“Oops. Thanks, Dillon. Man, I guess that wasn’t attached very well,” Keith said, frowning at the flimsy, broken cord dangling from the tag as he moved out of the doorway.
“I can fix it,” said Dillon. He led Keith down the hall to the guest bedroom, disappeared into his own room, and returned a moment later with an empty keyring. He expertly threaded the loop on the luggage tag around and around the ring and then did the same with the loop on the duffle bag. “There. That should hold much better,” he said with a satisfied nod.
“That’s a smart solution,” said Keith. “Thanks!”
Dillon tried hard not to look enormously pleased at his uncle’s praise. He seemed like a really nice kid; I hoped nothing bad had happened to his dog.
Keith apparently had the same thought. He had just said, “Heard anything about the dog?” when Mrs. Adams announced that dinner was ready and we should come and get it.
From the look that crossed Dillon’s face, I guessed they hadn’t heard anything, or if they had, it wasn’t good.
At the table, I positioned myself under Keith’s chair. They all bowed their heads and at the end of the prayer gave in to Natalie’s request that they “sing it too.” How had I ever imagined little kids were so terrifying? I peered up at Keith and noted the adoring look on his face.
A soft spot for children, huh?
After everyone’s plates had been filled, Ariana piped up, “Dill’s doggy ran away. He was a good doggy, but he hasn’t come home.”
“I miss Hero,” Natalie sniffed.
Hero? I groaned inwardly. Great. The dog must have an astronomical ego from living with a name like that. I could just picture it: “Fetch, Hero!” “Good boy, Hero! Good Hero!”
I tuned back in to catch the tail end of what Dillon was explaining in a dejected voice. “—I basically did everything we talked about. I’m just kinda waiting now.”
“Dill labeled his doggy so people would call him if he got lost,” Natalie said sounding a bit more hopeful.
“Call Dill, not Hero,” Ariana explained.
Keith looked a little confused until Mrs. Adams clarified further. “Dillon had attached one of those metal dog tags to Hero’s collar. We’re hoping if someone sees him, they’ll call the number on the tag.”
Keith leaned forward to speak, covertly dropping a scrap of bacon in front of my nose. I didn’t hear any more of the conversation for a while.
Four
The next morning, Keith puttered around the guest room, tapping a ballpoint pen on random things, and looking highly distracted. For a guy who was supposed to be on vacation, he looked an awful lot like someone who was thinking about a case. Just when I thought nothing would snap Keith out of his reverie, we both heard Dillon’s voice calling, “Ariana, Mom wants to know if you’d like to make cookies for Dad since he gets home from his trip today.”
Why did the mention of cookies bring Keith back to the real world? It wasn’t the cookies, but rather the boy’s voice. He opened the guestroom door and asked Dillon what day Hero had gone missing. (Good grief; that name sounds so weird.)
I wondered if the dog thought he really was a hero and took off to save the world. Who knows? That would be just like a dog. Sort of. But why would he leave his boy? That didn’t sound like a dog.
Dillon leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms. “He’s been gone for 8 days now.” The boy looked up at Keith, worried. “That’s a long time, isn’t it?”
Keith nodded reluctantly. “I’d think someone would have seen him and called the number on his tag by now.”
There was a pause before Dillon added what nobody had yet said. “Unless he’s hurt or—worse.” I watched his Adam’s apple bob once. “What should I do?”
Keith shook his head. “I don’t know, Dillon. I’ll keep thinking, though.” I thought he sent a glance my direction. I suspected that “thinking” would also include having a conversation with me. That had to wait, though, because Keith’s sister came to say it was time to take hay down to the cows.
The little girls were surprised and delighted that I wanted to come along. Once again I smelled that unidentified animal scent outside the front door. But before I could investigate at all, Natalie scooped me up and carried me out to the pickup truck with her. She and Ariana got into the cab with their mother. I jumped to the narrow back seat to watch through the sliding window as Dillon and Keith hefted several bales of hay into the bed of the truck.
The hay smelled good—kind of like grass, but more rich or something. I stuck my nose out the little back window and sniffed more deeply.
And then sneezed violently.
“Bless you!” said Natalie. “Mommy!” she squealed. “The kitty sneezed!”
“That’s so cute!” Ariana exclaimed. Their mother just smiled as she put the truck into gear.
Well! Who knew sneezing was such an adorable thing? I certainly didn’t!
Dillon and Keith were perched in the back with the hay as the truck slowly rumbled down toward the cow pasture. Dillon jumped out and let us through the gate, latching it firmly behind us once the truck was through. He jumped back in, and the moseying, jolting ride began again.
“Cows are dreadful escape artists,” he told Keith. “You can never be too careful.”
“Speaking of being careful, you need to stay in the truck, Mia. No need for you to get stomped by a cow,” Keith told me.
Dillon stifled a snicker. “You’re talking to your cat, Uncle Keith?”
“Yeah,” said Keith, turning a little red. “Don’t tell me you never talk to your dog!”
“Well, but he’s a dog,” said the boy, as if that made all the difference. Then he grew quiet, inspecting his hands.
“Sorry,” said Keith.
“It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t. Anyone could see that. As silly as I thought the dog probably was, he needed to come home. We had a very sad boy on our hands. Paws. Something.
I had no problem with staying in the truck when we met up with the herd near the middle of the pasture.
Those cows were HUGE. We’re talking cat-flatteningly huge.
They gathered around while Dillon and Keith tossed hay out to them. Keith was clearly inexperienced at working with hay. As they were finishing, he slipped on the loose hay that covered the floor of the truck bed and landed with thud.
“You all right back there?” his sister called, turning and grinning at him a little teasingly when she saw he was unhurt.
“I’m fine. Just a city-slicker,” he said as she started the truck back toward the gate. He and Dillon settled down with their backs against the wheel wells. “It’s actually the hay that’s slicker,” he joked, gesturing to it.
I looked down at the layer of hay just as the truck went over a bump. Something slid into view for just a moment. Something shiny. Something that looked oddly like... a dog tag.
Five
I jumped through the back window, landing in the truck bed.
“Whoa, whoa, Cat!” said Keith’s sister, braking.
I sat down on the metal thing before it had a chance to slide away and be lost in the hay again. “She’s fine!” Keith called, shooting me a puzzled look. “A little crazy, I think, but fine.”
I just stared back.
What else could I do? There was no paper for me to write, “Hey, Keith, I think I just found a dog tag in the truck bed—isn’t that odd?” And even if there had been, there was no way I could hide from everyone else what I was doing. So I just sat on my find.
Back at the house, everyone piled out. Everyone, that is, except me.
“Come on, Mia,” said Keith, peering at me over the side of the truck bed. I was about to move when Dillon appeared next to him. There were obviously still too many people around. I would just have to play Stubborn Cat.
They coaxed and begged and even tried to pick me up. I had to actually swat at them to prevent that. When I did that, the look on Keith’s face was hilarious. He’d never seen me qui
te that ornery.
Eventually, just as I was hoping, everyone but Keith finally gave up and went inside. As soon as we were alone I got up, stretched luxuriously, and used a back paw to slide the metal thing toward Keith.
“Wha—?”
Typical response.
He picked it up and turned it over. His eyes widened.
“Mia! You’re fantastic!” He picked me up (I didn’t swat him this time), and we hurried into the house.
“Dillon! Look at what was in the truck bed!”
The boy appeared, joking, “Was it a really stubborn cat who should be named Donkey?”
Ha. Ha. Very funny, Kid.
He sobered right up when Keith showed him my find. “Hero’s dog tag! Wait—that was in the truck bed?”
Keith nodded and said, “This explains why nobody has called. The tag probably caught on something and fell off last time Hero was in the truck.”
Natalie put in, “Hero was a good doggy! He always waited for us to come out of the store before. Why did he run away, Uncle Keith?”
“Uncle Keith—” said Dillon.
“What is it?”
“I don’t think it fell off.”
“Why not?”
“Because I attached this tag to his collar with a keyring so that wouldn’t happen. Someone had to take it off. Intentionally.”
It looked as if we weren’t dealing with a runaway Hero, but rather a case of dog-napping.
Six
Later that day, a car pulled up in the driveway and a tall, lanky, slightly greying version of Dillon got out. If I couldn’t already tell this was Mr. Adams, the way Ariana and Natalie flew at him shrieking, “Hi, Daddy!” would have given it away. They hung onto his arms and practically hauled him inside.
Dillon stood around grinning until his father shook loose of the little girls long enough for a back-thumping hug and a greeting of “Hey, Son!”
“Alex! Good to see you!” Keith greeted his brother-in-law. They shook hands.
“Now, where’s my wife?” the man asked.
“The timer just went off, so she’s getting the cookies out of the oven,” Ariana explained.
“Oh, yeah! Daddy! There’s cookies!” Natalie said, stating the obvious and dancing with glee.
Alex headed toward the kitchen with everyone else trailing behind him. He caught his wife just as she was hanging up her apron.
“See, Daddy! We made cookies!” one of the little girls squealed from somewhere behind me.
I don’t think he saw. He was just a little preoccupied.
There’s this thing married humans do. It’s called “kissing” and I really don’t understand it. Maybe it’s because I don’t have lips.
Yeah, that could be the reason. Cats are severely lip-deficient.
Not that I mind. If you ask me, rubbing your heads together is a much more effective way of showing affection.
Eventually, the little girls’ giggling and Dillon’s smirking protestations that it was “gross” brought their parents’ greeting to a close. Mr. Adams draped an arm around his wife’s shoulder and leaned over the counter to inspect the warm cookies.
"Let's see," he teased, "twelve cookies. That's one for each of you and six for me, right?"
"No, Dad, they're all for you," Natalie said. "But you can share them if you want to."
Everyone laughed.
"I'll share them," he assured the little girl. "And we can each have two since there are six of us."
"Seven if you include Mia," Ariana said.
Her father looked puzzled. "Who's Mia?
"Uncle Keith's kitty!" Natalie said, picking me up to show him.
As everyone moved to the dining room to celebrate with cookies, I heard Mrs. Adams tell her husband she thought my being there was helping the little girls deal with Hero being missing.
“You haven’t heard a word?” he asked.
“Nobody’s called about him,” she replied.
Dillon, realizing they were talking about Hero, pulled the dog tag out of his pocket and handed it to his dad. “Uncle Keith found this in the truck bed earlier.”
Mr. Adams looked puzzled. “Wouldn’t someone have to purposely take this off the keyring on his collar?”
Dillon nodded.
“I guess we should probably tell the police. I’ll call them right after we eat cookies.”
Dillon looked relieved.
I thought calling the police was a good idea, but I wondered why nobody was asking the question, “Why?” Why had someone taken Hero? I wanted more information.
I had jumped from Natalie’s arms and gone underneath the table while they ate their cookies. I walked over to where Keith sat and patted his ankle with a paw.
Nothing.
I tried again. I didn’t necessarily want to scratch him, but I needed to get his attention. He was wearing nice, thick blue jeans—perfect climbing material.
So I did.
That got his attention real quick. He bent down and disengaged me from his pant leg. “Crazy cat was climbing my leg!” he announced to everyone above us. “I’m not a tree!” He looked at me closely, guessing it was more than just nervous energy that had caused me to do it. I jerked my head toward the hall and then stared at him with as much meaning as I could pour through my green eyes.
He raised his eyebrows, and then sat back up. It took him just a second to think of a reason to go to the guestroom. “I don’t think she scratched me, but I’m gonna go check just to be sure. Wonder why she got so silly all of a sudden!”
He had labeled me as feeling “silly” so it was time I lived up to it. I didn’t just casually follow him down the hall, I shot out from underneath the table, skidding a little on the wood floor. Then I arched my back and pranced sideways after him, looking as wound up as I knew how. The family at the table laughed as they watched me.
I was glad they enjoyed my performance so much. If I hadn’t discovered my love for solving mysteries, maybe I could have gone into comedy!
Keith closed the guestroom door behind us and said as he handed me a pad and pen, “You are crazy, you know. What’s this all about?”
I want to know why someone would steal the dog. What would their motive be?
Seven
“I’m fine,” said Keith, a moment or two later when he’d returned to the table. “She’s a good cat, and this is pretty thick denim. Now, I’m curious: why would someone want to steal Hero? What would their motive be?”
I was perched in a nearby windowsill, chasing a fat, buzzing fly. I figured this was a perfect thing to do since I was still supposed to be feeling a little silly. I pretended to ignore it and licked my paw for no real reason, giving me a chance to watch as the family exchanged puzzled glances.
Keith tried to clarify. “I mean, is Hero trained in something valuable like guarding or herding? Is there something about him that would make someone want to steal him?”
“No!” the family said almost in unison.
Keith looked as surprised as I felt.
Mr. Adams elaborated. “He is way too friendly to make much of a guard dog. He’s best pals with the mailman, for crying out loud! And, unfortunately, he’s not much good at herding, either. He tends to scatter animals more than anything.”
“He’s well-meaning, but not very—bright,” Mrs. Adams put in.
Dillon added a little defensively, “I don’t think herding or guarding is really in his blood, though, so I don’t blame him.”
Great. That meant the dog must be some sort of expensive poodle.
“We don’t know exactly what’s in his blood,” Mrs. Adams said. “He’s as mixed as they come.”
“That’s a good point, though, Uncle Keith—why would anyone want to steal an oversized, over-friendly mutt?” Dillon asked. “This isn’t making any sense.”
“No, it isn’t,” his father agreed. “Still, the only thing we can do right now is to call the police.” He got up.
“Maybe the police will know somethi
ng,” Ariana suggested.
“Maybe,” Mrs. Adams said, but she didn’t look too hopeful.
Apparently Mr. Adams knew someone at the police station personally, because when he rejoined us in the dining room he said, “This is strange. Tim says ours isn’t the only case like this. There have been several other dogs from our county who have gone missing, and they’re just now starting to see a pattern. All of them have disappeared in town.”
“I wonder if that’s what happened to the Clarys’ dog a couple months ago. I think she went missing when they were at the park,” Mrs. Adams suggested.
“Can I call and ask them about it?” Dillon asked, springing to his feet. He was anxious to do something.
When his father nodded his consent, I followed the boy into the kitchen and listened in as he called the Clarys. After a bit of introductory “No, I haven’t found my dog yet,” he asked to know more about their dog’s disappearance.
I purred and looped myself back and forth around his ankles, listening intently to his side of the conversation. It appeared their dog had gone missing during a family park trip. One minute she was sniffing around for squirrels, and the next minute she was gone. They seemed convinced she hadn’t run away—that she wouldn’t have done such a thing. It had been almost two months ago, they said.
After another minute or two, he ended the call and returned to relay the information to his family. While Dillon had been on the home phone, Mr. Adams had used his cell phone to repeat his call to his friend, Tim, at the police department.
“The Clarys’ dog went missing when everyone was in town for Heritage Days,” said Dillon. “That would make it—”
“June 20th?” Mr. Adams asked.
“Yes!”
“Two other dogs were reported missing the same day!” he said, slapping some quickly scribbled notes down on the table.
The Kitten Files, Season One Page 5
