“Hey, Max,” a familiar voice sounded behind me. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing, Dooley?” I grumbled. “I’m trying to jump into bed!”
He paused, then asked, “So why are you still on the floor?”
“Because…” I stared up at the bed, which all of a sudden had turned into an insurmountable obstacle for some reason. “Actually I don’t know what’s going on. The bed just seems higher now.”
“A sudden weakness,” Dooley decided knowingly. “It happens to me all the time.”
“Well, it doesn’t happen to me,” I said, scratching my head. Yes, cats scratch their heads. We just make sure we retract our claws, otherwise it would be a fine mess.
“You probably need food. Did you have breakfast? When I don’t have my breakfast I feel weak. Do you feel weak?”
I gave him my best scowl. “I feel fine. And for your information, yes, I did have my breakfast. The best kibble money can buy and a nice chunk of chicken and liver paté.”
“Wow, what happened?”
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“I thought Odelia only got you the cheap stuff? Why did she go out and splurge all of a sudden?”
“I guess she felt I deserved it. I have been helping her solve murder case after murder case lately.”
“Me too, but I didn’t get any special treats.”
“You have to file your complaint with Gran, Dooley. She is your human, after all.”
Dooley’s Ragamuffin face sagged. “Gran has been too busy to notice me lately.”
“Too busy? Why, what’s she been up to?”
“Beats me. She’s been receiving packages in the mail. A lot of them. In fact Marge and Tex are pretty much fed up with her. Seems like they’re the ones who have to pay for all those packages.”
Perhaps now would be a good time to make some introductions, especially for the people who haven’t been following my adventures closely. My name is Max, as you have probably deduced, and I’m something of a private cat sleuth. Since Odelia is a reporter and always in need of fresh and juicy stories, I’m only too happy to supply them. My frequent collaborator on these outings is Dooley, my best friend and neighbor. Dooley’s human is Vesta Muffin, Odelia’s grandmother who lives next door. Dooley is my wingcat. My partner in crime. Between you and me, Dooley is not exactly the brightest bulb in the bulb shop, so it’s a good thing he’s got me. I’m smart enough for the both of us.
“Why don’t I give you a paw up?” Dooley asked now.
“I don’t know…” I muttered. I glanced behind Dooley, making sure he was alone. If we were going to do this, I didn’t want there to be any witnesses.
Dooley followed my gaze. “What are you looking at?” Then he got it. “Oh, if you’re looking for Harriet, she was fast asleep in Brutus’s paws. Those two must have had a rough night.”
My face clouded. Being reminded of Brutus usually has a souring effect on my mood. You see, Brutus is what us cats call an intruder. He came waltzing into our lives a couple of weeks ago and has refused to leave ever since. He belongs to Chase Kingsley, a cop Odelia has taken a liking to, but seems to spend an awful lot of time next door, cozying up to Harriet, Odelia’s mom’s white Persian.
I made up my mind. “Let’s do this,” I grunted. If we didn’t, Odelia might wake up of her own accord, and I’d miss my window of opportunity to put in some much-needed snuggle time.
Dooley padded up to me and plunked down on his haunches. “How do you want to do this?”
“Simple. I jump and you give me a boost.”
“You mean, like, on the count of three or something?”
“Or something.” I got ready, poised at the foot of the bed and said, “One—two—”
“Wait,” Dooley said. “Are we doing this on three or after three?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do I boost you on three, or right after?”
“Why would you boost me right after? The count of three usually means the count of three, Dooley.”
“So, one, two, three and boost? Or one, two, three, pause, and then boost?”
“One, two, three, boost,” I said, starting to lose my patience. “Now, are we doing this or not?”
He thought about this for a moment, a puzzled look on his face. “Do you want to do this?”
“Of course I want to do this! Preferably before we die of old age.”
Dooley’s eyes went wide. “Die of old age? Do you think we’re dying, Max?!”
“No, we’re not dying! I just want to put in some snuggle time, is that so hard to understand?”
“Oh, right,” he said, understanding dawning. “I thought you said we were dying.”
For some reason Dooley has been obsessing about dying lately. Usually I can talk him out of it, but then he sees something on TV and the whole thing starts all over again.
“Are you ready?”
Dooley nodded. “I’m ready, Max.”
“One—two—”
“Wait!”
I groaned. “What is it now?”
“Where do I boost you?”
“Up the bed! Where else?”
“No, I mean, do I boost your butt or your hind paws or what? I’m new to this boosting business,” he explained apologetically.
“It’s not exactly an Olympic discipline, Dooley. There are no rules. You can boost me wherever you want.” On second thought… “Though stay away from my butt.”
“Right. Stay away from your butt. So where…”
“Anywhere but my butt! Now one—two—”
“Max!”
“What?!”
“What if I boost you too hard and you end up flying across the bed and down the other side?”
I fixed him with a hard look. “Trust me, Dooley, the chances of that happening are slim to none. I mean, look at us. I’m like the Dwayne Johnson of cats and you’re more like Andrew Garfield in Hacksaw Ridge, all scrawny and mangy. You’ll be lucky if you can boost me a couple inches, which is all I need,” I hastened to add.
“Do you think I’m too mangy?” asked Dooley with a frown.
“Not too mangy. You’re just thin is all. A very healthy thin.”
“Not a sickly thin? Like an I’m-about-to-die thin?”
Oh, God. I did not need this aggravation. “Absolutely not. More like a my-name-is-Gwyneth-Paltrow-and-I’m-willowy-and-gorgeous kind of thin.”
“I thought you said I looked like Andrew Garfield?”
“In a very Gwyneth Paltrow-y way.”
This seemed to please him, as he gave me a grateful smile. “Why, thanks, Max. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Great. Now about that boost?”
“Oh! Right! I forgot all about that.”
“Focus, Dooley. Now, are you ready?”
“Ready,” he said, his face a study in concentration.
“One—two—three—”
“Boost!” he cried and placed both paws on my butt, giving me a mighty shove.
And… we had liftoff! Only it didn’t last very long, nor did it carry me where I was aiming to go. Instead, I plunked right back down again, landing on top of Dooley, who ended up squeezed beneath my sizable buns.
There was a momentary pause, while we both figured out what went wrong, then Dooley croaked, “Can you please lift your butt, Max? You’re choking me!”
Applause broke out behind us, and a loud cackling sound, and when I looked up, I saw we’d been joined by Harriet and Brutus. The latter was applauding, a Draco Malfoy-type sneer on his mug, and Harriet was doing the cackling, apparently finding the whole scene hilarious.
“What’s so funny?” I asked with an angry look at the newly arrived.
“You!” Brutus cried. “You’re so fat you can’t even jump on the bed!”
“I’m not fat! I’m just… experiencing some issues with my takeoff.”
“Issues with your takeoff! You’re not an airplane, Max. You’re a cat. A cat too fat to fly!” Harriet dissolved into giggles while Brutus was laughing so hard his belly shook.