The Case of the Missing Cat (6 page)

Chapter Ten: The Infamous Black Hole of Mustard

I
just didn't understand.

Everything had been going my way. I had sniffed out all of Pete's sneaky tricks and had made the appropriate countermoves. I had held my temper, resisted the temptation to make hash of him, had maintained Iron Discipline throughout.

I had even laughed at him.

I had known from the start what he was trying to do, and yet he had somehow managed to do it anyway.

How could one cat be so lucky, so often?

It strained my concept of luck. It strained my concept of who I was and who I had always wanted to be. It strained my . . .

My eyes were rolling around in circles and, hmmm, I appeared to be banging my head against the northwest leg of the workbench.

Something bad was happening to me, fellers. I was losing control of my control. My instruments were shorting out. I felt myself spiraling toward the Infamous Black Hole of Mustard.

In one last desperate effort to save myself, I took a firm grip on the cement floor with all four paws and fought against the tremendous swirling vacuum sweeper that threatened to swallow me up.

And—you won't believe this—I saved myself from vacuumization by singing a song. Why not? “Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast,” says the old saying, and here's how the song went:

I Must Dispose of the Cat

I don't understand what's going on here.

It makes me have questions about my career.

I used to have pride, I thought I was shrewd,

So how come my game plan is coming unglued?

My countermoves backfire, my plots go awry,

I've got indigestion from Pete's humble pie.

It's happened so often, I'm starting to think

This cat will eventually drive me to drink

So to save the dignity of my ranch,

To stop this mental avalanche

I hereby burn the olive branch.

I must dispose of the cat!

It's not that I'm bitter or violent or mean.

I'm not in the habit of making a scene.

I don't take positions from which I won't budge,

Yet now I perceive that I'm holding a grudge.

There's nothing too personal in this, I submit.

Well, maybe I'm bothered by cats, I admit,

Their hissing and yowling and humping their backs.

I hate them, that's all, it's as simple as that.

So to save the dignity of my ranch,

To stop this mental avalanche

I hereby burn the olive branch.

I must dispose of the cat!

El Gato is rumored to have several lives,

Nine, I believe, which is four more than five.

But gato and gravy, served up on a plate

Will get the grand total down closer to eight.

A kitty for supper, a kitty for lunch,

A kitty
con queso,
a kitty with punch.

A kitty for snacks, oh my this is fun!

And shortly the total will shrink down to none.

So to save the dignity of my ranch,

To stop this mental avalanche

I hereby burn the olive branch.

I must consider the pros and cons

Of bumping off the cat!

When I had finished the song, I looked around. I was standing in the middle of the machine shed. The bells and whistles had vanished. My mind had cleared.

Best of all, the Infamous Black Hole of Mustard had swallowed itself and returned to the ethers of the vapor, or wherever it is that Black Holes come from.

But the important thing was that I had snatched myself back from the edge of despair and had survived one of the most dangerous moments of my career.

And, all at once, it was clear what I had to do. Heh, heh. Oh, a few details still had to be worked out, but those were small matters of procedure.

I wondered why I hadn't thought of this sooner. Surely it was a testimony to my sweet nature and gentle disposition—and yes, to a certain dread of consequences. Sally May, for example.

I had a suspicion that she would not think kindly of my plots and schemes, and that fact pretty muchly determined the method I finally chose for the job.

Here's what I did. I left the machine shed and, on silent feet, went hunting for the villain. I checked out the yard. He wasn't there, which was good. I checked those tall weeds around the water well, and he wasn't there too.

I was on my way down to the corrals when I happened to glance to my left and saw something that brought bubbles of joy bubbling to the surface of my . . . something.
Pete was asleep on my gunnysack bed beneath the gas tanks.

This cat, who had been so cunning and shrewd only hours before, had made the incredibly dumb mistake of taking an afternoon nap—away from the house and on my bed! He was making it easy for me, which I appreciated.

There are several ways of catnapping a kid . . . kidnapping a cat, I should say, and also several ways of getting your eyebrows torn off your face by a hissing, spitting, clawing little buzz saw—unless you happen to pick the cat up by the loose skin behind his neck, in which case he will hang as limp as a sock.

You see, I had watched Little Alfred in action on many occasions and had observed him dragging Pete all over the ranch in this manner.

Pete never suspected a thing. I slipped up to the gas tanks, scooped him up in my jaws, and was well on my way to the wild canyon country north of headquarters before he knew what was happening.

“Mmmm, you're taking me somewhere, Hankie.” I couldn't respond because my mouth was full of cat, don't you see, and I didn't have anything to say to him anyway. “It's a nice evening for a walk in the pasture, Hankie, but I think we've gone far enough.”

Silence.

“Hankie, I'm wondering where we're going. Are you listening?”

I was listening but my heart had turned to cement. I continued on a northward course until I reached the base of the caprock. There, I stopped and released the cat.

“Here we are, kitty. This is where you get off. It's called Coyote City.”

Pete had his ears pinned back. He humped up his back and hissed at me, also took a swipe at me with his paw but I managed to dodge it.

“You know, cat, if you'd ever shown any signs of wanting to get along with me, things never would have gotten to this point. But you're so greedy and spiteful, you've forced me to take drastic measures.”

He yowled and hissed.

“You've driven me to this. What happens is your own fault.”

He yowled and hissed.

“Nobody ever deserved this more than you, Pete, but on second thought it does seem a little severe, and if you approached me just right, I might consider accepting an apology.”

“I'll give you an apology, Hankie. Just take two steps this way and I'll give you an apology you'll never forget.”

“There, you see? You cats won't compromise. You don't even try to get along. But after considering the finality of what we're doing here, I'm willing to give you one last chance to apologize and start all over with a clean slate.”

“Cats don't compromise, Hankie, and we don't ever apologize for anything. If we can't run the show, we don't play.”

I shook my head. “Hey Pete, you might think we're playing games here, but let me point out that when I leave, you're going to be all alone in the middle of coyote country.”

He continued to glare at me. “Cats enjoy being alone, Hankie, because when we're by ourselves, we're in the very best of company.”

This was hopeless! I began pacing. “Listen, cat, you don't know what you're talking about. Maybe you've never had any experience with coyotes but I have, and I can tell you that their very favorite meal is fresh cat. Now, if you'll just . . .”

“I can take care of myself, Hankie. I don't need the help of a bungling dog.”

I stopped pacing and our glares met. “Okay, Pete, let's lay all the cards on the table. I brought you up here because I wanted to bump you off. Now that we're here, I find myself having second thoughts about it. If you'll just make a small apology . . .”

“Not interested, Hankie.”

“Okay. If you'll promise to make a small apology within the next three days . . .”

“Apology is a word cats don't understand, Hankie.”

“All right, this is absolutely your last chance. If you'll promise
to consider thinking about
making a small apology . . .”

He grinned and shook his head.

“Very well, Pete, in that case I have no choice but to order you to return to the ranch with me—immediately. And that's a direct order.”

“But Hankie, I don't take orders—not from you, not from anyone. Cats are very independent and we take care of ourselves.”

“Will you listen to reason?” I yelled at him. “This place is crawling with wild hungry coyotes. If I leave you here, you won't have a chance to take care of yourself because you'll be a kitty sandwich.”

He studied his claws. “I'll go back with you, Hankie.”

“That's better.”

“IF you'll make a full and complete apology to me, and IF you'll agree to let me be Head of Ranch Security forever and ever.”

HUH?

I stared at him. “Are you crazy? You want me to . . . okay, fine, I should have known better than to talk sense to a cat. Have it your way, Pete, I'm washing my paws of the whole mess. Good-bye and good riddance!”

And with that, I whirled around and headed back to headquarters, satisfied that I had done the world a tremendous service.

Chapter Eleven: Total Happiness Without Pete

T
rotting back to headquarters, I felt great. Wonderful. Tremendous. At last, peace and quiet. At last, total happiness. At last . . .

The dumb cat! How could he . . . can you imagine him thinking that he could . . . well, that was just fine, everything had turned out for the . . . and furthermore, I didn't give a rip.

And even if I did give a rip, it was a very small rip.

I put it out of my mind, just by George wiped it out of my memory and forgot that I had . . . never mind.

I made it back to headquarters an hour or so before sundown and headed straight to Emerald Pond. It was time to check up on Mister Stub-Tail.

Sure enough, there he was, sitting in the water and looking up at the clouds. I was glad to have something to take my mind off of . . . well, other matters, shall we say.

“All right, Drover, you can come out of the water now.”

“Hank, did you hear the news? Pete's gone! They can't find him anywhere.”

“Oh really? My goodness, that's . . .”

“Sally May and Little Alfred looked all over for him. I'm kind of worried.”

“Worry about growing a new tail, Drover, and leave the cats to take care of themselves.”

“Yeah, but what if he wanders away and the coyotes get him?”

I put my nose in his face. “I don't want to talk about cats or think about cats, do you understand?”

“Gosh, you're kind of touchy.”

“I'm not touchy! The subject bores me, that's all.”

“You didn't see Pete while you were gone, did you?”

“I, uh, no, of course not, and why would you ask such a ridiculous question?”

“Just wondered. Where'd you go?”

“I went for a little walk, Pete.”

“I'm Drover. You called me Pete.”

“Yes, of course, how silly of me. I went for a walk.”

He looked at me and twisted his head to the side. “You're acting kind of funny. Is anything wrong?”

“Wrong? Why, heavens no. Everything's great. Wonderful. Terrific. Now get your little self out of the water, Pete, and let's take a look at your tail.”

“You just called me Pete again.”

“Get out of the water!”

“Gosh, you don't have to yell and scream.”

“I'M NOT YELLING AND SCREAMING!!!”

“You are too yelling and screaming, and I don't understand why you're acting so funny all of a sudden, and my tail didn't grow one little bit.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well . . . I checked on it . . . a couple of times.”

“
You checked on it!
You mean, you got up out of the water?”

“Yeah, I got bored. And tired of sitting.”

“What about the magic words? Did you say the magic words over and over for two solid hours?”

“Well . . . they weren't very solid.”

“What are you saying?”

“Well . . . I forgot the words after a while, and they were kind of boring too.”

I shook my head. “I should have known. Well, stand up and let's have a look. I hope that your foolish behavior didn't cause a reversal of the growing process.”

His eyes flew open. “A reversal! You mean . . .”

“Exactly. Sometimes when you fool around with powerful medicine, it has bad side effects. It's possible, Pete, that you might have no tail at all.”

“Oh my gosh! What would everyone say?”

“They'd point at you and laugh and call you Little Mister Lost-His-Tail.”

“Don't say that, Hank! I don't think I could stand it.”

“It'll be tough, Pete.”

“You called me Pete again.”

I gave him a withering glare. “Will you stop talking about that cat? That's the third time you've brought him up.”

“Yeah, but that's the third time you've called me Pete.”

“I did no such thing. Your name is Drover, you may have just lost your tail, and you have more important problems to think about than a sniveling, troublesome cat.”

“Okay, I'll try.”

“We're lucky to be rid of him, and whatever happened to him, I'm sure he deserved it.”

“You're still talking about the cat.”

“And besides, you can't expect a cat to live forever. Even if he hadn't been eaten by coyotes, he probably would have died of gluttony.”

“What's gluttony?”

“Eating too much. You might recall that every evening at Scrap Time, Pete would go streaking to the yard gate and eat himself into a stupor of gluttony.”

“I guess you're right.”

“So, as you can see . . .” At that very moment I heard the screen door slam up at the house. My ears shot up. So did Drover's. “What's that?”

“Scrap Time!”

“Holy Smokes, we've got all the scraps to ourselves tonight! Come on, Drover, to the yard gate!”

“What about my tail?”

“Bring it along, we'll look at it later!”

We went streaking past the gas tanks and up the hill, and sure enough we got there first and beat . . . well, actually there was no one to beat, now that . . . we had all the scraps to ourselves, which sort of took a little of the challenge . . .

I slowed down and walked the last ten yards, I sat down in front of the yard gate and Drover joined me.

“Hank, I've got my stub tail back, I'm so happy!”

“Great, glad to hear it. And I'm happy too, for slightly different reasons. With both of us happy, this should be a very happy evening.”

Sally May was standing out on the porch, holding a plate of wonderful scraps and gazing off in the distance. All at once she began calling . . . Pete. She called his name over and over.

And on every calling of his name, I . . . well, flinched with happiness, you might say. And wished she would change the subject.

The back door opened again and out came Little Alfred. “Did you find Petey?”

“I'm afraid he's gone,” she said, combing the boy's hair with her fingers. “Sometimes cats wander off and don't come back.”

“I miss old Pete. I hope he comes back.”

“I know, so do I. And maybe he will.”

Then both of them began calling Pete's name. And as if that wasn't bad enough, Little Mister Moan-and-Groan chimed in.

“Gosh, I never thought I'd miss old Pete, but I do.”

“Think about all the extra scraps you'll get. Think about your new stub tail. Think about the clouds.”

“Okay, I'll try.”

After a bit, Sally May stopped calling and gave a big sigh and came over to the yard gate where we were waiting. She scraped the fork over the plate and deposited a delicious-smelling pile of roast beef scraps on the ground in front of us.

“I guess you dogs get it all tonight,” she said, then turned and went back into the house. Little Alfred followed her, with his chin down on his chest.

I turned to Drover. “Well, this is True Happi­ness, son. At last we have all the scraps to ourselves. Now, before you get any big ideas, let me point out that I get the larger portion.”

He sniffed the fragrant vapors that were rising from the scraps and . . . hmm, very strange . . . he shook his head. “You can have 'em all, Hank. I'm not very hungry.”

“How could you not be very hungry?”

“I don't know. Somehow food doesn't seem as interesting when we can't fight over it . . . with Pete.”

“Well, you just sit there and watch, and I'll . . .”

Funny, I'd kind of lost my appetite too. I stood over the scraps, sniffed 'em, licked 'em, took a bite and rolled it around in my mouth. The exciting taste I'd expected to find just wasn't there.

“It's not the same, is it, Hank?”

“What?” He'd been watching me. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

A tear rolled down his cheek and dripped off the end of his nose. “I wish old Pete would come back and fight with us. Gosh, we might starve to death without him.”

I heaved a sigh and pushed myself up to my feet. “All right, Drover, let's go see if we can find the stupid cat.”

All at once he was jumping up and down. “Really, Hank, honest? You mean that?”

“I'm doing it as a special favor for you, I want that understood right now. Let's move out. I figger we've got one hour of daylight left.”

And with that, we headed north toward the caprock and launched a rescue mission to save . . .

I was still having a little trouble believing this was happening.