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“Isn’t it obvious?” asked Brutus. “Odelia’s house has just been taken over by the enemy, Dooley. From now on Little John and Little Janine are in charge. So if I were you, I’d find myself a new place to call home.”

“Would you call dogs the enemy?” I asked.

“Of course! Dogs are our mortal enemy. Every cat knows this.”

“But what about Fifi?” I asked. “She’s not the enemy.”

“Obviously Fifi is the exception that proves the rule.”

“I don’t actually consider Fifi a dog,” said Harriet.

“Me, neither,” said Brutus. “To me Fifi is an honorary cat.”

“Exactly! And so is Rufus. They were probably both cats in a previous life.”

And these deep thoughts dispensed with, Harriet and Brutus skedaddled.

“I’m scared, Max,” Dooley confessed, and he actually looked scared.

“No need to be scared, Dooley,” I said. Then: “What are you scared about?”

“Our home isn’t our home anymore! It’s now in the hands of the enemy!”

“I’m sure Little John and Little Janine aren’t actually the enemy,” I said soothingly. “In fact they struck me as a very polite and friendly pair of dogs.”

“But they’re dogs, Max. Dogs! Taking over our home!”

“They’re not actually taking over our home as much as visiting it.” Though to be honest I had no idea whether this was actually true or not. After all, no mention had been made of an expiration date to this surprise visit. As far as I knew, Big John and his entourage might settle down in Hampton Cove indefinitely.

But instead I said,“I’m sure they won’t stick around for very long. After all, Big John is the Prime Minister of England, Dooley. And how long can a Prime Minister run his country through Zoom calls? At some point he has to go back. Right?”

But Dooley’s look of distinct concern told me he was the wrong cat to ask.

“I think they’re here to stay, Max,” my friend said. “Forever and ever and ever.”

And as Dooley and I were discussing the uncertain future we were facing, suddenly I had the feeling we were being observed. But when I looked around, I couldn’t see anyone or anything that could be the cause of this sensation. Still, my skin was crawling, which happens every time I’m under close scrutiny.

“What’s wrong, Max?” Dooley immediately asked.

“Nothing,” I said, not wanting to alarm my friend any further. “Nothing at all.”

And that’s when it happened. A loud scream rent the air. It was Harriet!

“You creep!” her voice cried out. “You horrible, horrible creep!”

Immediately Dooley and I hurried in the direction of the rose bushes, Harriet and Brutus’s favorite spot in Odelia’s backyard. It’s nice and shady there—and very discreet, if you know what I mean.

And as we approached, suddenly a man came hurrying out of those same bushes. He was big and hulking and was dressed in a long dark coat. He was also wearing sunglasses, which struck me as ominous, since those rose bushes are impenetrable to the sun’s rays, no matter how hard she tries. Those same sunglasses stood at an angle on his nose, as if they’d taken a hit, and I could count at least three long scratches across his nose, which was red and bleeding.

“And next time you assault a lady, I hope you’ll think again!” Harriet said as a verbal parting gift to the strange and dangerous-looking individual.

“What happened?” I asked the moment we joined our friends.

“That man,” said Harriet, her paw to her chest, “stepped on my tail!”

“No, he didn’t,” said Dooley, visibly shocked to the core.

“Willfully!” Harriet cried as she raised her paw and placed it across her brow. She’d closed her eyes and was acting the part of the dainty diva to perfection.

“So I scratched him,” said Brutus.

“Oh, my brave hero,” said Harriet.

“And then I scratched him again.”

“My knight in shining armor!”

“No one,” said Brutus, a tremor in his voice, “touches my lady in anger!”

“My noble Lancelot!” Harriet trilled, and held out her paw.

“There, there,” said Brutus, taking the fin and patting it fervently.

And while Harriet recovered from her terrible ordeal, I glanced in every direction, but try as I might, I couldn’t detect a single trace of the intruder.

“I wonder what he was doing here,” I murmured as I studied the spot where the man had stood. Mother nature, when creating the man, certainly hadn’t stinted on shoe size, that was obvious from the indentations in the topsoil.

“I’ll bet he’s Papa Razzi,” said Dooley.

“You mean a paparazzo,” I said.

“Him, too,” said Dooley with a shiver.

“It’s possible,” I admitted. Perhaps the same tabloid reporters who had been hounding Big John before had managed to track him down and were ready to do what they did best: catch him in unflattering outfits and turn him into a national laughingstock. It was, apparently, why he had selected our home as his hideaway.

“This is all very worrying, Max,” said Dooley. “I’m very worried.”

“Yeah, it’s not conducive to a peaceful atmosphere,” I said.