Part I: Fuzzwald T. Stripersson, Slippery Feline

I’ve been feeling uncomfortable for several minutes now, but I refuse to look up.

Last time I had this feeling, there was a cat in the doorway, wearing my shoes and going through my purse.

It’s not long before I can no longer bear it. 

I look up from my computer.

Liza Bean Bitey, of the Minneapolis Biteys, is perched on the coffee table.  Primly upright, her tail wrapped tightly, she is staring in a distant, distracted sort of way. 

The cat’s greenly gleaming eyes are on me.  She lifts one front paw, casually extends her claws one at a time.

“What’s going on, cat?”

Liza Bean Bitey, of the Minneapolis Biteys, blinks slowly.  “Does anything seem amiss?”

I frown.  Remembering my New Year’s resolution to stop frowning when I’m thinking, I press my fingertips against my forehead, smooth my brows.

“I’ve been writing,” I say.  “I notice nothing when I’m writing.”

The cat smiles slyly.  “Hmm,” she says.

I wave my right hand at her irritably in a get-on-with-it kind of way. 

“I think,” the cat says, “that Fuzzwald’s been in the house.”

I blink.

Fuzzwald Tiberius Stripersson, of the foundation garment industry Striperssons, convicted of Impersonating an Endangered Species (a felony in the State of Minnesota), one-time drummer for Liza Bean’s first band, a Band of Biteys, and the cat that both broke her heart and her bank account.

That Fuzzwald.

I set my laptop on the coffee table.

“What makes you think this?”

She looks away, and I see that she is nervous.  “The Whisker Lickins are gone.”

I shake my head.  “Have you looked at Dolly Gee lately?”  I look around the room quickly for the other cat, a Siamese/Tabby mix with a gambling problem and a soft spot for the snacks.  “She’s built,” I whisper, “like a speed bump.”

Liza Bean shakes her head.  “There’s a single glass in the kitchen sink,” she says.  “And a squeezed-out lime in the garbage can.”

I frown again, then quickly un-frown.  Cats are quite fond of gin and tonics...

Dagnabit.

“Maybe Dolly –“

“You know very well that Dolly quit drinking after that home-shopping debacle.”

“Still – “

“Pearl,” the cat interrupts.  “He left this.”  Liza Bean reaches, mysteriously, under her left front leg, pulls out a business card.

“Fuzzwald T. Stripersson,” it reads.  “Cat Rescue.”

 “Dagnabit,” I say. 

What could Fuzzy possibly want?