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“Duck poop, not sauce. Yeah, your human is all over that one. Went up to Dickerson’s house this morning to investigate, along with her beefcake boyfriend. I figured you’d have tagged along—you and that ragtag gang of feline detective friends of yours.”

“They’re no friends of mine,” I muttered darkly, wondering why Odelia would be investigating a murder case without inviting me along. This was definitely a first. And then the horrible truth came home to me: hadn’t Milo said I was too possessive about Odelia? Too obsessive? Not allowing anyone else to even come near her? Odelia must have felt it. She must have felt the noose tighten around her neck and decided to take her distance. Investigate this murder case all by herself. Without possessive Max to cramp her style.

Gah. Now I’d done it. I’d gone and made my human mad.

Which could only mean one thing: she was getting ready to chuck me out.

My eyes widened. Could it be… Could it be that she was grooming Milo as my replacement? Maybe he didn’t even belong to this Aloisia Lane woman. Maybe she’d gotten him from a friend, and she was going to keep him and train him and then she was going to kick me out! Maybe even hand me over to Aloisia Lane when she returned from Florida!

“Max!” Kingman was yelling, and only now did I notice he must have been trying to catch my attention for a while now. “What’s wrong, Max? You don’t look like yourself, buddy.”

I gave him a sad look.“I haven’t been myself for a long time, Kingman. Only it’s taken me until now to realize it.” And with these words, I slunk off. I didn’t know where I was going. Home? But where was home? Not with Odelia, that was for sure. And not with Marge or Vesta either.

Home is where the heart is, the old saying goes. But my heart didn’t belong to anyone, Milo had made that clear to me. And suddenly a surge of gratitude swept through me. Milo was the only friend I had in this world. The only cat who’d told me the truth.

The only cat who hadn’t lied to my face all these years.

I passed a newsstand, and read the headlines about the‘Don of Dung Dunged to Death,’ but they didn’t hold any interest to me. Someone else would have to catch the Don of Dung’s danged killer. Someone smart and cool and popular. Someone who wasn’t me.

My days as a feline sleuth were over.

[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]

Harriet watched as Dooley stalked into the house, assumed the squatting position, and produced a nice little turd, right there on Odelia’s new off-white IKEA rug, then proceeded to wipe his tush on the same rug, sashaying along while intently looking over his shoulder at his progression, as if admiring his handiwork—or rather his buttwork.

She blinked, wondering what had gotten into the cat. Then she suddenly noticed that she was no longer alone. Milo had materialized right next to her and was shaking his head.

“Sad, isn’t it?”

“What is?” she asked.

“Dooley. I didn’t want to tell you this before but he’s finally lost it.”

“He is acting a little weird,” she admitted. “Why is he pooping on the rug?”

“Nobody told you? Oh, the little guy is head over heels in love with you, Harriet, and this is his way of showing you.”

“What?!” she cried, horrified.

“Sure. He must have seen it on someDiscovery Channel documentary, how some tribesmen in the Amazon rainforest smear their poop on trees as a token of their affection. Anthropologists say tribeswomen study that poop as an indicator of the health and vigor of the male, which greatly helps them in choosing the right partner so they can procreate. It’s all true,” he said, holding up two claws when Harriet gave him a look of horror. “So now poor, deluded little Dooley there thinks he can win your heart by spreading his stool around, in the hope you’ll figure his stool shows he’s a better potential mate than Brutus.”

“Oh, my God, but that’s just ridiculous!” Harriet cried, aghast. “Has he lost his mind?”

“Dooley’s mind was never a very powerful instrument to begin with,” said Milo, who seemed to know what he was talking about. “Which is why he’s fallen prey to this state of delusion. But not to worry,” he added, suddenly chipper. “I’m sure it’s just a phase. After all, Max passed through this awkward stage and he came out more or less unscathed, right?”

“Max? Did he have this… stool phase?”

“Oh, yes. Max has been head over heels in love with you for years, Harriet. Only now the pendulum has swung the other way, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?”

“Max hates you. It often happens with one who’s loved as deeply and as passionately as Max has. When that love isn’t reciprocated it turns into a violent, deep-seated hatred.”

“Max hates me?”

“Max loathes you with every fiber of his being. Just watch him when he thinks you’re not looking. You’ll see the rage in his eyes. The pure, unadulterated murderous loathing.”

“I don’t believe this. Why has no one ever told me this before?” she demanded.

“Because they didn’t want you to worry, Harriet,” said Milo, his voice dripping with compassion. “And then there’s the other thing. The violence.”