of the house that day and I haven’t seen him since. I miss my old man sometimes. Said he’d fathered a thousand kittens in his time, and felt ready and primed to father a thousand more. Which is probably why Ma kicked him out in the first place.”

“That’s all fine and dandy,” I said, trying to halt the stream of words. Buster likes to gab, and sometimes it’s hard to get him to focus. “But we’re trying to figure out when this flea infestation started, so try to cast your mind back to when you saw the first flea now—not when you were a young whipper… snipper.”

He dabbed at his eyes with his paws. “He said he’d be back for me, Pa did. But I never saw him again. I sometimes wonder if he’s out there somewhere, looking up at the same stars at night, thinking about me and those fun times we shared back in the day.”

“If he fathered a thousand kittens and was ready to father a thousand more it’s highly unlikely he remembers you, Buster,” said Dooley, offering his two cents.

Buster stopped rubbing his eyes and gave Dooley a nasty look. “Who asked you?”

“It’s simple logic,” Dooley argued. “How can a cat be expected to remember one cat out of thousands? And I’ll bet you were not very memorable at six months. None of us are.”