by Diana Orgain
“I guess he’s not too worried about reelection,” Maeve joked. “He didn’t even give me the time of day.”
Gracie laughed. “He probably thinks you’re not registered yet. Otherwise, he would have sweet talked you. Anyway,” Gracie motioned to the Mayor, who was now across the lawn speaking with Nadine and another gentleman. “I think he’s working Bobby for some donations.”
Maeve glanced over to see the man speaking with the Mayor. He was tall and slim, wearing chinos and a golf shirt. He looked like he belonged in LA, and Maeve took an instant dislike to him.
“Who is that?” Maeve asked.
“Bobby Farley–he owns the local bank, and a lot of real estate. If it doesn’t work out with my space, you should talk to him. I’m sure he knows a few spaces that could work for your café.”
Maeve’s heart sank as she looked into her friend’s eyes and realized that she’d probably lost the space to Nadine.
Suddenly, Mayor James called out. “Help, someone! Help! Are there any doctors here?”
“What’s going on?” Maeve asked Gracie, but she merely shrugged.
“Someone call 911!” Bobby Farley yelled.
Maeve watched in horror as Officer Joseph darted across the lawn in the mayor’s direction, a feeling of dread building in her stomach.
“Someone help! Help! Nadine’s fainted!” Mayor James shrieked.
Gracie grabbed Maeve’s hand, and together, they rushed over. A crowd of people were forming around Nadine.
“Step back, everyone. Give her some air,” Bobby said.
As they drew closer, Maeve could see Nadine sprawled out in the grass. Officer Joseph was giving her CPR, with Mayor James pacing nearby.
Joseph looked up at the crowd, his eyes wide from shock and terror.
“Why isn’t anyone calling for an ambulance?” Mayor James snapped.
Joseph shook his head, nervously running a hand through his hair. “Sir, she’s dead.”
Chapter Four
Chuck
She left. She actually left me at the pound! I’ve been a good dog, and I’m in doggy jail. And let me just say, she is a terrible pet owner. She acts all embarrassed and guilty about leaving me, but I bet she can’t wait to be rid of me.
Katie drags me to the back room where there is a pack of dogs yapping away.
“Who’s that?! Who’s that?! Who’s that?! Who’s that?! Who’s that?!” I hear this obnoxious voice squealing from somewhere in the back. I look around as Katie drags me by my leash toward the source of what has to be the single most annoying voice I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Come on, girl,” Katie says, still tugging as my feet slide across the concrete floor.
I am dragged in front of one of the smaller kennels, and I see this little Jack Russell. I bark at it, and it looks at me and I hear, “Who’s that?!”
I jolt back, realizing the voice is coming from the dog, and in my surprise, Katie is able to subdue me and throw me into the open kennel beside the Jack Russell. She slams the door shut and locks it quickly.
Katie pauses to stretch her back. “Jeez, Wanda, you sure don’t like kennels, huh? I think I pulled something dragging you back here. Sorry, girl.” She leaves, heading out front, probably to fill out some paperwork for Maeve to leave me in this terrible place.
I lower my head, feeling defeated that Maeve has brought me here. I wasn’t any trouble. I use the toilet for crying out loud–I even left the seat down for her! Not that she would know that because she seemed pretty preoccupied.
“Who you? Who you?” the yappy Jack Russell beside me yelps, and I cringe.
I can understand it. I suppose, now that I think about it, I haven’t exactly interacted with any animals since this happened.
“Shut up!” this womanly voice bubbles out of my throat, and I swear I sound like Whoopi Goldberg. Seriously? “Ack! My voice!” I wail. “I sound like a woman!”
“Great,” a voice from the kennel above me grumbles. “We’ve got another genius.”
I look up and see this black cat circling overhead. Wow. Katie is terrible with animals. Did she really put a big dog right next to a cat? Thinking on it, with the way I’d been resisting, she had probably thrown me into the first kennel we came to without contemplating much.
The other dogs in the kennels across from me are all looking my way, and I don’t like it.
“Hey sweetie,” the large retriever across the way says, and I know that tone. That’s my tone.
“Call me sweetie again, and I’ll bite your snout off, you stupid mutt,” Whoopi says on my behalf.
Oh, no, this has to stop. I don’t like this. I need to get out of here and go back to Maeve’s home where there are no other animals and no reason for me to have to hear this voice again.
“Leave her alone, Cobbler,” the cat above me says.
“Cobbler?” I snort. “Who names a dog Cobbler?”
The retriever growls at me. “Keep making fun, sweetie, and I’ll tear you apart when they let us out in the yard.”
Oh, great, this really is doggy prison.
“I’m out,” I say, heading to the back of my kennel. I let out a bark and a bit of blue magic circles around the kennel door before it pops open. Perhaps its fate, or more likely it’s my own misfortune, the kennel above me pops open too.
“Whoa!” the black cat cries and hops down as I am coming out of my own kennel, and it pounces across my back before landing promptly on the ground in front of me.
“Oh, I’m coming with you,” the cat proclaims.
“No, get back in your kennel,” I retort.
“Um, do you realize what happens to black cats at the pound? They stay there,” the feline says, circling around my legs. “Besides, we ladies need to stick together.”
I contemplate telling her I’m a man, but do I really need a cat thinking I’m crazy? Or the rest of the animals in here? I pause—why do I care? Do I seriously need validation from an unruly mob of cats and dogs?
All the other animals are barking and hissing like crazy now. The Jack Russell is yapping, “Me too! Me too! Me too! Me too!”
I hear Katie saying goodbye to Maeve, and I realize I don’t have time to argue with the cat.
“If you fall behind, I’m not waiting for you,” I say, hurrying toward the back door.
The stupid retriever is yelling and screaming at me to bring him too, and that is not going to happen. This girl is a class act, and I don’t put up with men like that.
As I’m darting toward the back door, I bark, and the door flings open. I run out the back, the black cat trailing behind me. We put as much distance between us and the shelter as possible, and I head down the road.
“What’s your name anyway?” I ask after several minutes of silence, realizing the cat is still following me.
“Cat,” she said.
“Wow, that’s creative,” I grumble, unintentionally inviting a long explanation about how she was born in a back alley to a stray and never had a home and therefore never got a name and blah, blah, blah, blah. While this new discovery that I can understand other animals is interesting, I’m not really much for conversation. And definitely not with a stupid cat. Although, I suppose it’s better than getting stuck with that Jack Russell who seemed to only be able to form two-word sentences.
It takes most of the day to find our way to Wisteria Pines, and Cat trails faithfully behind me with little complaint. Evidently, she thinks I’m going to be her meal ticket or something. My ability to open doors is probably an attractive trait to an animal. I tell her my name is Chuck, and she acts like I’m an idiot and that I’m lying. Really?
Eventually I break down and tell her my name is Wanda because I don’t want to have to explain to Cat my peculiar situation. I insist on getting back to Maeve–I don’t know if anyone else will be able to help me.
Once back in Wisteria Pines, I decide not to take the scenic route. I beeline for Maeve’s home, and make up my mind to wait for her there. She’s
probably going to be really surprised to see me when she gets home, but I don’t care. She’s stuck with me, whether she likes it or not. And apparently now she’s stuck with Cat too. Cat–really? That’s what this thing calls itself? It’s still rambling on about how it’s been in the pound for who knows how long.
Finally, as we are making our way down Maeve’s road, I interrupt her, “Listen, I’m not calling you Cat. That’s dumb. I’m sure Maeve will call you something, but for now you’re Fuzzball.”
Fuzzball does not seem pleased. “I’d rather you didn’t. Your human, do you think she will like me? Why are you going back to her if she dropped you off at the pound? Don’t you think she will just bring you back?”
“Listen, Fuzzball—“
“Stop.”
“Fuzzball,”–I emphasize the new name I’ve chosen–“Maeve is a good girl. She’ll feel guilty for dropping me off as soon as she sees me. I don’t know what she’ll do about you, though. And honestly, I don’t even care.”
We arrive outside Maeve’s home. I work my magic, the little that I have, and the front door flings open.
“How do you do that?” Fuzzball asks.
I ignore her and go inside and plop down on the couch. I yelp at the television, and it turns on. With a few clicks of the remote control, I manage to turn on my old sitcom Jenny Loves Charlie.
Fuzzball circles around in front of the couch for a while. I ignore her, trying to make it clear that I don’t want to talk.
“How do you know how to work all this human stuff?” she asks anyway, and I continue to ignore her and watch my show. Eventually she gives up trying to communicate with me and plops down in a corner.
Ugh, I both love and hate this show. The show is painfully cheesy, but I still watch. It went for nearly five seasons–pretty good, if you ask me. But every time the actress playing Jenny opens her mouth, I want to vomit. She’s such a diva, and she’s a real witch.
Yet, here on this couch, watching rerun after rerun, is where I stay for the next three hours–Fuzzball curled up sleeping in the corner, quite content being anywhere other than a kennel for once. I figure that Maeve would have been home by now, but I suppose, since she thinks I’m gone, she doesn’t have any reason to return home at a decent hour.
At last, the door opens.
Fuzzball jumps up.
“Heel, girl,” I say. “Be cool.”
By the loud, exasperated yawn that emerges from Maeve’s throat as she enters, and by the way she immediately kicks off her shoes and casually tosses her purse on the floor, I know it’s been a long day. She lets out this surprised shout when she sees me sitting on the couch.
I sit upright and tilt my head, my tongue hanging out. Remember, Chuck, ladies love cute dogs–and you don’t want this lady dropping you off at the pound again.
“What the! What the! What the!” Maeve shrieks with a slight stutter, and she sort of sounds like that obnoxious little Jack Russell I met earlier today. She comes over to me, her jaw hanging wide open. “Wanda?” I wag my tail and let out a soft bark of confirmation. She spins around the room, looking in all directions. “Someone’s messing with me.” She races for the phone. I watch her, curious as to who she is calling. “Yes, hello, Katie? Sorry to call you so late, but, um ... I wanted to check on Wanda.”
Woman, I am right here.
There is a pause. “She escaped her kennel today?” Maeve asks and looks dead at me. “Oh, really? As soon as I left, you say? You’re messing with me ...” Maeve pauses again, and I can barely make out a rather upset sounding Katie on the other line. “Well, she’s right here ... No, I mean I came home, and she is sitting on my couch watching TV!”
Fuzzball makes her move, brushing up against Maeve’s leg.
Maeve jumps. “Oh, jeez!” Maeve shouts into the phone. “There’s a black cat here too!”
I listen carefully, and I can hear a relieved Katie saying that a black cat had gotten loose too. Maeve stammers a bit. “Someone’s playing a joke on me, and it’s not funny! I live almost an hour away from the shelter.” From the tone of the mumbles on the other line, I can tell Katie is as flabbergasted as Maeve. Maeve pauses again while Katie rambles.
“I’ll bring them both back tomorrow ... what do you mean you’re closed tomorrow? Someone’s got to be there taking care of the animals tomorrow, right? Can’t they ... well, I understand you have a drop off policy, but don’t you think this is a special circumstance ... No? Okay, okay, I’ll wait until Monday ... or not, I don’t know.”
Maeve hangs up the phone and stares at me. She looks down at Fuzzball. “And who are you?” she asks, bending down to pick her up. She pets the cat. “Did you make a friend today, Wanda? I can’t believe you walked all the way back here ... wait, how did you get inside?” Maeve looks at the television. “Did you turn the TV on? This is crazy. What are you, a witch or something?”
I’m not the only one in the room, honey!
Maeve wanders around toward the couch and plops down next to me with Fuzzball in her lap. She pets the top of my head. “I don’t remember leaving the TV on ...” she mumbles.
I lay my head down on her lap rather instinctively as I am picking up on her stress.
“Ugh,” Maeve says, scratching the top of my head. “What a day, Wanda! The mayor’s assistant died at the Lunch on the Lawn event today. It was horrible!”
Somebody died?
“Just horrible!” Maeve repeats, apparently having no one else to talk to but the random dog she can’t shake. “Someone told me they thought she was poisoned. What a way to go! Poor thing. At least it was quick, and she didn’t have to suffer. Anyway, I feel terrible about it all. Nadine and I had been competing for the same building, so now I suppose I’ll get the lease, but it feels strange, you know? Like, of course, I’d much rather she be alive and me just have to look for another space.”
She sighs. “I’m supposed to go into the police station tomorrow to give my statement.“
Whoa! The police station? I sure do know how to pick ‘em!
“I don’t know what I’m going to say to the police, I mean, I didn’t even know Nadine. I only met her today, but I guess I’m an easy suspect since I’m the stranger from out of town.”
Suddenly Maeve drops the conversation, but man I want to know what’s going on! Someone in town was murdered? The mayor’s assistant? Do they have any other leads? Woman, tell me! Unfortunately, it’s not like I can ask for more details.
I promise, beautiful, if I could talk to you, this conversation would not be so one-sided!
Maeve jumps up from the couch, “You hungry, girls?” she asks.
Hungry? Am I ever!
Fuzzball and I follow Maeve to the kitchen. Maeve pours a foul smelling bowl of dry dog food for me and fixes Fuzzball some tuna.
As soon as Maeve turns to leave the kitchen, I push Fuzzball out of the way and scarf up the tuna. Screw the dog food.
Fuzzball lets out a screeching meow that makes Maeve turn around.
“Wanda! That’s not very nice!” Maeve says.
Don’t care.
Fuzzball can have the dog food.
“I guess I could go through a few boxes,” Maeve says to herself in the living room. I head back to the couch to finish watching Jenny Loves Charlie.
Maeve opens a box, and says, “So ...” deciding she’s going to talk again.
It’s cool, whatever, it’s not like I’m trying to watch TV or anything.
Maeve hums as she rummages through the box, and I recognize the tune, so I let out a soft howl, and Maeve laughs. “Aw, Wanda, are you singing?” Maeve practically giggles, and honestly, it feels kind of nice to make her smile like that.
She starts singing. My ears shoot up, as I recognize the song, I’ll Never Get Over You. And then it hits me—this chick is Maeve. Maeve O-freaking-Dare! The song writer of that big time hit.
No way! She must have just come from LA too. She keeps singing, and even though I know she’s not a professional per
former, she’s good! I really enjoyed her songs before all this dog stuff happened.
“Oh,” I hear Maeve say as she opens another box of belongings. I glance her way, and I can see this pained expression etched across her face. I sit up and look at her, not breaking my stare. “I thought I threw all this stuff out.” She pulls out a framed photograph and puts it on the coffee table in front of me.
I hop down and go to investigate. There is this picture of her with a man, a handsome looking guy, smiling at the camera in an obvious couple’s pose. I don’t’ know why, but it really irks me. I growl–loudly. To my relief, Maeve laughs at me.
She pats me on the head and says, “Good girl. That’s Frank, and we don’t like him.” Then there is a pause, and she looks down and lowers her hand.
This guy hurt her, I can tell.
Suddenly she’s very quiet, and she pushes the box aside and picks up the frame. “I wish I knew what I did wrong,” she says as she drops onto the couch. I go to jump up next to her, but Fuzzball beats me to the punch.
“Poor human,” Fuzzball says, and curls up in Maeve’s lap.
I jump up next to the two of them and lay my head down on Maeve’s shoulder. Maeve puts the frame away and starts petting both of us.
“Maybe I won’t go to the pound on Monday,” she says, then sighs. “Nadine’s murder has me really flustered. I left LA because Frank left me, and because I wanted to get away from all the Hollywood drama, but it’s like the drama’s followed me here. If I’m not careful, they’re going to wind up pinning it on me.”
She stares into space, and then she declares rather boldly, “I have to find out what happened to Nadine!”
Chapter Five
Maeve
Maeve awoke the following morning to a text message alert. She rummaged around for her cell phone and found Wanda on top of it. “Get off the bed, Wanda! I thought I kicked you out in the middle of the night?”
The dog let out a sorry little howl, that Maeve ignored.
The cat snuggled closer to Maeve, and she petted it. “What am I going to do with you, kitty?”