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He gave me a look of concern.“What if she sneaks up on us in the middle of the night with a big butcher’s knife and chops us up into little pieces? Or what if she makes a deal with a local butcher to sell us as meat and turn us into sausages?”

“Then I guess we’ll have to be on our guard, Dooley.”

“We’ll take turns keeping watch,” he said determinedly. “I’ll take the first watch, and then you and Brutus and Harriet can take the next shifts. We can’t allow her to get rid of us, Max. She’s our last hope.”

We were passing by one of those blind alleys, of which there are quite a few in Hampton Cove, and a loud voice hailed us.“Max! Dooley! Over here!”

I recognized the voice as belonging to our friend Clarice, whose favorite hobby is dumpster-diving. She’s one of those free spirits, you see, and likes to live life on her own terms, untethered and unbound by the rules of society.

“Hey, Clarice,” I said as we joined her underneath a sizable dumpster. She was snacking on some carrion, presumably the mortal remains of a rat. I shivered a little, and had to look away as she dug in with distinct relish.

“Long time no see,” said Clarice, her keen eyes taking us in. She’s a smallish cat, but tough as nails, with chunks missing from both ears and looking as if she’s been through the wars, which presumably she has—a veteran of many a battle. She now narrowed her eyes at Dooley. “You look like you got something on your mind, Dooley. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Clarice, everything is wrong!” said Dooley with a catch in his voice.

“Oh, my,” said Clarice. “You better tell me all about it.”

“Odelia is starting a bed and breakfast in the sky, only she’s not doing it in the sky but in our own home, and she’s hosting the Prime Minister of England who’s not the Prime Minister of England anymore because he was on a billionaire island and he forgot to tell people about it. And now his dogs are eating our food and sleeping on our blanket and they’ve taken over the house! And Tex is building a spa and is turning his house into a hotel and so we’ll have to move out but Charlene hates cats but nobody knows because she’s a politician and she took a lying course and she’s going to murder us in our sleep and turn us into sausages!”

“Oh, dear,” said Clarice with uncharacteristic softness.

“And now we don’t know what to do!” Dooley finished his long lament.

“I see,” said Clarice, then turned to me for clarification.

“It’s true,” I said. “More or less. I don’t know about the sausage part, though.”

“It could be hamburger patties,” Dooley said with a sniffle.

“So looks like you guys are in a pickle, huh?” said Clarice, summing things up nicely. “And you’re looking for a place to stay?”

We both nodded intently.“A place where they won’t try to kill us or kick us out or both,” Dooley added. It’s a stipulation I think all pets would agree with.

“This is one of those moments where the appropriate response would be ‘I told you so,’” said Clarice. “But since I’m a nice kitty I won’t gloat.” She was smirking a little, though, but with Clarice it’s hard to tell, since she has so many scars it’s tough to read her expression.“Don’t place your trust in humans, fellas!” she said emphatically. “It only leads to disappointment and heartbreak. You have to learn to take care of yourself. I mean, look at me. I’m perfectly happy. I do what I want, when I want—got plenty of chow, lots of friends—I’m living the perfect life! So instead of whining and moping, rejoice! You’re finally free! Free of the tethers of those terrible restrictions a life in the lap of luxury invariably brings!”

We both stared at her, not fully comprehending what she was saying.“So your point is…” I said.

“You don’t need Odelia or Marge or Vesta or any of these utterly unreliable humans. These streets are your home! In other words: the world is your oyster!”

“I don’t like oysters,” said Dooley.

“Me, neither,” I said. “Too slimy for my taste.”

Apparently this wasn’t the right answer, for Clarice grumbled something under her breath, then tore another piece off the carcass lying between her paws.

“You don’t understand, Clarice,” I said. “We’re not like you. We haven’t lived on the streets all our lives. We’re creatures of comfort, used to a lovely home, a warm body to cuddle up to, our bowls always filled with our favorite kibble…”

“In other words: spoiled rotten.”

“Yes, yes, all right, I admit it: we’re spoiled. Which is why I think it would be hard for us to adjust to life on the street. I mean, it’s all fine and dandy in the summer, when the weather is nice and you can sleep under a tree. But in wintertime, when it’s freezing and snowing, it’s going to be tough!”

“Brrrr,” said Dooley, shivering. “I don’t like snow. It’s very cold and very wet.”

“Pussies,” Clarice growled, shaking her head in disgust. “I should have known my good advice would be wasted on you.”