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If he hadn’t been so scared he might have laughed at the irony.

The poop was up to his knees now, streaming in at a steady clip.

The stench was unbearable and he was retching, wading in the toxic stuff.

And as he screamed in horror at the fate that was awaiting him, a voice came from the other side of the door—muffled, of course.

“Little message for you, Dickerson. What goes around, comes around!”

“I’m sorry!” he bellowed. “Don’t do this to me. Have a heart!”

“Yeah, right. Like you had a heart, huh? Screw you, Dickerson!”

The poop was reaching his waist now, ruining his nice Rocky boxing robe. And then he got an idea. He quickly took it off and waded over to the hole where the sludge was pouring in, then shoved the wadded-up robe into the hole, trying to stem the deadly flow.

In the process he got poop all over him. The yucky stuff got into his eyes—into his nose—into his mouth! But he would prevail. No one got the better of Dick Dickerson!

He shoved the thing home and held it in place in spite of his retching.

There. He’d done it! He was like that little Dutch kid who plugged his finger in the dike and saved his entire frickin’ village!

Unfortunately Rocky’s robe was no match for this particular hole. The pressure was too great, and soon the stuff was seeping in again. Pretty soon the safe was filling up so fast not even an army of little Dutch boys with little Dutch fingers could have stemmed the flow.

And the worst part? Dick knew exactly what he’d done to deserve this.

Chapter 1

I opened a lazy eye when some sort of light tapping drove away the slumber I’d enjoyed for the past couple of hours. I know what they say about cats: that they’re never really asleep. That they take ‘catnaps’ and wake up in the blink of an eye, ready to fight or take flight when danger lurks. Poppycock. I’m a cat and I like to sleep. In fact I can sleep so deeplynot even the sound of a cannon can wake me up. Not that I’ve ever heard an actual cannon being fired in my vicinity. Do people even still use cannons? Somehow I doubt it.

But whatever. The thing that woke me up wasn’t a sensation so much as a nuisance. An annoyance. A burden, a plague, a pest or even a pain in the neck, if you catch my drift.

For I found myself staring into the impudent eyes of the latest intruder to invade my household: Milo, the cat that belongs to Odelia’s across-the-street neighbor Mrs. Lane.

He was grinning at me now, the white menace. Grinning like a regular fiend.

I closed my eyes again, hoping he hadn’t noticed he’d managed to wake me up. But to no avail. He simply tapped me on the head again with that infuriating cheek he possesses.

“Wakey, wakey,” he said. “Rise and shine, old man.”

“I’m not old,” I growled at him, and now he was grinning even wider—a regular Cheshire grin if ever I’d seen one.

“Oh, you are old,” he said. “Ancient. In fact before I met you I didn’t even realize cats could get that old. You even have hair growing out of your ears, did you know that?”

“You have hairs growing out of your ears.”

“Yeah, but they’re tiny and they’re soft. Like fuzz. Yours are long and hard. Like the hair on the back of a pig.”

I would have snarled at him, lifting my upper lip like a dog and actually snarled, but I’m a cat, and cats don’t snarl. Instead I produced a soft hissing sound, hoping to indicate my displeasure. It only made him grin even wider, the annoying little runt!

“So how old are you, Max? If I’d have to make a guess I’d say you’re pretty ancient. So you were probably around before humans drove around in cars, right? Did you see the horse and buggy? Were you alive during the Civil War? Were you here when the English were bopping around Long Island, creating trouble for Washington and the Colonists?”

I didn’t even dignify this last jab with a response. Instead, I hopped off the couch with as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances, and strode off, my tail high—and a little fluffed-up because of the residual annoyance—and was just about to take the stairs to the second floor to wake up my human when that human came stumbling down those same stairs, looking like death warmed over and almost tripped over me and fell.

“Max,” she muttered. “Sorry, dude. Hey, there, Milo. Settling in all right?”

“Settling in just fine, Mrs. Poole,” said Milo, now scratching his unhairy ears.

“Just call me Odelia, will you?” said Odelia. “I’m too young to be Mrs. Poole.”

Milo cocked an eyebrow, indicating he thought Odelia was pretty ancient, too, and very deserving of the moniker he’d just awarded her, but then strode off in the direction of the kitchen, where Odelia had put out an extra bowl for our latest guest, and dug in.

I kept a keen eye on him, as Milo had been known to dig into my bowl, too, and even drink from my milk.

“What are you doing up so early?” I asked my human.

She gave me an‘Are you kidding me?’ look and gestured with her head to the backyard, where Grandma Muffin was digging into the soil, dressed like a regular gardener.