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And thus ended our Thai adventure. And as a mild summer rain suddenly started falling from the sky, instigating a mad dash for the great indoors from all those present, and a mad scramble from Tex to safeguard his grill, I smiled. After the sweltering heat of the Thai isles, and the hair-raising antics of Passion Island producers, a light drizzle was just what we all needed.

And when I jumped off the porch swing and padded into the backyard, to sample some of that soft rain on my skin, I was accompanied by my three friends. The scent of summer and fresh grass tickled my sense of smell, and I whooped with joy. The humans, all ensconced on the porch now, probably thought we were crazy, but for once we defied the old adage that cats hate to get wet.

I was getting soaked and I loved it.

Home sweet home!

24. A PURRFECT GNOMEFUL

Chapter 1

In spite of the fact that it was a glorious morning—one of those mornings that makes you happy to be alive—I was brooding. Yes, brooding. Now I know what you’re going to say. Why would a cat who has everything his little heart desires be spending precious time brooding, when he could use that time to rejoice and count his blessings instead? Well, I’ll tell you why. Or in fact I might as well show you. Show, not tell, right?

Here, let me take you by the hand and accompany you from my perch on the couch to the kitchen. Do you see that fridge? That’s my human Odelia’s fridge. And do you see the trail of leftovers leading all the way from the kitchen to the living room and beyond?

Mice did that. Or more specifically, the colony of mice that has been using our basement as its refuge, and our fridge as its main source of nourishment.

I could also point out the fact that my bowl was now devoid of kibble, and so were the bowls of my friends Dooley, Harriet and Brutus. Or I could have led you into the pantry, where Odelia and her boyfriend Chase like to stock their stuff, and which was also a mess now.

The thing is, I recently negotiated a peace treaty with the mice, ceasing all hostilities, and in exchange Hector and Helga gave me their solemn word they wouldn’t treat the house as their personal Walmart. Unfortunately it would appear they had a hard time keeping their offspring in check, and the upshot was that both Odelia and Chase were starting to lose their patience… with me!

Yes, the mice were misbehaving, but yours truly was taking the rap.

That’s what you get when social media is filled with story after story extolling the so-called mouse-capturing capabilities of your common domestic short-haired feline.

Fake news, I say, and it’s high time the owners of those social media sites did something to stem the flow of this false and frankly misleading information.

No, not every cat is a ruthless killer.

No, not every cat likes to eat mice for breakfast.

And no, not every cat is a Tom, eager to catch himself a Jerry.

So I watched the carnage and heaved a deep sigh. I’d been out last night, you see. Cat choir, if you must know. And by the time I got back, Hector and Helga’s offspring obviously had been at it again.

The pet flap flapped and Dooley walked in. When my friend caught sight of my careworn expression, he immediately came tripping over, concern written all over his features.

“Max!” he said, a generous dose of sympathy lacing his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you really have to ask?” I asked.

He studied me for a moment, then nodded seriously.“It’s cancer, isn’t it? Don’t worry, Max, we’ll find you the best doctor money can buy.”

I stared at him.“What are you talking about?”

“It’s just like in that movie I saw last night with Gran. About a man who only has three months to live. And he looked just like you. Round-faced and orange, I mean. I cried a lot. Gran didn’t. But then Gran never cries, except when one of her soap stars dies.”

I held up a paw, for Dooley has a tendency sometimes to go off course.“About that man. The one who looked like me. And by the way I’m not orange, Dooley—I’m blorange. And I’m not round-faced—I’m just naturally furry. So what happened with that man?”

“Oh, when all else failed his dear old mammy advised him to try laughter therapy. And it worked! He laughed himself back to health, Max, and I’m sure you can, too. So start laughing and start healing.”

I shook my head. I’m sure Dooley meant well, but laughter therapy wasn’t going to solve the mice issue.

“A priest, a rabbi and a hippopotamus walk into a bar,” said Dooley, undeterred. “The hippopotamus says, ‘What does a hippopotamus have to do to get a drink around here?’ And the bartender replies, ‘Find religion!’” He laughed loudly, but when I didn’t join him, he stopped. “Max, you have to laugh. You’re my best friend and I don’t want you to die.”

“I’m not going to die in three months, Dooley.”