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“I don’t know. Harriet is staring at me,” I said, and I was frankly starting to get a little worried. It was that smile, you see. The same smile clowns like to use to scare children out of their wits.

“Max,” said Harriet. “I have a great idea.”

“Oh?” I said carefully.

“About the mice.”

I groaned.“Not again.”

“No, but listen to me. Hear me out. Bear with me for a second here. So the mice aren’t scared of Rufus and they’re not scared of you or me or Dooley or Brutus, right?”

“Why did she name me last?” muttered Brutus, who was lying on Harriet’s other side, right on top of where Chase’s feet would have been if the lanky cop hadn’t curled up into a ball to give us cats some space. The trouble our humans go to.

“So if the mice aren’t scared of cats or big dogs, maybe they’re scared of small dogs,” Harriet suggested. “I mean, it’s the same thing with people. Some of them are scared of big dogs and others are scared of the little ones.”

“So?” I said, wondering where she was going with this.

“So why don’t we ask Fifi?”

I thought for a moment. It was still early, and I needed to compute her message.“Oh, right, Fifi,” I said finally, remembering that our next-door-neighbor Kurt Mayfield’s Yorkshire Terrier’s name is Fifi.

“I don’t know, sweet puss,” said Brutus. “Fifi is probably more afraid of mice than the mice are of her.”

He was right, of course. Fifi is one of those timid dogs that are scared of their own shadow. She might run like the wind at the sight of two hundred mice.

“It’s worth a shot,” I said nevertheless. At this point I was willing to try anything to get rid of these mice, even the unorthodox method of enlisting a dog smaller than myself.

“Great,” said Harriet. “That’s settled then. I’ll talk to Fifi and tonight we’ll take another shot at the mice.”

She looked pleased as punch and I smiled in spite of my misgivings.“It’s very nice of you to do this, Harriet,” I said. “Very nice indeed.”

She frowned.“I’m not doing this for you, Max. I’m doing this for me. It’s my food, too, you know, and my house.”

“Of course,” I said. Still, I thought it was very thoughtful of Harriet to step up to the plate like this.

The humans in the bed stirred, and Odelia lifted her head sleepily.“What’s with all the yapping?” she muttered. “Is it time to get up yet?”

“Not yet,” I told her. It was only five o’clock, after all. Too early for man or beast, with the exception of four cats, apparently. “Go back to sleep, Odelia.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, and promptly dozed off again.

Moments later four cats could be seen tiptoeing down the stairs and into the kitchen. For the humans their day had yet to begin, but for us it already had. We’re not the kind of creatures who like to keep regular hours, you see. No eight hours of sleep for us. We like to take our eighteen hours intermittently, spread out throughout the day or night. We’re flexible that way. And since we’d already dozed enough for now, we headed into the kitchen for a nice breakfast. Until we discovered that our bowls were empty once more, the last mouse carrying the last piece of kibble and laughing maniacally as it did.

“I’m going to kill them!” Brutus yelled, slamming the floor with his fist.

“If only we were more like Clarice,” Harriet said wistfully. “Between the four of us we could gobble up two hundred mice in a heartbeat.”

The mere thought of eating fifty mice with hide and hair almost made me retch, though, so clearly this was not the solution.

“Maybe we should ask Clarice again?” I suggested.

“No dice, I’m afraid,” said Brutus. “I saw her yesterday, and she still insists we should deal with our own problems and keep her out of it.”

Clarice is one of those feral cats you see in every town. She usually stays close to the dumpsters behind the stores and restaurants of Main Street and she likes it that way.

For a moment we all thought about the kind of damage Clarice could do to Hector and Helga’s offspring but then dismissed the thought. We’re not animals. But it just goes to show how this war with the mice was taxing us. And taxing Odelia’s budget, of course.

“Let’s head into town,” I suggested. “See if we can’t find out what happened to Heather Gallop.”

“You do that,” said Harriet. “And Brutus and I will stay here and help Gran and Scarlett find out who’s stealing all these gnomes.”

Gran had arrived home very late last night. In fact we’d arrived together—we cats having just returned from cat choir, and she from a stakeout with Scarlett. She’d almost caught two gnome thieves, she’d told us, ‘almost’ being the keyword.

“We’ll ask Kingman if he knows anything about two gnome thieves,” I said.

“And we’ll tell Gran and Scarlett to ask around about that murder business,” said Harriet.

And matters thus arranged, we went our merry ways, to start another wonderful day of sleuthing and, hopefully, finding a bite to eat before the mice managed to abscond with it.

Chapter 19