by Nic Saint
“It wasn’t dead,” said Dooley. “It was just pretending to be dead, like opossums do.”
“So a dead opossum and Kingman, the biggest con cat in all of Hampton Cove, think a cat in a limo caused all this.” She rolled her eyes, and very expressively so, too. “Puh-lease. That is just ridiculous.”
“I think you’re missing the point,” said Dooley. “The opossum wasn’t really dead. It was just pretending to be dead. And he said he actually saw that Limo Cat with his own eyes and…” Harriet gave him a look of such hauteur he stopped mid-sentence.
“Limo Cat. Huh,” said Brutus, though judging from the smirk he was displaying he had a hard time giving credence to the story as well.
“Look, I don’t care if you believe us or not,” I said, “but the fact remains that two witnesses so far told us about this limo and I, for one, would like to try and find Kingman’s friend—the one who got into the limo and when she got out was infested with the bugs.”
“Will you look at that?” said Harriet, and I had the impression she wasn’t referring to me or the bugs or even the fake-dead opossum. When I turned to look, I saw she was actually talking about a small troupe of cats who had just arrived on the rooftop, and who were now going through a series of highly vigorous warm-up routines.
“It’s the Most Interesting Cats in the World,” said Brutus, fascinated by the sight.
“I know who they are, Brutus,” snapped Harriet. “And if you ask me they’re not as interesting as they make themselves out to be.”
“Oh, for sure,” said Brutus, his eyes riveted on the cats. “Not interesting at all. Absolutely uninteresting, in fact.”
The cats had spotted us, and trotted up limberly. “Hey, cats of Hampton Cove,” said the leader, a butch cat called Princess. “Are you here to spy on the competition?”
Harriet frowned. “Competition?”
“Yeah, the contest? You are going to Vegas, right? For the Ultimate Cat Show?”
“Um, no,” said Harriet, as if Vegas was the last place on earth she wanted to be.
“Oh, too bad,” said Princess. “Always fun to demolish the other teams, especially when they’re as weak and pathetic as you guys obviously are.” She laughed a very unpleasant laugh. “At least if that performance at the park was any indication.”
“We’re not show cats,” Dooley explained. “We’re cat sleuths, actually.”
“Cat sleuths!” cried Princess, almost choking. “Of course you are.” She gave us a look of disdain, only matched by the one her teammates gave us. “And what have you been sleuthing lately? How to get rid of your silly little flea infestation? Oh, yes, we’ve heard all about that, haven’t we, ladies?”
The other cats nodded, producing scornful sounds.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Harriet.
“Show cats like us don’t get infested with fleas,” said Princess. “Gorgeous cats like us are too well-groomed to attract common vermin.” At the mention of the word vermin she cut an up-and-down glance at Harriet that made the latter’s blood boil, if the steam flowing from her ears was any indication. “Because as you know, vermin attracts vermin, girl.”
“Are you calling me vermin?” demanded Harriet, eyes glittering dangerously.
“If the shoe fits…”
“Why, you horrible little—”
“Ooh, I think we’ve got ourselves a challenger, sisters,” said Princess.
“Bring it,” said Beca, the Most Attractive Cat in the World.
“Let’s do this,” said Chloe, the Most Intriguing Cat in the World.
“We’ve got this, sisters!” exclaimed Aubrey, the Most Iconic Cat in the World.
“Hit it!” hollered Fat Amy, the Sexiest Cat Alive.
And before we could stop them, the quintet were shaking and quaking their booties as they moved into some sort of convulsive dance routine. I’d seen them in action before, and they were pretty amazing. The show they now provided was equally entertaining, with snatches from several hit songs. Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack sounded familiar, as did Uptown Funk and even Ed Sheeran’s Shape of You. Before long, the roof was filled with cats of all shapes and sizes, cheering on the Most Interesting Cats troupe and whooping it up.
Harriet, meanwhile, stood fuming to the side. She had many talents, but singing and dancing were not amongst them. “Let’s go, Brutus,” she said finally. “Brutus? Brutus!”
But Brutus was too busy staring at the dance routine to notice his lady love needed him. Finally, she stalked off alone, and when I looked back I saw that Harriet had left the roof.
Chapter 6
Harriet gracefully made her way from the roof to the street level below, halting halfway down and pausing for a moment to gather her wits. Even though she was loath to admit it, this most recent altercation with the cat troupe had rattled her. And that was probably because they were right. These cats were gorgeous, talented, on their way to the top, and above all, they were well-groomed and obviously flea-free in a way that she wasn’t.
The flea episode had shaken her to the core. A proud cat, and always conscious of the way she looked and acted and the impact her appearance had on other cats, she’d hated the way those fleas had made her feel. Dirty. Soiled. Degraded. The whole incident had lowered her self-esteem and had probably been the most traumatic experience of her young life.
And now these Most Interesting Cats had rubbed her nose in it. Had sprinkled ample supplies of salt in the wound and reminded her that she was merely a small-town cat living in a small-town environment with no future to look forward to and no prospects to speak of.
Like Princess, she wanted to go to shows and win prizes. She wanted to sing and dance and be appreciated by the masses. Go on to perform in front of millions and be on the cover of Time Magazine as Cat of the Year. And why stop there? Why not act in ad campaigns and be hailed Most Beautiful Cat in the World by the pundits—whoever they were?
It was obvious though that her ambitions would never amount to a hill of beans. Never would she leave this small town that now felt more like a prison than the support system she’d always appreciated it for. Her friends? Losers, just like her. Her humans? Small-town people with small-town dreams. She, on the other hand, had big dreams and big hopes for a bright and better future. Hopes and dreams that would never be. And this auspicious meeting with Princess and her Most Interesting Cats had finally made her aware of that.
Just then, Brutus descended from the roof and joined her.
“Hey, baby cakes. You suddenly disappeared. What happened? Didn’t you like the show?”
“No, I didn’t like the show,” she snapped, then turned away from her boyfriend to hide the moisture that had sprung to her eyes. “In fact I hated it,” she said quietly.
“Hey, now,” said Brutus. “Sugar plum. What’s wrong? Are those... tears?” He said it with the note of quiet horror typical for any male suddenly confronted with a teary female.
“No—yes,” she said. “Oh, Brutus, why can’t I be successful like those Interesting Cats? Why can’t I have a career as a show cat and be loved and praised by all? Why can’t I have a show in Vegas like Céline? Why can’t I...” She faltered, well aware that these private yearnings of her heart were utterly pointless. And still she couldn’t help feeling as she did.
“But you are loved and praised,” said Brutus, the sweet dear. He was speaking in an uncharacteristically soft voice. “You’re appreciated by every cat I know. We all think you’re the most beautiful cat in all of Hampton Cove. And I, for one...” He swallowed, not used to expressing these deeper, finer emotions. “I, for one, think you’re the most wonderful cat I’ve ever met, honey muffin. And I...” He coughed, pausing his remarks while he let three scruffy-looking cats pass on their way to the roof, where the show was still in full swing. “I, for one...” Once more, a cavalcade of cats made him swallow his words, the sudden diffidence odd in a cat as blunt as Brutus. When more cats interrupted this sacred moment, he finally growl
ed, “Oh, for Pete’s sakes, can’t you morons leave a cat in peace for one minute?!”
“Sorry, Brutus,” said a cat with a lopsided ear and a grating voice. “But we heard there’s one hell of a show going on up top.” He then leered at Harriet. “What’s wrong with your lady cat? You make her cry or something? You break her heart, tough guy?”
“No, I did not make her cry,” he snarled. “And now get lost before I kick you in the butt!” He then turned back to Harriet and said, softer, “Where was I? Oh, that’s right. I just wanted to say that I, for one, appreciate you very much, sweet peach. In fact I...” He swallowed again, looking as if he were about to lay an egg, then pushed out the fateful words. “I... love you, Harriet.”
In spite of her mood of melancholy, Harriet couldn’t resist a smile. He was such a dear, her Brutus. Other cats might think he was a ruffian, bullyragging his way through life, but she knew better. She’d seen his softer side, his true nature, and she knew that beneath that bristly exterior there lurked a tender heart. “That’s very sweet of you to say, Brutus.”
“You...” He suddenly looked uncertain. “You do like me, too, don’t you, tootsie roll?”
She nodded, once more distracted by the hopelessness of the situation she was in. “Do you ever wonder if there’s another future for you out there somewhere, Brutus? A future that isn’t so... bleak and dismal? So lacking in hope and brightness?”
“Um, not really,” he said.
She gave him a censorious look. He was a dear, and very sweet, but she now saw he was just like the rest of them: lacking in ambition and the wherewithal to reach for the stars. To dream big and act on those dreams. In other words, he wasn’t a Most Interesting Cat in the World. Not by a long stretch. “Oh, Brutus,” she said finally, and the words came out on a sigh. Life suddenly seemed sad. So very, very sad.
And when Max and Dooley came down from the roof, filled with plans and schemes about how to go about finding this Patient Zero, she suddenly found she’d lost all interest. Who cared about a few fleas? She was never going to get out of Hampton Cove, so what did it matter that they were all infested with these terrible, blood-sucking bugs? Life itself was a blood-sucking, soul-sapping bug, and there was nothing she or anyone could do about it.
Chapter 7
“So where are we going?” asked Harriet.
It was obvious she hadn’t been listening to a word I’d said. She looked a little peaked. Not her usual vivacious self. Despondent. “We’re paying a little visit to Shanille,” I told her.
“Shanille?” she asked dully. “Why Shanille? What does she have to do with all of this?”
Patiently, I explained to her once again how a cat had sidled up to me on the roof and, in the middle of the Most Interesting Cat Show, had asked if I’d heard about Shanille. My ears twitching, he’d told me how Shanille had been going around town, asking forgiveness from any cat who would listen. When they asked her why, she refused to say. Only that she was harboring a great secret, one that was burdening her soul and making her seek relief from this heavy load she was carrying on her slightly stooped shoulders.
“So you see what that means, right?” I said. But when my eye met Harriet’s dull gaze, it was obvious she had no clue what I was talking about. “She’s the one I’ve been looking for!” I cried, barely able to contain my excitement.
“That’s great, Max,” said Harriet in the same lifeless tone. “I’m happy for you. Shanille is a great cat and I’m sure you deserve each other. You’ll make each other very, very happy.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, puzzled.
“You said Shanille is the one you’ve been looking for. And now you finally found her. I know it’s too late for me to find what I’m looking for, but that doesn’t mean I can’t rejoice when others fulfill their wishes and satisfy the deepest desires of their hearts.” She gave me a wan smile. “Way to go, Max. I couldn’t be happier for you. Really. Three rousing cheers.”
Uh-oh. It was obvious that this meeting with the Most Interesting Cats had affected Harriet adversely, and I thought I knew why. She probably wanted to be a Most Interesting Cat herself, part of the popular troupe, and the fact that she wasn’t clearly stung. “I’m not interested in Shanille as a love interest, Harriet,” I explained to her now, careful to make my meaning perfectly clear and leave no room for misunderstandings. “I think she’s our Patient Zero. The one who got into that limo that night. The one Kingman was telling us about.”
Harriet raised a dispirited whisker. “Oh?” she asked in a tone that told me she wasn’t the least bit interested in this quest that she’d instigated in the first place.
“Is she all right, Max?” asked Dooley now, as Harriet and Brutus hung back. “She seems bored with us all of a sudden.”
“I think Harriet is suffering from FOMO,” I told him.
He started. “That sounds bad. That sounds terminal! Is she gonna die?!”
I laughed. “FOMO is not something that will kill you, Dooley. FOMO stands for the Fear Of Missing Out. And I think Harriet feels she’s missing out on a lot of things right now.”
“Missing out on what?”
I shrugged. “Missing out on living a Most Interesting Life, I guess.”
Dooley displayed a look of distaste. “She wants to be more like Princess? Ugh.”
“What seems ‘ugh’ to you probably looks very ‘ooh, me wants’ to Harriet.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s exactly the way she feels.”
He paused, then shook his head. “I still don’t get it.”
“Harriet has just discovered that there’s a whole other world out there. A world of show cats and glamour and glitter and prizes to be won and crowns to be worn and praise and applause to be had. And she wants all of that. She wants to be up on a stage with people clapping and snapping pictures and writing articles about her. She never thought she wanted it before because she wasn’t particularly aware a world like that even existed, or maybe she was, in a nebulous sort of way, but not made tangible, like with these Most Interesting Cats.”
“Harriet is going to leave us? She’s going to become a Hollywood superstar?”
“I very much doubt it. It’s a little tough to go from a small town like ours all the way to Hollywood, even if you’re the prettiest cat in all of Hampton Cove.”
“She really is the prettiest cat in all of Hampton Cove,” Dooley said reverently.
“And now she’s just discovered there are prettier cats out there—cats that seem more successful in life than she is, and it’s not a pleasant realization for her.”
“Seem to be more successful?”
“Looks can be deceiving, Dooley. Princess might come across as the Most Successful Cat Out There, but I very much doubt that that’s the case.”
“She’s a little vapid and narcissistic,” Dooley said, and I was surprised he even knew the meaning of those words. “And I don’t think she’s a very happy cat, Max.”
“I don’t think so either, Dooley.”
We’d reached St. John’s, the church where Father Reilly has his spiritual and worldly headquarters. St. John’s is a nice red-bricked building with a gabled roof and an actual spire. The oak front doors were huge and heavy, and there was no way we would ever be able to open them if they hadn’t already been slightly ajar, hospitably bidding parishioners to enter. We weren’t parishioners, exactly, but we were here on a mission. Not a mission from God, maybe, but still a mission.
We carefully made our way inside, and were struck by the cool and dark atmosphere. Father Reilly obviously didn’t believe in wasting money on electricity, as the lights were dim and the temperature low. But since we’re cats, and our eyes are more accustomed to the darkness than human eyes, I found our new surroundings soothing, if not a quiet relief from the hustle and bustle outside this high-ceilinged space.
“This is a very big house, Max,” said Dooley. He’d dropped his voice to a whisper, for some reason, and
I felt compelled to do the same.
“It’s not a house, it’s a church,” I whispered back.
“You mean like in The Da Vinci Code? I liked that movie. I like all Tom Hanks movies. Except maybe Cloud Atlas. I didn’t really get that movie, Max.”
“Nobody got that movie, Dooley,” I said, scanning the pews for a sign of Shanille.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” asked Brutus. “I don’t see any cats.”
“Shanille usually hangs out in here. She once told me she likes the peace and quiet.” She also told me she liked the acoustics. And since she’s cat choir’s conductor, she probably needs a place to practice so why not practice in here? I doubted whether Father Reilly would appreciate her brand of singing, though. Shanille doesn’t sing so much as shrieks.
I sniffed the air and got a whiff of an aroma that was a blend of burnt candles, incense and humidity. Statues of stern-looking saints looked down on us from their high perches and the little bit of light that filtered in came through high, stained-glass windows depicting more stern-looking saints. The place reminded me of a tomb for some reason.
“I like this place,” said Harriet, displaying the first signs of animation since we’d left The Hungry Pipe. “It soothes my soul. Maybe I should have been a holy cat, like Shanille.”
“Shanille is not a holy cat,” I said. “Shanille’s human may be a priest, but that doesn’t make her holy.”
“You know what I mean,” said Harriet. “Maybe I should be one of those cats that dedicate their existence to the pursuit of spiritual engagement and the meaning of life.”
We all stared at her. Harriet was the last cat I’d ever suspect of searching for the meaning of life. And the closest she ever came to the pursuit of spiritual engagement was when she got to choose a new bow to wear on top of her head. She loved those bows.
Just then, we heard a soft splashing sound, and quickly deduced it came from somewhere near the back of the church, to the left of the altar. And as we passed pew after pew, I saw that the church was empty, not even Father Reilly having put in an appearance. Behind us, Harriet had slipped into a pew, and murmured, “You guys go ahead. I need to pray.” And she actually closed her eyes, put paws together, and was soon lost in prayer!
