As Dooley and I accompanied our human to work—work for Odelia, that is, nap time for us—my mind was still busy trying to come up with a reason for Shanille’s absence last night. There could be a perfectly simple explanation, of course. In fact this idea of Father Reilly having gone on holiday and deciding to take his cat along was the most probable one. You see, Father Reilly, against the strictures of his church, had consorted with his housekeeper Marigold—if consort is the word I want—and from this illicit union in due course offspring had sprung.
The good priest, now having a little flock of his own to care for, had decided not so long ago to be a man of the cloth no more, and to leave his bigger flock of parishioners to some as yet unknown successor. All this so he could make an honest woman out of Marigold. And what do humans do when they have a wife and kids? They go on holiday. And if they’re halfway decent humans beings, like Father Reilly most certainly is, they take their pets along with them.
So that’s what must have happened. And in spite of Kingman’s protestations that Shanille would have told him if such was the case, perhaps Shanille hadn’t known herself that these plans were being made. Unlike Odelia some pet parents don’t bother consulting their pets when they make their holiday plans, you see. One moment you’re happily dozing in your favorite spot, and the next you’re being shoved into a pet carrier and taken along on some long-haul holiday!
But even as we settled down in our corner of the office, ready to while away the morning by taking a nice long nap, I wondered if we shouldn’t be out there looking for our friend. This holiday thing was all well and good, but cats being cats, someone would have seen them leave on this much-coveted outing. So shouldn’t we at least ask around? Put our minds at ease? But then I decided that Shanille wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t want her friends getting all worked up and roaming the streets trying to find her.
“I think Shanille must have found herself a different choir,” said Dooley, whose mind had been working along more or less the same lines as mine, but had clearly arrived at a different conclusion. “Remember how she told us two nights ago that we didn’t have what it took? That we were a bunch of amateurs and why was she wasting her great talent on the likes of us?”
I frowned at my friend.“I’d totally forgotten about that,” I admitted.
“She even said that by rights she should have been snapped up by now by some enterprising impresario to conduct an internationally-renowned choir.”
“It’s true,” I said. “She even said she might look for one herself.” Immediately my mood lightened to a not inconsiderable degree. “Yes, that must be it. She must have gone to look for some prestigious choir to conduct. Some famous outfit.”
Something along the lines of the Cornell University Choir. Or the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square. These were the kinds of choirs Shanille often referred to, claiming they were the absolute tippity top, and something for us to aspire to, before throwing up her paws in despair when we actually started singing.
“Oh, well,” said Dooley. “Harriet will have to fill in for now, won’t she?”
My mood dropped again, and I rubbed the painful spot in my rear where that big boot had connected.“If Harriet becomes the new conductor of cat choir we’re going to have to get Odelia to buy us a suit of armor,” I grumbled. “To protect us from the shoes these darn neighbors will be throwing at us.”
“We could always skip the vocal warm-up,” Dooley suggested.
And I’m sure a lot more could have been said on the topic, but at that moment a couple walked into the office, and asked if they could have a word with our human. So we pricked up our ears, and switched to listening mode.
“Sure,” said Odelia pleasantly, and offered the couple a seat. “What can I do for you?”
They were both fairly young. Early to mid-twenties at the most. And they were a handsome couple, the woman fair-haired and blue-eyed, and the man dark-haired and brown-eyed. They looked athletic and were dressed in casual clothes: jeans and sweaters.
“We have a problem,” the man said. “And we’ve been told that you might be able to help us.”
He spoke with a faint accent which, if I wasn’t mistaken, could have been French.
“Maybe we should introduce ourselves first,” said the woman. “My name is Stephanie Felfan—though everyone calls me Steph. And this is my husband Jeff Felfan.”
“Odelia Kingsley,” said Odelia. “But I’m guessing you already knew that.”