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“Nice little fellow,” Sammy said, handing him over. Zeke put a hand under the rear legs to support them. Instantly, D.C. struggled to free himself of Zeke, who instinctively tightened his grip, whereupon D.C. lay back his ears and hissed. He did not like jerks squeezing him. He had squash-able innards the same as anyone. And besides, no man had a right under God to use force on another without just cause, and there was no cause, just or otherwise, for this stupid moron to compress him. He would show him. He hissed again. He didn’t understand the psychology of it, but a well-enunciated hiss terrified people and dogs. And he had a hiss he had worked on, and was proud of. He gave it a little something others didn’t.

Suspicion stole over Sammy. “He doesn’t seem to care much for you.”

Zeke loosened his hold and attempted to rub D.C.‘s back, the way he had seen Ingrid do. “Hi, old fellow,” he said be­tween sneezes, his vision becoming rapidly blurred. “Wait till Patti sees you.” And as far as he was concerned, Patti could have him till hell froze over.

D.C. cocked a fishy eye at him, and then lurched back when Zeke sneezed violently.

Dan said, “You sure, mister, this is your cat?”

“He’s my wife’s. To tell you the truth, we just tolerate each other. I’m allergic to cat fur. He makes me sneeze. I make him hiss.”

Dan began moving toward Zeke’s blind side, and Zeke knew he had only seconds left. In one swift, well-planned movement, thought out long before he knocked, Zeke tossed D.C. over his head and back of him, as if D.C. were a foot­ball. There was a swish as D.C. flew through space, and a horrendous outcry that shook the skeleton of everybody in the building right down to the last spinal digit. As D.C. landed, coming down on all fours, his low undercarriage mashed against the floor and a whoosh of air added a contrapuntal touch to the high C notes.

The two criminals stood stunned, shocked more by the sound effects than the actual development. Zeke held a gun, which had transferred itself as if by magic from the holster to his right hand. He said quietly, “Just get your hands up – fasten them around your neck.”

They hesitated, like a fighter on the ropes. Zeke continued, “The first one goes for a gun gets it.” He sneezed then and his Colt bobbed threateningly. Quickly , they followed his orders, their faces wrapped in an expression of utter dis­belief.

“When you get to Leavenworth ,” Zeke said, “you can tell them you’re the first guys ever railroaded to prison by a cat.”

28

The next day the newspapers played the story big. Bored and blase about it all, D.C. stared out from the first page of every edition. The headline writers had enjoyed themselves immensely. FBI UNDERCOVER CAT ROUNDS UP KILLERS. DARN CAT GETS HIS MAN. FBI SOLVES “IMPOSSIBLE CASE” WITH CAT STOOLIE.

Under one picture a caption writer even quoted D.C. “It was nothing. It was only what any patriotic American would have done.”

Mike showed D.C. his photograph, spreading the news­paper out on the kitchen floor. D.C. took a glance and it was obvious. Mike reported later, that he thought the pic­tures unflattering. He tried to dig a hole in the vinyl to bury them. It was not publicity that counted but what a man had in the refrigerator.

Pandemonium reigned that morning. Knocking on the door of the Randall home were reporters asking for exclusive in­terviews, two Life photographers requesting a layout, news-reel cameramen from three television stations, an advertising agency executive wanting D.C. to endorse Little Tiger cat food, and a press agent who said he could get D.C. an in­vitation to sit on the President’s lap at the White House. Once Patti overhead Inky indignantly telling someone over the phone, “He’s not ‘that cat.’ His name’s D.C. How’d you like it if I called you ‘that man’?”

Early on the scene was Mrs. Macdougall who prattled in­cessantly. “When the neighbors started talking, I said shame on ‘em. I said to Mr. Macdougall, I said, if that nice Patti Randall’s got a man in her bedroom, she’s got a reason.”

Slowly Zeke made his way through the melee to the front door where he thanked Patti. “You’ve put up with an awful lot.”

“I hope we’ll see you again,” she said.

Ingrid spoke up. “I’ll cook you dinner any night you say. I’m good at steaks.”

He smiled. “I bet there isn’t anything you’re not good at.”

Mike asked, “Don’t you want to say good-by to D.C.?”

“You tell him good-by for me,” Zeke answered, suppressing a sneeze. He added, “You know something, Mike? Why don’t you fasten him to a rocket? I’d like to see him be the first cat in orbit.”

When Zeke was gone, Ingrid flounced down on the floor and rolled over on her back. “Why is if, sis, every man I love is too old for me – Mr. Kelso, Greg

?”

At mention of Greg’s name, D.C. marched into the room bearing a fish in his mouth. “Oh, no,” Patti screamed, and grabbed him, and tore the fish away from him.