Marge must have sensed that harmony was far off at the dinner table, for she suddenly came over to where we were sitting, and asked Dooley and me to scoot over and make some space. She sat down next to Harriet, and for the next few minutes a murmured conversation was carried out that, try as I might, I couldn’t overhear.
“What is she saying?” asked Dooley.
“I don’t know,” I said, not hiding my frustration.
“I think she’s offering her a drink,” said Dooley, straining his ears. “At least I think I heard the word ‘wine’ and also the words ‘cut them some slack.’”
“Sounds to me as if she’s trying to convince Harriet to stop being so fussy,” I said with a slight grin.
“She is very fussy, isn’t she?” said Dooley. “A fussy pussy. Not good for Gran.”
“Or Scarlett.”
“Or anyone.”
The conversation finally came to an end, and Marge got up and walked over to the table, took a pair of glasses, filled them with wine from Odelia’s bottles and handed Gran and Scarlett a glass each.
Both looked at her as if manna had finally descended from heaven, and they couldn’t quite believe their luck. “Is this for me?” asked Gran.
“Can we drink this?” asked Scarlett. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” said Marge. “Now drink up, both of you.”
And as both ladies sipped from their drink, Charlene poured Uncle Alec a glass, and soon the humans were all having a nice drink from the wines produced by the finest wineries in Hampton Cove, and judging them to be equally delicious.
And Harriet? She just sat there looking stunned.
“What did Marge say to you, Harriet?” I finally asked when I couldn’t curb my curiosity any longer.
“None of your business!” she snapped, and jumped down from the swing and walked off. “Brutus! Are you coming!” she said over her shoulder.
“What did she say?” I whispered to Brutus.
“I don’t know,” he said, “but I got the impression FuSSy is finally finished.”
He flashed us a quick grin, then quickly traipsed off after his lady love.
“Good riddance,” said Dooley, who seemed to have had a change of heart about the whole temperance thing. “Too much of a good thing is a bad thing, Max. And that goes for the good things you do to stop the bad things from happening, too.”
I wasn’t sure if what Dooley said was good or bad, but I heartily concurred.
A loud shout sounded from Kurt Mayfield’s backyard. “Fifi! Stop that!”
And from the Trappers a sudden howl of fury told us that Rufus was also staying the course.“Rufus!” Marcie yelled. “Bad boy! Bad!” And Ted: “My nice shirt!”
FuSSy might be dead and buried, but CaSSy was still going strong.
Which just goes to show that cats really are smarter than dogs.
But then I guess we already knew that, didn’t we?
Just then, Odelia unwrapped a piece of chocolate for dessert. Dooley’s eyes instantly went wide. And before I could stop him, he had jumped down from the swing, hopped up onto the table, and was swiping that piece of chocolate out of Odelia’s hands!
“Hey!” Odelia cried. “What do you think you’re doing!”
“I’m saving you from this terrible addiction!” Dooley said, panting a little from the exertion.
Okay, so I’m going to make a slight emendation here: maybe notall cats are smarter than dogs.
EPILOGUE
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The Poole household had already retired to bed, and since the cats had gone out for the night, a peaceful quiet had descended on the house. Tex was fast asleep, snoring softly, but Marge wasn’t. Just that day the latest book from her favorite author had been delivered at the library, and she’d reserved a copy for herself, which she was now reading. She’d vowed to read one chapter and then put the book aside, but she was four chapters in and simply couldn’t stop reading! Her cheeks flushed, her eyes gritty, she finally decided that enough was enough, and that the adventures of the unfortunate heroine Sally, who met the perfect man on the train only to lose sight of him again, would have to wait until the morrow.
She was a little thirsty, though, and so she reluctantly slipped from between the covers, and tripped downstairs and into the kitchen to drink some water from the tap. And it was as she stood there that she heard the sound. The clinking sound of glass against glass. It could only come from the garage. Figuring it could be the cats, or some other animal that had managed to get in, she went in search of the source of the noise. The moment she flicked on the light, it became clear that it wasn’t the cats, or some other animal. Unless she classified Ted Trapper in this latter category, of course. For it was indeed her next-door neighbor who stood there, looking very much caught in the act of doing something he shouldn’t!
“Marge!” he cried, his voice a little quaky and his very wide and surprised.
“What have you got there, Ted?” she asked, though it was obvious what he got there: an empty wine bottle which he’d been in the process of depositing not in its appropriate receptacle, namely his own, but in the Poole glass recycle bin.
“Um…” said Ted, clearly flustered. “The thing is, Marge…”