“Now why would Harriet be having an affair?” I said, giving our friend a reassuring pat on the back. “We all know she’s crazy about you, buddy.”
“I don’t know about that. Lately she’s been acting very cold. You know, unaffectionate.”
“You mean…” I produced a delicate cough. It’s one thing to pour your heart out to a friend, but quite another to discuss the intimate details of one’s relationship.
“It’s been two weeks, three days and six hours, Max,” said Brutus sadly.
I coughed again as I directed a discreet glance at Dooley, who was following the conversation with the sort of gleam in his eyes he gets when he finds something exceedingly fascinating. It’s the same look he gets when there’s a nature documentary on the Discovery Channel he finds of particular interest. Like the one about the dating life of the carpenter ant the other night.
“What’s been two weeks, three days and six hours, Brutus?” he asked now.
“Well, um…” said Brutus, darting a nervous look at me. “Um, well…”
“It’s been two weeks, three days and six hours since Harriet last ate a piece of chicken,” I said. There were probably a million things I could have said, but this was the first thing that came to mind, unfortunately. I blame it on a lack of sleep!
“Harriet is a vegetarian now?” asked Dooley excitedly. “But that’s great news! I’m also a vegetarian!”
“No, you’re not,” I said.
“But of course I am. I never eat meat.”
“You have to eat meat, Dooley. You’re a carnivore. If you don’t eat meat, you die.”
“I don’t think so. All I eat is kibble and those delicious wet food pouches they give us. And I’ve asked Odelia and Marge and they’ve assured me those are one hundred percent vegetarian.”
“As if,” Brutus murmured with a slight smile, but then was serious again. “I think it’s Kingman,” he said. “I think Harriet is having an affair with Kingman.”
This had me stunned.“Kingman? Are you sure?”
Brutus nodded sadly.“I followed her last night. After we left cat choir? Instead of going straight home, she said she was going for a stroll. So I tailed her.”
“And what happened?” I asked.
“She went back to the park, for a midnight meeting with Kingman!”
“Did they… you know?” I asked delicately.
“Nothing untoward happened,” he said stiffly. “But that doesn’t mean anything. They could be working up to something. And they were standing far too close to each other to my liking, I can tell you that. In fact I came this close to breaking cover and pouncing on the double-crossing swine.”
“I didn’t know Kingman was a swine,” said Dooley, much surprised. “I thought he was a cat. Like us.”
“Just a figure of speech, Dooley,” I said absentmindedly. If Harriet was holding secret midnight meetings with Kingman in the park, Brutus did indeed have cause for concern. Not unlike his human Wilbur Vickery, Kingman is a well-known Lothario, and can’t allow a female feline to pass the General Store, his habitual perch, without giving them the once-over, and more often than not the twice or even third-over. He had always refrained from putting the moves on Harriet, having far too much respect for Brutus—or qualms about the latter’s physical prowess and inclination for pugnaciousness—to try. Though it must also be said that Harriet has never fancied Kingman. Brutus has always been the one for her—or at least he was from the moment the large cat had arrived on the scene.
And now this.
“I’m sorry, Brutus,” I said, and I meant it. Theirs had been a fairytale romance, and if it was true what he said, things were going to change around here. Not in the least because Harriet and Brutus lived together. What would happen if Harriet were to move out and move in with Kingman? Greatchanges.
“I don’t like this,” said Dooley, who’d finally caught on. “Kingman and Harriet?”
Brutus nodded somberly.“And I’ll bet it’s Kingman she’s been seeing all this time—sneaking out whenever she thinks I’m not looking. It’s a terrible thing.”
“I don’t understand,” said Dooley. “Why would Kingman do this to you?”
“Because he can?” Brutus said, hanging his head. I would have told him that inclining the head at a forty-five-degree angle was bad for the neck, but now didn’t seem like a good time for a PSA. “Because he’s got something I don’t have?”
“He’s very popular,” Dooley allowed.
Brutus snapped his head up.“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m popular!”
“Not as popular as Kingman, Brutus,” said Dooley, who must not have realized how dangerously close to peril he was coming by stating these simple truths. “Kingman is like the king of Hampton Cove. He’s a very popular cat.” Brutus made a sort of growling sound at the back of his throat, and his eyes narrowed into slits, tail distending and back arching. I think Dooley must have finally realized his faux-pas, for he quickly added, “But not as popular as you, obviously.”
“Yeah, you’re very well-liked,” I hastened to say.