Catnip Gray Cat Detective: The Tabitha Gray Story

Recollections Chapter 2

On my way out later that evening, I passed the spot where Tabitha had hacked up her hairball and noticed it was clean, except for a strand of white hair in the grass and a crumb of Meow Mix. "Scavengers about," I said to myself. "Perhaps a hungry dog." As I sharpened my claws and twitched my tail, my nose didn't pick up any canine scent. But I did smell a rat. I noted a bite mark on a blade of grass near the long gone hairball--an enormous bite mark, sharp and triangular. There's only one creature who has teeth like that, and that's Ace the Rat--Detective Ace he preferred. However, we legit Private eyes just called him Rat. He gathered information by nosing around sewers and dumpsters, something no respectable cat would be caught doing. Plus he ate as much evidence as he gleaned. But why would Rat be nosing around Cat Alley? Cat Alley where I live is a tough place even for robust cats like me. It's a concrete jungle of stray hoodlums running around with parts of ears and tails bitten off from turf wars, acting as if being maimed is a badge of honor. They'll steal the stink out of cat litter if you let 'em. Lucky they were all asleep when Tabitha was here. I can just picture them mugging her for her fine collar or the stacks of sardines she carried in her purse. A rat doesn't stand a chance in Cat Alley. But yet Ace was here. Could he have been following her? She did mention she thought her husband and his mistress were out to get her.

A fly buzzed near the hairball spot. I swatted at it a few times before I brought it down. I picked it up, tossed it in the air, and swallowed it. I then spit it out along with my own whopper of a healthy hairball. If Ace were still around, this would be a good way to trap him and see what he was up to. He'd be drawn to the hairball. I forgot about visiting the old folks at Sunset Arms and went back to my office. Lady Luck shined on me. A half full bottle of Slim-Fast sat on the fireplace mantle beneath the cuckoo clock. The woman had left it two days ago to answer the phone. I sniffed. The rich chocolate aroma tickled my whiskers. It was still good. I knocked the bottle from the fireplace and prayed it would land on the clean white linoleum and not the wooly carpet. My aim was good and chocolaty Slim-Fast formed a Rorschach pattern depicting a bird eating a squirrel. I lapped and batted the bottle around a bit. In a moment, I grew tired of this strenuous activity and jumped onto the windowsill to watch for Ace. I waited. I snoozed. I snoozed. I waited. I snoozed with one eye open. No Ace.

The mailman sauntered into the courtyard. A dog across the yard raised a stink—pawing and growling while his snout poked through the blinds. He saw me staring at him and grew emboldened. This is the same pooch who took a member of the Alley Cats for an involuntary ride on his back. The postman put a few letters and postcards in our mail slot. I jumped down and nosed around the postcards. Postcards mean trouble. It's the primary means of communication from the Vet. I make sure all postcards make it to my litter box—including the one from Diane's fowl smelling great Aunt Tillie. I leave the letters with the little windows intact. Those always seem to bring on more screeching and door slamming.

Later that night after supper and as the Grays hissed at each other over a couple of the windowed envelopes, I decided to saunter over to the Cubbyhole Arms and see what I could see. Tuna Boulevard was three blocks over. It was a wide four-lane sea of concrete where cars whizzed by like lemmings. Many a life was lost under the wheels of Thunderbirds, Mustangs, Cobras, cougars, jaguars, and other monstrous beasts that humans drive. That's how Electra died.

We had just left Fred's Place--a little hole in the wall where the catnip and rare salmon liquor is freely passed around under the haunting voice of Black Bella mewing softly from the blue-lighted stage:

Meow meow meow

My Tom done gone