And without missing a beat she continued dabbing around and daubing paint across the royally large canvas located underpaw.
“But sugar plum! What are you doing!” Brutus cried, aghast.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” she said, frowning when a certain pawstroke didn’t exactly come out as she’d intended. “I’m hard at work on my next masterpiece, that’s what I’m doing. Now are you going to stand there or are you going to help me?”
“But snowflake!”
“Don’t you snowflake me, Brutus. I thought we had an agreement. I was going to be the creative genius and you my able-bodied assistant bringing my creative vision to life in riotous color. And now look what you’ve done. You’ve made me do everything myself!”
“But you were catnapped, sweet cakes!”
“Catnapped? What are you talking about?”
“That man Davenport! He catnapped you and locked you up in his dungeon!”
“He did no such thing. That man is an art lover, one of my greatest admirers.”
“But—”
“I’ll have you know that when no one believed in me, he was the one who offered me a chance. He built me my very own studio and he has been sponsoring me and pampering me and making sure I can focus on my work. The best food, the nicest smelling litter, the best accommodations. So that I’m not to be disturbed by anything or anyone and I can focus one hundred percent on my art.”
“But…”
“Look, if you’re just going to stand there criticizing my amazing benefactor, this wonderful patron of the arts, you can just walk right out again.”
It was obvious that not only had Harriet been catnapped, but she had also been brainwashed by this man Davenport. I think experts like to refer to this as the Stockholm syndrome, even though Hampton Cove isn’t actually located in Sweden, of course. So maybe it was the Hampton Cove syndrome.
“Look, you’ve been grabbed and locked up here against your own will,” I explained slowly, so my words would penetrate.
She gave me a confused frown.“No, I have not. I’m here entirely of my own free will, and look: it’s working already. My Facebook page is getting more likes every day, and my YouTube channel is flourishing, and so is my TikTok!”
“But the only person profiting from all of this is Davenport, can’t you see!” said Buster.
“And when he’s done with you, he’s going to stuff you,” said Dooley.
“What are you talking about?” said Harriet as she idly stirred the paint in a pot of red paint with her tail, which she had added to the mix to create her unique art.
“Haven’t you seen the rest of this place? It’s full of stuffed Persians,” I said. “There’s stuffed Persians on every floor and every room of this house.”
“No, to be honest I haven’t set paw outside my atelier,” said Harriet musingly. “Davenport has this idea that an artist is only able to produce their best work when they’re not distracted by the everyday worries that serve to drag us down.”
“Look, I think you’re suffering from the Stockholm syndrome,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“What’s this Stockholm?” asked Dooley.
“Stockholm is the capital of Sweden,” said Buster.
“So? We’re not in Sweden,” said Harriet.
“You’ve grown attached to your catnapper,” I explained. “To such an extent that you actually think that he’s a good person for locking you up and throwing away the key.”
“Don’t you want to be free again, Harriet?” asked Buster.
“Yeah, haven’t you missed me, twinkle toes?” asked Brutus in a raspy voice, dripping with emotion.
His plea didn’t fall on deaf ears. “Of course I’ve missed you. But an artist has to suffer for their art. Or at least that’s what Davenport told me. Your true artist can’t be attached to anything or anyone that distracts them from the creative impulse.”
“He’s using you!” Brutus cried. “Using you to make a lot of money!”
“So what’s wrong with that?” asked Harriet. “I happen to like lots of money.”
“What’s wrong with that is that he’s not sharing his ill-gotten gains with you, that’s what,” I said. “Gallagher Davenport is a crook, a gangster, a criminal, a fraud, and he’s locked you up down here in this dank dungeon and is making you work like a slave, making a lot of money off your hard work and giving you nothing in return.”
Harriet thought about this for a moment.“Well, there is something in what you’re all saying, I have to admit. I did wonder why I wasn’t allowed to join cat choir anymore. I mean, I am still the number-one soprano, you know.”
“Exactly!”
“But Davenport feels that I should drop all my other pursuits so I can focus solely on my painting. No dilution of the creative spark, as he calls it.”
“Davenport is going to rot in jail for what he did to you!” said Brutus, making one final passionate plea. “Oh, sweet kitten, come home. I’ve missed you. We’ve all missed you. And you can paint as much as you want in the comfort of your own home, with all the creature comforts you’re used to!”
“Yeah, there’s something in that,” Harriet admitted. But she was still not fully convinced, as she gazed at her many works of art she’d created in her atelier.
Suddenly Shanille’s voice sounded through the cavernous space. “So this is where they kept you locked up!” the cat choir conductor cried as she joined our merry gang. “Oh, Harriet,” she said, and streaked over to our residentartiste, and wrapped her paws around her, patting her on the back consolingly.“Whathave they done to you?” She held her at paw’s length. “You look absolutely terrible! Paint all over your beautiful fur, your eyes listless and lifeless. I’ve never seen you look this terrible in all the years I’ve known you! Poor, poor baby. Poor you!”
Harriet’s expression hardened. “This is how an artist is supposed to look, Shanille. And for your information, I’m on a different level now. I’m up there, soaring like the Van Goghs, Monets and Da Vincis of this world!”
“Frankly, you look like crap, Harriet,” said Shanille, not impressed. “And if this is what it takes to be an artist, you better drop this foolishness and fast.”
Brutus, who’d been leaning against a tall cabinet, now stumbled and inadvertently flicked the lock on the cabinet. It opened and dozens and dozens of stuffed Persians came tumbling out, piling on top of him.
Finally, when he was done screaming, and we’d managed to dig him out from under the pile, I could see that the pile of stuffed cats had had a profound effect on Harriet, as had Shanille’s words that she looked like something the cat—a different cat than herself, obviously—had dragged in.
No Persian likes to be accused of looking anything but her absolute best, and Harriet was just such a cat.
What was more, on the inside of the cabinet door, a mirror had been hung, and Harriet took one look at herself, uttered a startled squeal of distress, and said,“You guys—you have to save me! You have to save me from this place—and fast!”
But as she made her way to the staircase, followed by the rest of us, large feet came into view on top of the stairs, and we found our exit barred by a human.
It was Gallagher Davenport, and clearly he wasn’t going to let his prize artist leave without a fight!
CHAPTER 26
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A sardonic grin spread across the catnapper’s face. “More artists for my art factory. Nice!” And in a swift motion, he slammed the door shut behind him so we were all locked up down there with that horrible man, with no avenue of escape!
“I think we’re in trouble, Max,” said Dooley.
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” I agreed.
“But I don’t want to be an artist!” Buster cried. “I have no artistic skills whatsoever! Unless you consider styling hair art, of course.”