by Nic Saint
“I just hope I don’t have to have my teeth pulled, Max. It must be very painful to have your teeth pulled with a sharp knife and a pair of pliers the way Vena likes to do.”
I winced. “Good thing I was sedated,” I murmured.
“Maybe we should ask Odelia to buy us all electric toothbrushes and brush our teeth every night from now on?” Dooley suggested.
I bridled at the thought of a human sticking a toothbrush into my mouth. Then again, more sharp knives and pliers wasn’t a pleasant prospect either, so instead I said, “Let’s ask her. Though between four cats and her own teeth, Odelia will have a lot of work.”
“They could divvy up the work. Gran could brush my teeth, Odelia could do yours, Marge Harriet’s and Chase or Tex could brush Brutus’s teeth. And then we’ll never have to go to Vena ever again.”
I had to agree he was onto something. If I never had to set foot in Vena’s house of horrors ever again, I was a happy cat, even if I had to give up a big chunk of my dignity by having a human brush my teeth for me.
“If we do this, though,” I said, “you have to promise me never to tell a soul.”
“And why is that?”
“Can you imagine what cats will say? We’ll be the laughingstock of the town.”
“Because we care about dental hygiene?”
“Because they will laugh at us.”
“But why?”
“Because cats don’t brush their teeth, okay? We just don’t.”
“Well, we should,” he said stubbornly. “So maybe we’ll be pioneers.”
I smiled. “Maybe we will.”
Frankly I didn’t know what the big deal about dental hygiene was either. Nowadays with all the pampering going on, and kitties getting massages, and saunas, and facials, and pedicures and manicures, why not add brushing teeth to the mix? Take Pussy, for instance. She was a bona fide Instagram star, and no one laughed at her. On the contrary, cats admired her, and aspired to live the kind of life she lived. So maybe Dooley was right, and I should put aside my petty prejudices and allow Odelia to brush my teeth.
And I was still thinking about this when suddenly a panel van stopped right next to us and two men jumped out. “I’ll take the fat one, you take the midget,” a big, bearded man announced. And before we knew what hit us, we’d both been scooped up into some kind of fishing net, and deposited in the back of the van. The doors were slammed shut and then we were off, being taken to a destination unknown.
Though I had a pretty good idea what that destination could be, and so did Dooley, judging from his next words, spoken in visible and audible distress.
“Max, they’re taking us to the pound!”
Chapter 14
Jacob Turner, mayor of Hampton Cove, pounded the table with his fist. “Where’s my Duffer! I want my slice of Duffer!”
Lewis Ferries, who would be his server today, came running. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Mayor, but we’re all out of Duffers, I’m afraid.”
“Then get me some from the Duffer Store,” said the Mayor, showcasing the keen intelligence your local politician needs.
He was having lunch at Fry Me For An Oyster, conveniently located around the block from Town Hall, and had ordered his usual: a slice of Duffer as an amuse-bouche.
This was his daily routine, and one from which he hadn’t varied since beginning his stint as Hampton Cove’s mayor.
“I’m afraid they’re all out, too, Mr. Mayor,” said the server, wringing his hands.
“Get me the manager!” the mayor yelled, never satisfied with dealing with underlings when he could be dealing with the brass.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor, sir,” said the server, hurrying away.
The mayor, a sixty-something man of impressive proportions, pulled at his white mustache. It was this mustache that had played an important part in his career. Even as a young man the mustache had lent its hitherto hapless owner prestige and a certain sérieux, and when that mustache had suddenly turned from its original mustard color to a distinguished white, as had his hair and sideburns, that prestige had grown with leaps and bounds. One look at the Turner mustache and voters knew that here was a man they could trust. A man in whose hands they could safely place their future. It had been thus when he’d been a lowly bank teller at the First National Bank of Long Island, where people entrusted him with their hard-earned paycheck, and it had been so when he’d gone into politics and had reached the pinnacle of his political career by becoming mayor of his town, twenty-five years ago today. The only thing that hadn’t changed in all those years, except the volume of his mustache, was the nature of his favorite salami.
He liked his Duffer and he liked it on a daily basis.
Wallace Banio, the maître d’ at Fry Me For An Oyster, had arrived and was clasping his hands in front of his white apron. He was a nervous little man with a nervous little black mustache, and looked even more nervous now. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Mayor,” he said.
“Stop saying you’re sorry!” said the Mayor. “I want my Duffer and I want it now!”
He’d resumed his habit of pounding the table with his fist, and the sound made the maître d’ flinch. Other customers were already turning in their seats and staring in their direction. And a disgruntled mayor could very well be the kiss of death for a five-star establishment like the Fry Me For An Oyster, especially in these troubled times, when competition was relentless and restaurants popped up like a rash all over the place.
“I’ll try and wrangle one up for you, Mr. Mayor. Please bear with me. Five minutes.”
He hurried away, already taking his phone out of his pocket. Surely there was a Duffer somewhere he could supply to this most distinguished customer.
“Hello, is this the Duffer Store? Yes, this is Wallace Banio, maître d’ of Fry Me For An Oyster. Mayor Turner is one of our patrons today, and he wants a Duffer. Yes, the XXL.”
“I’m very sorry, Wallace,” said the voice on the other end, after identifying itself as belonging to Colin Duffer himself. “But we’re all out of Duffers right now. As soon as the new stock arrives I’ll send over a box of the XXL with my personal compliments.”
“You don’t understand, Colin. If I don’t get the Mayor a slice of his favorite salami right this minute, he’ll go nuts! The man has been gorging on Duffers every day for the past twenty-five years and he’s become superstitious about it. If he misses even a single day he thinks it will be the end of his mayoralty!”
“I’m sorry, Wallace. Like I said, we’re all out.”
“One Duffer, Colin! Just give me one Duffer. Half a Duffer! A single slice! Please!”
But Colin had disconnected. The maître d’ returned to the Mayor’s table, with lead in his shoes. “I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Mayor,” he said, sweat trickling down his spine, “but they’re all out.”
“Not even a slice?” asked the Mayor, suddenly losing a lot of his bluster.
“Not even a slice.”
“But surely…”
The maître d’ shook his head mournfully. “Alas.”
“Oh, no,” said the Mayor, his fingers reaching for his mustache. “This can’t be happening.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“I’m not going to get my slice today, am I?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I haven’t missed my daily slice in twenty-five years, Wallace, do you realize that?”
“I do realize that, Mr. Mayor.”
The mayor stared at the white hair he’d just pulled from his mustache with a horrified expression, then allowed it to fall from his limp fingers and flutter to the nice oak wood floor below. He reached for his mustache and pulled at the next hair. Wallace eyed it with a wealth of feeling. Before him sat a broken man, and they both knew it.
“We need new Duffers, Chris,” said Colin the moment he put down the phone. “Even the Mayor is starting to make a fuss.”
“You know as well as I do that the meat has to cure,” said Chris. “Which takes time.”
/> “How long?” asked Colin, even though he knew the answer as well as his brother did.
“We’re still collecting the ingredients, fine-tuning the machines. Two weeks at least.”
Colin thought about this for a moment. The meat had to cure, that was the key, and they needed to add their secret ingredients to create the exact mix their grandfather had perfected, the recipe of which had been handed down from generation to generation. That would take another couple of days, and only then could they start creating their uniquely flavored Duffers, which came in three sizes: the M, the X and the XL. And for very special customers, like the Mayor and other dignitaries, they also created the XXL.
“We should probably whip up two batches,” he said. “With the kind of demand we’re seeing we’ll run out as soon as the first batch hits the store.”
“Which is great, isn’t it? We’ll be able to raise our prices again, and pretty soon we’ll be making a lot more money by selling a lot less product, which is all to the good.”
Chris was right, but still. “You don’t know how frustrating it is to send customers away, Chris. You’re not in the store day after day, having to see the disappointed look on their faces, or to listen to their daily laments. I had to send a dozen away this morning alone, and I’m sure that half of the ones waiting until we open again will have come for the Duffer.” He gestured to the display window, through which they could see a line of two dozen customers already lining up until the shop opened again after the lunch hour.
“Just tell them we’re out. And that we’ll have fresh stock hitting the store soon.” He patted his brother on the back. “This is simply business ABC, Colin. When demand trumps supply, that’s when people get rich. So enjoy it, and don’t fret so much.” When Colin made to say more, he held up his hand. “I’m on it, all right, little brother? I’m on it.”
Colin watched his brother stalk off through the kitchen, and shook his head. Chris didn’t understand what it felt like for a people pleaser like him to have to disappoint people. He hated it. In fact he hated it so much he had half a mind to close the store until they were fully stocked again with fresh Duffers. But of course he couldn’t very well do that. So he walked to the door, turned over the Open sign, and unlocked the door.
The first question the first customer asked, a hopeful smile spreading across her face, was, “Are the new Duffers in?”
Chapter 15
“But I don’t want to go to the pound, Max!” Dooley was saying.
“I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding,” I told my friend. “As soon as we arrive at the pound they’ll see we’re not strays, and they’ll call Odelia and get this all sorted out.”
“We are chipped,” Dooley reminded me.
“I know, Dooley. I was there when we were chipped, remember?”
He nodded anxiously, then glanced at the other collection of cats that were in there with us. They were cats of every possible persuasion: American Shorthair, Maine Coon, Serengeti, Ocicat, Highlander, California Spangled, Munchkin, Ragamuffin… Name one and it was represented in the van. In fact it wasn’t too much to say the van was like Noah’s ark, if Noah had only been interested in collecting one of every breed of feline.
I recognized a lot of familiar faces. Shanille was there, the director of cat choir, Tom, the butcher’s cat, Misty, the electrician’s cat, Tigger, the plumber’s cat…
“We’re all chipped,” said Shanille, “and we’ll all be released the moment the director of the pound realizes his overzealous workers have made a terrible, humongous mistake.”
“And then they’ll all be fired,” said Tigger. Tigger’s human is an alcoholic, which is probably why he’s always a little on edge. He was definitely on edge right now.
The van suddenly stopped, and moments later the door was thrown open and yet another cat was thrown in with the rest of us. I recognized her as Shadow, Franklin Beaver’s cat.
“The only one missing is Kingman,” I said as a joke, but no one was laughing.
“Kingman knows how to take care of himself,” said Tom. “He knows how to hide, which is more than can be said for the sorry lot that’s locked up in here.”
He was right. “We should all have been more vigilant,” said Shanille.
“How can we be more vigilant?” asked Buster, a Main Coon who belongs to Fido Siniawski from the barber store. “I was simply walking down the street, minding my own business, like I always do, when these two clowns suddenly grabbed me.”
“Yeah, no level of vigilance could have saved us from being captured,” Misty agreed.
“I think they’re doing a clean sweep,” said Missy, the landscaper’s tabby. “Making sure they take all the cats off the streets.”
“But why would they do that?” Dooley asked.
“Who knows?”
“Probably a political thing,” opined Tom. “Politicians are always doing things like that. They take a decision and then the next day they take a completely different decision.”
“The pound probably hired a new guy, and they didn’t explain to him that most cats in Hampton Cove are chipped and domesticated,” said Shanille.
“Except Clarice,” Misty pointed out. “By all rights Clarice should be in here with us. And the fact that she isn’t, just goes to show you this is all one big mistake.”
The van stopped jerked to a halt again, and we were all thrown against the van divider that kept us from getting our paws on the crazy driver who kept picking up fresh cats as if we were just so much garbage dumped on the sidewalk for collection day.
The door was flung open again and this time two cats were dumped in our midst.
“Harriet! Brutus!” cried Dooley.
“Max! Dooley!” cried Harriet, then glanced around, and when she met all the other familiar faces, frowned. “Is this a secret cat choir meeting? Did you set this up, Shanille?”
“Of course I didn’t set this up!” Shanille cried, indignant. “Do you really think I would hire a human to drag us in from the street and lock us up in this mobile cage?”
“I was just thinking out loud,” said Harriet.
“Well, think in silence, because nonsense like that is what kills reputations.”
Shanille lapsed into silence, and so did Harriet. Brutus crawled over three other cats to reach Dooley and myself, and asked in an undertone, “What’s going on here, boys? Where are they taking us?”
“Consensus seems to be the pound,” I said.
“I think they’re taking us to be exterminated,” said Buster, who could be a gloomy Gus.
“Exterminated!” Dooley cried, and all eyes suddenly fastened on him and Buster.
“Yeah, I got picked up by the guys from the pound once and in my professional opinion this van is not from the pound and the people that took us are not from the pound. In other words, this is not a pound-sanctioned operation,” said Buster. He paused for effect. “In other words, this is a private initiative, which can only mean one thing: animal testing and eventual termination. I’m sorry. But that’s the only explanation.”
I gulped, and so did every other cat in that van. We’d heard stories about pharmaceutical and cosmetics companies picking up strays from the streets to use them for testing purposes, and those stories never ended well. And then there were the stories about a cat-hating exterminator who drove around and collected cats and put them in his oven. Some said he worked for the Mayor, while others claimed he worked for an underground round table of concerned citizens with extreme views on pets as vermin.
I’d always assumed these were tall tales. Urban legends, if you will. But now I wasn’t so sure. I had a feeling maybe Buster was right, and that either this exterminator or the animal testing people had decided to wipe out the entire Hampton Cove cat population.
“I’ve heard stories,” Brutus now also intimated. “Stories about cat haters working with a hired gun. They consider cats a menace, and want to get rid of us once and for all. Accuse us of being silent killers of
birds and other species, and want to make us extinct.”
I’d heard the stories, too, about an island in Australia where thousands of cats were marked for termination, with traps and toxins. Or towns where a cat curfew is in effect, and owners are advised to keep their cats indoors from sundown to sunup. Or else…
I gulped some more, hoping Buster was wrong, and so was Brutus. Because if they were right… this just might be the end. And I wasn’t feeling entirely fit to fight our opponent right then, what with having recently suffered the indignant loss of three teeth. If only I still had those teeth, I could have bit my way out of this predicament.
Oh, damn you, Vena. Damn you and your pliers!
Chapter 16
Dolores had been fielding calls all afternoon, mainly from cat owners who were calling in to announce that their precious little fur babies had gone missing. She’d been carefully writing everything down, and had been sending word to the officers to take these cases in hand. Unfortunately there wasn’t a lot of enthusiasm to find these cats, with most officers clearly feeling cats could take care of themselves. But when the parents of Nicky August called again, asking why the chief had never shown up, she got up from her perch and marched over to Chase’s office and entered without knocking.
“Chase, the parents of that missing munchkin just called again. The chief never showed up to take their statement, and now they’re wondering if they should talk to the media, cause they’re pretty much on the verge of giving up on the police altogether.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Chase, looking distraught. “I’ve been trying the chief’s cell all morning, and he doesn’t pick up.”
“That’s not like him,” said Dolores, who’d known the chief from when he was a beat cop, and had seen his slow rise through the ranks to the position he held now.
“No, that’s absolutely not like him at all. Where was he going when he left here?”