Our usual veterinarian wasn’t at the office that day, but the newest member of her practice was able to squeeze us in for an emergency visit. From the looks of her smooth skin and perky posture, Dr. Britt Lowe had only finished veterinary school quite recently. If her supposed lack of experience caused me to worry, though, her friendly demeanor and knowledgeable speech instantly put me back at ease.
“On the phone you said one of the animals—probably the cat—is experiencing a bout of diarrhea. Anything else to add?” she asked looking from her chart to the place where Nan and I sat in twin bucket seats inside the cramped exam room.
Octo-Cat growled in the carrier that I’d set on the floor beside me.
“Oh, he does not sound happy,” Dr. Lowe added with a frown. “Do you mind if we take him out while we talk? When animals get this worked up, it’s best to get things over with as quickly as possible. Poor guy.”
“Sure, if that’s how you want to do it.” I lifted the carrier onto the metal table between us, then allowed the vet to open the latch.
Octo-Cat immediately tried to make a run for it, but she caught him without much trouble and used her hold on the angry feline to examine his eyes and teeth.
“There’s a good man,” she said soothingly. My guess is the only reason she managed to avoid getting bit was the fact she hadn’t referred to him as kitty. Something about the vet’s skilled hands calmed him a bit. Perhaps he knew that she was on his side in all this. That she just wanted him to be happy and feel better.
Not that I didn’t want those same things, but…
Dr. Lowe set him on the table, keeping one hand on Octo-Cat’s back as she motioned for me to join her. “Now hold on tight to him. Most cats don’t like this next part.”
Before I could ask any questions, she stuck a thermometer up his backside.
Octo-Cat’s eyes widened to a comical size, but he didn’t make a single peep until she’d finished. “I feel so violated,” he moaned.
“You can let him go now,” the vet informed me, and as soon as I did, Octo-Cat hurled himself back in the carrier he had loathed only minutes before.
Dr. Lowe frowned. “His temperature is normal, and he seems very healthy. Are you sure it wasn’t the dog who made the mess?”
“We’re sure,” Nan piped up. “But I did bring a sample in case it helps.” She handed Paisley off to me and then fished around in the disposable shopping bag she’d brought with her until she found the triple-bagged fecal sample.
“Oh, dear,” the veterinarian said with a laugh. “I think I see the problem.”
“Don’t you need to test it first?” I asked, unable to see what was so funny about this disgusting situation.
“No, I don’t think I do. That’s not cat feces. It’s not dog, either.”
“I told you I’m not sick,” Octo-Cat pouted from inside his carrier.
“Then what is it?” I asked, completely at a loss for ideas.
Dr. Lowe held the sample up to the light, and we all stared at it as she explained, “This definitely came from a wild animal. Judging from the size, I’d guess a raccoon.”
Raccoon!
Now it all finally came into focus. Octo-Cat had been able to be in two places at once by employing the help of his biggest fan, the raccoon that lived under our porch. His name was Pringle, and he worshipped the ground my spoiled cat walked on.
“Could you maybe give us a moment?” Nan asked politely. It seemed she too had figured out exactly who was to blame for all the strange happenings around our house as of late.
“Of course.” Dr. Lowe nodded, then let herself out through the back door.
Once we were alone again, I bent forward so I could look Octo-Cat straight in the eye. “Please tell me you didn’t really hire your raccoon fanboy to frame Paisley for your bad behavior.”
“I didn’t,” he said, but even he didn’t seem to believe it.
Placing both hands on my hips, I narrowed my gaze and waited.
My cat came to the edge of the carrier and laid back down with a sigh. “First off, hire would imply that I paid him. He did it for free. Secondly, it’s not my bad behavior. I didn’t do anything.”
“But you’re the mastermind,” I pointed out.
And then it occurred to me… “Why would you break your own teacup?”
He let out another heavy sigh. “Pringle isn’t the best at following instructions. He grabbed the wrong cup by accident. Believe me, I’m quite upset over it. We haven’t even had the funeral yet.”
“How could we have when you’ve been either hiding or scheming all day?” I asked, shaking my head with fury.
“You make a decent point,” Octo-Cat conceded. “But my point also remains. I don’t want the dog to live with us.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“I don’t like dogs,” he groused.
Oh, no. He was not pulling this one again. If he really hated Paisley, then he needed to be able to tell me why. I doubted he could, and I was more than ready to call him on that bluff.
“But why don’t you like her, specifically?” I asked, raising an eyebrow in suspicion.
“Because she’s a dog. Duh.”
“Mommy, can I try talking to him?” Paisley asked from my arms. She was so light I’d almost forgotten I was holding her.
At the Chihuahua’s request, I gently set her on the exam table so she and Octo-Cat could sit face-to-face. It struck me then that she’d never once had this kind of opportunity with him. The cat had always yelled, complained, and then run away to hide. But would he actually have a conversation with her now that he was stuck inside this tiny room?
“Hello, Octopus Cat,” Paisley began with a reverential dip of her head.
“My name is not Octopus Cat,” the tabby growled. For a moment I worried that he would take another swipe at her, but he kept his claws under control.
Brave little Paisley either didn’t know that she was talking to an animal on edge or she was ready for whatever consequences she reaped as a result of this conversation. “Oh, then it seems I might have misheard,” she said, blinking slowly. “What is your name?”
“My name—and you better remember this, because I’m only going to say it once—is Octavius Maxwell Ricardo Edmund Frederick Fulton Russo, Esq. P.I.” He rolled each of the Rs as if doing so were required to pronounce the monstrous moniker properly.
I put a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing. Every time Octo-Cat gave out his full name, he added something to it. I was starting to doubt he’d ever been given any middle names at all.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Octavius Maxwell Ricardo Edmund Frederick Fulton Russo, Esq. P.I.” The Chihuahua said, carefully mimicking the cat’s pronunciation and causing my mouth to fall open in shock. I’d known this cat for over a year and still didn’t have all his names memorized. Had the young dog really picked the entire train wreck of a name up after hearing it just once?
“My name is Paisley Lee,” she informed him with another slight bow of her head. “When Nan adopted me, she gave me her last name, so I guess we aren’t really brother and sister. I’m sorry if my calling you brother upset you. I know now that I was wrong.”
“It’s all right,” Octo-Cat mumbled, obviously charmed by the little dog’s impeccable manners even though he most certainly wished that he wasn’t.
“I really would like us to be friends, but if you don’t want that, I understand,” Paisley squeaked. Tears lined each of her large black eyes, but she continued on bravely. “I will try my very best not to chase you anymore or to make you unhappy in any way, but please can I stay? This is my family now, too.”
“I guess that would be okay with me,” Octo-Cat said and then retreated deeper into his carrier.
The conversation had reached its natural end, and somehow everyone had managed to survive.
We really were going to be all right, after all.