Day 5: The Catnip Connection, Part One by Terri Beckett and Nicoltyler

1982

Starsky

I’m not saying Hutch hates cats—he’s soft as they come with anything small and furry. He took in Louise when I was undercover and couldn’t be there for her. Sure, he passed her on to Rosie when I ended up with a busted arm, and he was left taking care of me, but that doesn’t mean he hates them. And when Lonely’s kittens showed up, he was absolute mush. So, no, he doesn’t hate cats; he just prefers dogs. Something that could join him on his morning jog. A Shepherd, maybe, or a mutt, because Hutch wouldn’t insist on a pedigree. He knows about pedigrees—his family can trace back to the Founding Fathers. Mine got off the boat at Ellis Island at the turn of the century. Mongrels everyone.

While we were still cops, owning a pet wasn’t an option. Now, if he wasn’t studying so hard for his law license, I think Hutch’d be open to the idea. Pets are supposed to help you de-stress, right? I read somewhere that just stroking a pet can do amazing things. For example, a cat’s purr resonates with something that can help heal bones.

So, cats are not his favorite thing right now, which is kind of a pity because that’s the gig I got. When we quit being cops, we decided we’d go into something similar, where we could do good without having to chase a perp down an alley or dodge a bullet. Detective work. It was something we were good at. And Hutch, being Hutch, decided to go back to school and finish his law degree.

This meant that I was the only one trolling for work. Oh, we had enough to live on, but with putting a mortgage on the house and renting an office, things were kind of tight. So, I was really happy to get this call.

It was Huggy, and he was kinda snickering down the phone. “Hey, Curly. Got a nice cushy job for you. A bodyguard gig.”

For an instant, I could see myself in a sharp suit and shades with one of those wiggly wire thingies in my ear.

“Bodyguarding, who exactly?” I said carefully. If this was another one of Huggy’s jokes, his body would need guarding—from me.

“Not exactly who, pal. More like what. And you’d be living in.” Then he told me what the pay would be. And all expenses paid.

“What’s the catch?” There had to be a catch. “Who am I gonna be guarding?” A movie star with pretensions? Royalty? Nah, they got professional security, not retired cops on partial disability.

The snickering got worse. “Name’s Prince Valiant. Like the cartoon. You ain’t got no allergies, Starsk?”

“Only to bad jokes. Prince…this guy’s some kinda royalty?” Well, we get all kinds in Bay City. Didn’t Hollywood have a Romanov? I’m not prejudiced or anything.

“Uh… yeah. Thing is, there’s a plot to change him into a princess, if you get my drift.”

Huggy can be pretty off-the-wall weird, but by now, I was wondering if he was high on something. “Okay, give me the skinny,” I pressed, but he just laughed, leaving me to piece it together on my own. Huggy had this knack for being annoyingly vague when he wanted to be. I thought I’d better sort out the details myself, maybe drop by the Pits later and hit Huggy upside the head with a pool cue for good measure.

He gave me a contact number and an address—a penthouse suite in one of the flossiest addresses in Beverly Hills. Whoever this was, they were clearly rolling in it, judging by the number of high-end cars parked there. I parked in the underground lot next to a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost and checked in with the lobby desk. They were expecting me—I rode the elevator up to the penthouse, still half-expecting a punchline at the end of this joke.

When the elevator doors opened, I had to blink. The sign on the door read ‘Welcome to the Cat House’ in curly writing.

Now, I know that the ‘Oldest Profession’ has always been pretty lucrative. But it looked like this Prince Whoever must have a solid gold stable of high-priced ‘escorts’. The guy who answered the door was tall, looking kinda frazzled, and clearly wasn’t one of them, but smiled when I introduced myself. “So pleased to meet you, Mr. Starsky. I am Fritz DuBois. Please come in, and I’ll introduce you to Prinny.”

The accent was British. But wasn’t ‘Prinny’ kinda informal when talking about royalty? Then again, what do I know about the aristocracy, other than the stuff on ‘Masterpiece Theater’? Hutch liked ‘Upstairs, Downstairs,’ so we watched it. Go figure.

The set-up in the lobby was pretty sparse, not the way I imagined a palace would look. The main room… was crazy, a load of cushiony things and poles with shelves on and a giant flat-screen TV with an enormous couch facing it. And on the couch was the biggest ginger cat I’d ever seen in my life. It had its eyes fixed on the screen, which was showing a family of chipmunks doing chipmunk stuff. The end of the cat’s tail was twitching just a little. It looked up at the interruption and gave a slow blink. I blinked myself.

“Oh, that’s good, Prinny likes you, Mr. Starsky!”

How the hell could he tell?

Before I could say anything, another cat sauntered in, a Siamese this time. It took in the situation, sat down, curled its tail around its paws, and stared at me.

“Miaow Tse Tung! So good of you to join us! This is Mr. Starsky.” He turned to me. “Miaow, or Momo as we call him, is Prinny’s housemate. A fine animal, even though not show-quality.”

“You know, this is all well and good, Mr. DuBois, and these are nice cats. But I’m here to meet Prince Valiant if that is his real name.”

Dubois looked at me funny like I’m missing something obvious.

“But you have met the Prince,” he says, gesturing towards the big orange cat sprawled on the couch.

I stare, dumbfounded. “You gotta be kidding me,” I mutter, feeling the weight of Huggy’s prank sinking in.

“No, not at all. This is Prince Valiant, or Prinny, as we affectionately call him.”

I’m going to kill Huggy, I think to myself, shaking my head. “So, let me get this straight. I’m here to guard a couple of cats?”

Dubois nods, seemingly oblivious to my frustration. “Precisely. And not just any cats; they’re highly valuable and have sentimental value to their owner. There’s been a threat to steal them, Neuter Prinny, and end his bloodline. We can’t have that, Mr. Starsky. Someone has to ensure their safety.”

I look at the cats again, still trying to wrap my head around this bizarre situation. The Siamese cat, Miaow Tse Tung, decides to make its presence known, rubbing against my leg and purring. I sigh, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Well, a job’s a job, I guess. But seriously, Huggy could’ve given me a heads-up.”

Dubois smiles, perhaps a bit too brightly. “It seems you’ve already made a friend in Miaow. I think he will let you use Momo when you speak to him. He only allows those he likes to call him that. They’re very discerning, you know.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “Yeah, well, I guess I’ve got a way with cats. Just don’t let Hutch hear about this; he’d never let me live it down.”

Dubois leads me further into the penthouse, and I can’t help but notice the sheer luxury of the place. It’s not what I expected when I left the force, but life has a funny way of throwing curveballs. “All right, let’s talk details,” I say, resigned to the situation. “And maybe later, you can tell me more about this royal feline dynasty I’m guarding.”

Dubois laughs, and I find myself grinning despite the strangeness of it all. “Absolutely, Mr. Starsky. Welcome to the Cat House.”

As we start discussing my duties, I can’t help but think about how different my life has become. From chasing perps to babysitting royal cats—what a twist. But hey, if it pays the bills and keeps things interesting, I guess I can’t complain too much.

Momo

Well… so this was our latest roomie.

“Wake up, Doofus,” I called over to Prinny, who was sprawled on the couch, completely engrossed in the moving pictures on the screen. He has this strange fascination with the little critters, swatting at them like he thinks he can catch them. It’s almost adorable, if not a bit pathetic.

“Sooo not interested,” he drawled, eyes still glued to the screen. “And don’t call me Doofus.”

“Fine. Fatso it is, then.”

He snorted but didn’t budge from his spot, his tail flicking lazily.

I stretched languidly on the floor, enjoying the warm patch of sunlight. It was the perfect vantage point to observe the new human interacting with Fritz. Fritz was his usual self, trying to make the best impression. The new guy, though, was interesting. I decided to get a closer look.

Moving with deliberate grace, I padded over to the new human. He had a sturdy build and a curly mane that caught my eye. His scent was different—earthy and comforting, with a hint of something unfamiliar but pleasant. He seemed sturdy, like someone who could handle himself—and us.

As I approached, he noticed me and knelt down, extending a hand. “Hey there, kitty,” he greeted, his voice warm. He didn’t seem the type for baby talk, which I appreciated. I gave his hand a tentative sniff before rubbing against it, marking him with my scent. It was my way of claiming him—just a little.

He chuckled softly, “You must be the boss around here, huh?” I glanced back at Fritz, who watched with a bemused smile. Fritz had treats, but I was more interested in sizing up this new addition to our household.

“Doofus,” I called again, though I knew Prinny wouldn’t budge from his spot on the couch. “Get over here. This one’s got potential.”

But Prinny just yawned, stretching his large frame even further across the cushions. “I’ll pass,” he murmured, eyes barely flickering towards us.

Typical Prinny—lazy and aloof.

I looked back at the new human, whom I’d privately nicknamed “Curly” for his distinctive hair. He seemed amused by our dynamic, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “So, you’re the guy I’m supposed to be bodyguarding, huh?” he said, scratching gently behind my ears. I purred, partly because it felt good and partly because he seemed to understand us more than most humans.

No, that would be Prinny, I thought with a flick of my tail, but I’ll forgive your mistake. Humans often got things mixed up, but this one seemed promising. He was quick to adjust, and that was a good sign.

Satisfied with my assessment, I sat down, curling my tail neatly around my paws. Curly seemed to get it—he respected us, didn’t talk down to us, and had a calm demeanor. Not bad for a human. I decided that, for now, I wouldn’t do anything drastic like pooping in his shoes.

Not unless I had to, anyway.

Starsky

The cat-butler—or was it cat-wrangler?—was explaining why the big guy warranted security. Apparently, Prinny came from a bloodline that went back decades, possibly the most pure-bred Maine Coon ever. He had won every conceivable award from kittenhood onwards, a Grand Olympian Imperial Champion of Champions or something. I spotted a wall covered with ribbons and a cabinet full of silver and gilt trophies. Prinny was clearly one hell of a cat—and an entire male. A stud, even. He had a bridal suite for entertaining visiting lady-cats, all hoping for his kittens. The stud fees ran into four figures.

Nice work if you can get it!

The threat, apparently, came from an unknown source. Pay up, or the cat loses his cojones. The pure bloodline would become extinct.

So, blackmail… That was something I understood.

“You’ll take the job, Mr. Starsky?”

Would I? Hell, yes!

“I’ll have to consult with my partner, of course, but I think we can agree on that.”

“That will be a load off my mind, certainly. Let me have your bank details and I’ll transfer your retainer fee directly.”

I couldn’t wait to tell Hutch! I unloaded the groceries I’d picked up on my way home, adding a bottle of the fancy Merlot Hutch likes, and wandered into the study. Well, technically it was the smaller of the two bedrooms, but we’d turned it into a study with a desk, office chair, and bookshelves. Hutch could still use it if he wanted to take a nap. Our room, with the king-size bed, was where we spent our nights.

“How’s it goin’, babe?” I leaned over his shoulder, glancing at the dense print in the textbook open in front of him.

“God knows. Why didn’t I decide to study the Life Cycles of the Lesser Antipodean Mammals or something less complex?”

“Because antiquarian mammals don’t need lawyers?” I guessed.

“Antipodean, Starsk…” He grinned up at me.

“Yeah, whatever. I got us a job, Blintz! And guess what they’re paying?”

His eyes went wide when I told him. I didn’t give him all the details; I thought it should come as a surprise.

I wasn’t wrong about that.

That night, after dinner, with the Merlot gone and Hutch nicely mellow, I told him about the job. We went to bed, engaged in some mutually satisfying loving, and after I’d blown his mind and he was a boneless sprawl, I gave him the news.

Damn, I’m good.

“We’re bodyguarding a cat?” he squawked.

“Not just any cat, babe.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“Uh-huh.” I padded over to the bureau where I’d stashed the paperwork Fritz had given me, along with the bank statement. I gave him that first. His eyes bugged out. “That’s just the retainer. It’s six weeks, living-in, plus all expenses.” And I passed over the pedigree, all five pages of it. I snuggled down and propped my chin on his shoulder.

“A cat?”

“Yeah. You remember Isis and Osiris? And Uncle Edgar, the First-Class kook?”

He smirked. “Don’t tell me. The Alpha Centaurans want this cat for nefarious purposes.”

“Well, as bona-fide Arcturan agents, we’re sworn to protect…”

He snorted, rolled over, and attacked my fourth rib. “Well done, Gordo, this is the best joke since April First!”

My turn to squawk. I squirmed away, swatting at his tickling fingers. “—s’ not a joke, Blintz!”

But I don’t think he really believed me until I took him to the Cat House. DuBois gave us the tour: the human accommodations, bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen. The threatening letters were why his employer had insisted on outside help. How Huggy had got wind of the gig, I didn’t know, but then, Hug has contacts in some freaky places with freaky people.

So, we were cat-sitting for the duration. DuBois mentioned he was going to take a vacation, the first in years, by all accounts. And I watched Hutch’s face as he was introduced to the two animals.

“You sure that’s a cat, Starsk? Maybe a yak crossed with a mountain lion?”

I grinned. “Biggest breed in the world,” I told him. “Also, the State Cat of Maine. Been an established breed since—”

“Stop right there,” he interrupted, eyes fixed on Prinny, who was ignoring him in favor of kitty-TV, now showing goldfish. “I don’t need to know.” It occurred to me that Prinny’s fur was almost the same golden blond as Hutch’s hair. “You signed us up for this, so…”

“Babe, it’s going to be like a paid vacation.” Well, for me anyway, with nothin’ strenuous to do save policing the litter boxes and sorting out the food. One freezer was stacked with prepared kitty food, and another with the human variety. Anything missing, Fritz said, could be delivered. And Hutch could immerse himself in his law books without fear of interruption. Like I said, this was going to be great!

“It will be a piece of cake, Hutch.  Trust me.”

Momo

The other human, whom I’d come to think of as the Blintz, smelled just as interesting as Curly. There was something about these two that piqued my curiosity. They almost communicated in Cat, which was rare for humans. We felines rarely vocalize with each other; our language is physical—a tail twitch, a slanted ear, a subtle shift in posture. It’s all in the body language. These two seemed to do the same—though their signals were a bit more obvious—a shoulder pat, a ruffle of curls, a brief kiss in passing.

Oh, they did make noise, chatting like jaybirds, their voices a constant backdrop to our serene existence. But it was their non-verbal communication that fascinated me. It was as if they had their own silent conversation running alongside their spoken words. They shared looks and touches that conveyed more than any meowing or purring ever could.

And then there was the night—the first night they spent here. I was intrigued, to say the least. I had snuck into their bedroom, a curious observer, as is my nature. I watched from atop the dresser, my perch offering a perfect vantage point. To my surprise, they were mating. Enthusiastically and loudly, I might add. It was quite the spectacle, unlike anything I had seen before.

They moved together with an intensity that reminded me of two tomcats vying for dominance, yet there was no aggression, only a strange, harmonious passion. It was clear they enjoyed each other’s company immensely, both in and out of their bedroom. They were like a pair of bonded mates, a rare sight indeed.

For a feline like me, who understands the subtleties of companionship, this was an education.

I settled into my spot on the dresser, purring softly to myself. It was an unexpected study in the complexities of human relationships, and I found myself oddly impressed by their dynamic. Perhaps these two tomcats were more like us felines than they realized—independent yet deeply connected, aloof yet affectionate in their own unique ways.

As I watched, I felt a curious sense of amusement and approval.

Hutch

Habit woke me at 6:30 AM, even though I didn’t need to get up for work anymore. Old habits die hard, I guess. There was something peaceful about these early-morning runs—the air was crisp, the streets were quiet, and it gave me a chance to clear my head and enjoy a moment of solitude. I’d mapped out a new route since we moved here, and I was looking forward to exploring it, seeing the neighborhood wake up in its own quiet way.

I glanced over at Starsky, sprawled across 75 percent of our king-size bed, his head buried in the pillows, and that delectable ass on display. I was tempted to run a hand down the curve of his spine and give those lovely sculpted cheeks a wake-up pat, but I decided to let him sleep. After last night, he deserved the rest. We’d had a pretty wild night, and he needed to recharge.

Even after all this time, I sometimes found myself marveling at how lucky I was. To have my best friend and workmate as my lover… it felt like a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. We’d been through so much together, and now here we were, living a life that felt strangely domestic yet entirely fitting for us.

As I swung my legs out of bed, something soft brushed against my bare leg. I looked down to see Miaow Tse Tung, the Siamese-type cat, rubbing herself against me, purring contentedly. “Hey, kitty. You’re up early,” I murmured, bending down to scratch her head. Her eyes, a deep blue slightly lighter than Starsky’s, looked up at me, and her purring intensified.

“Guess you’re wanting breakfast, huh? Where’s your buddy?” I glanced around but didn’t see the big ginger cat, Prinny. “Miaow Tse Tung, huh? Dumb name. Whoever gave you that must’ve thought they were clever…” I shook my head with a chuckle and headed to the kitchen.

I pulled out the fixings for my protein shake, started the blender, and grabbed a handful of dry kibble from the plastic container. Miaow Tse Tung eyed the offering skeptically, then looked back at me, clearly unimpressed. Her gaze was intense, almost challenging.

Sighing, I caved and pulled out one of the frozen packets labeled tuna. There were instructions on how to prepare and—God help me—how to serve it. The Siamese preferred the willow-pattern China; the big cat liked Royal Doulton. And they had preferences for herbed chicken filets in broth. Seriously, who were these cats?

I poured myself a glass of my shake, dumped the thawed tuna into a bowl, and headed out for my run.

The morning air was brisk and invigorating, and as I ran through the quiet streets, I found myself reflecting on how much our lives had changed. From chasing criminals to feeding gourmet meals to cats—it was a strange twist of fate but one I was starting to appreciate in its own way. It was a slower pace, but not without its own challenges and humor.

When I got back, sweaty but energized and ready to hit the books again, I found Starsky sprawled on the big couch, feet up on the coffee table, with both cats draped across him. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. In the 45 minutes I’d been gone on my run, Starsky had managed to move from the bed to the couch—quite the productive morning. He probably didn’t even wake up when moving from bed to couch.

It was classic Starsky, really. While I was out pounding the pavement, he’d orchestrated a cozy little setup with Miaow Tse Tung curled up on his chest, and Prinny stretched out along his legs.

It was a skill, really, his ability to make any surface look like the coziest spot in the world.

The TV was on, showing parakeets fluttering about, which probably contributed to Starsky’s relaxed, almost comatose state. It was like some kind of serene domestic tableau, the kind you see in magazines.

Miaow Tse Tung, ever the inquisitive one, extended a slim paw to the remote and changed the channel. The blooping sounds of goldfish swimming replaced the parakeet chirping, and Starsky stirred awake, blinking at the screen in confusion.

“Hey…”

“You developing an interest in things aquatic, Starsk?” I grinned, amused by the whole scene.

He rubbed his eyes, looking adorably disoriented. “I was watching the Creature Feature…”

“Take it up with the critics,” I teased. “Guess they didn’t like Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, or whatever it was.” I headed towards the bathroom, calling back over my shoulder, “I’m gonna grab a shower.”

As I walked away, I couldn’t help but smile. Life had taken some strange turns, but sharing these moments with Starsky—and now with these quirky cats—made everything feel just right. It was an unconventional setup, but then again, we were never ones to follow a conventional path.

Momo

I quickly revised my opinion of the blond one. He just dropped my tuna loin into an ordinary bowl—no garnish, no fanfare—and left! The audacity! I was accustomed to a certain level of service, and this was not it. I resolved to find his shoes later and show him what I thought of his culinary skills. But first, after cleaning the bowl and sampling the remnants of whatever concoction was left in the blender, I decided to wake Doofus. Together, we made our way to snuggle with Curly in the big bed. He smelled absolutely divine, a blend of soap, sweat, and something uniquely his.

Human sex was proving to be an interesting study. I poked my nose into his armpit for a deep sniff, savoring the complex layers of his scent before curling up next to him. The warmth was comforting, and soon I found myself purring with pleasure, kneading my paws into the soft blankets—what the humans call ‘making biscuits.’ I might have gotten a bit overenthusiastic because Curly stirred and rolled over.

“Hey, cat, easy with the murder mittens, okay?”

Murder mittens. I liked that! It had a certain flair. I gave his cheek a gentle lick, and he chuckled softly. “Yeah, good morning to you, too. Guess it’s breakfast time, huh?” He swung himself out of bed with a long, lazy stretch, almost cat-like, and ambled naked into the kitchen.

“Hey, cool, a microwave! I gotta get one of these…” He seemed genuinely fascinated by the appliance. As he rummaged through the fridge, he mused aloud, “So, what’s your choice for breakfast? The chicken sounds tasty…” He finally settled on the herbed chicken filets in broth, serving it up with a sprinkle of ‘nip for garnish. I purred in approval—this was more like it.

While I enjoyed my gourmet meal, Curly busied himself, making coffee, toast, and juice, humming a cheerful tune to himself. His movements were relaxed and fluid, and he was completely at ease. As he finished preparing his meal, he grabbed his plate and settled onto the big couch, feet up on the coffee table. He placed his coffee and toast on the table and turned on the TV.

To my dismay, the screen lit up with bright, flashing images and loud, over-the-top sounds. It was one of those B-rated monster movies humans seem to find fascinating. The kind with terrible special effects, rubbery-looking creatures, and dialogue that was somehow both loud and meaningless. I glared at the TV, my ears flattening slightly in irritation. Curly, however, seemed completely absorbed in the cheesy spectacle, laughing at the absurdities on screen while he munched on his toast and sipped his coffee.

Meanwhile, Doofus seemed to take advantage of the situation, rolling over and offering his belly for pets. It was rare for him to show this much trust, especially with people he didn’t know well. But Curly, ever the charmer, obliged, rubbing Doofus’s belly with one hand while eating with the other.

Seizing the moment, I slipped closer and took a bite of his toast when he wasn’t looking. The taste of buttered toast was a small delight amidst the annoying din of the movie. I licked my lips, savoring the flavor, though my tail continued to twitch in annoyance at the nonsense playing out on the screen.

Curly didn’t seem to notice my discomfort, too engrossed in the ridiculousness of the movie. Eventually, he finished his breakfast, set the plate aside, and leaned back on the couch. As his eyes grew heavy, he began to drift off, lulled by the mindless entertainment.

Seeing my chance, I deftly reached over and tapped the remote with my paw, changing the channel. The screen switched to something more soothing—a documentary about bird life, with calming visuals and a gentle narration. Much better. Satisfied with the more suitable ambiance, I delicately climbed onto Curly’s chest, finding a cozy spot nestled against him. His steady heartbeat and the gentle rise and fall of his chest were soothing, and I began to purr softly.

As Curly dozed off completely, I curled up comfortably on his chest, feeling his warmth and the soft vibrations of his breathing. It was peaceful, and I felt entirely at ease. Despite Blondie’s earlier transgression with my breakfast, I decided to forgive him for now. For Curly’s sake, anyway.

There was always time to find his shoes later if needed.

Prinny

The past couple of weeks have been rather enlightening. Everyone seems to have settled into a comfortable routine, which suits me just fine. As the rightful ruler of this domain, it’s only fitting that everything revolves around my schedule.

Blondie, as I’ve come to call him, starts the day with an odd ritual. He wakes up early, usually just as the first light filters through the windows, and goes for a run. I can hear his footsteps as he quietly leaves the house, trying not to wake anyone. It’s quite amusing, really. As if his absence goes unnoticed. Upon his return, he’s usually sweaty and out of breath—hardly an elegant sight. But I suppose even humans need their exercise.

After his morning exertion, Blondie locks himself away in the study for the rest of the day. He spends hours surrounded by stacks of papers and books, engrossed in whatever dull human task he finds so fascinating. Of course, I make it a point to visit him during these times. It’s important to supervise and ensure he doesn’t get too caught up in his work. I often grace him with my presence by lounging on his desk or, more precisely, on his papers and books. This should be seen as an act of generosity on my part—providing warmth and comfort to his otherwise tedious activities.

However, Blondie doesn’t always appreciate my help. He sometimes gets visibly annoyed, gently pushing me aside with a sigh or muttering something under his breath about needing “space” to work. I’m slightly offended by this. Doesn’t he realize the honor of having a Grand Olympian Imperial Champion of Champions assisting him? It’s not every day that one is graced with such regal company.

The least he could do was show some gratitude.

Curly, on the other hand, is quite the contrast. He lazes around most of the day, keeping an eye on me and Miaow Tse Tung. He’s a rather amusing human—always trying to coax Blondie out of his study for a walk or a dip in the lap pool. It’s almost endearing, watching him try to drag Blondie away from his work. Not that it works all the time, but Curly has his moments of success.

When Curly isn’t pestering Blondie, he’s usually lounging on the balcony by the pool, soaking up the sun. He has a remarkable talent for doing nothing, which I must say I respect. There’s a certain art to lounging that not everyone masters. He often watches those ridiculous B-rated monster movies, laughing at the most absurd moments. Sometimes, he even talks to us as if we understand his banter. Of course, we do understand—more than he likely realizes—but it’s amusing to let him think he’s just talking to himself.

As for me, I’ve settled into a routine of my own. Mornings are for leisurely naps in the sunniest spots, afternoons are for overseeing the household from my various thrones (the couch, the windowsill, the top of the bookshelf), and evenings are for demanding attention and gourmet meals. Miaow Tse Tung and I have established our territories and routines, and the humans seem to have adapted well to serving our needs.

All in all, life is good. The humans provide entertainment and sustenance, and I allow them the privilege of my company. They seem content with this arrangement, and so am I. After all, it’s not every day that humans get to serve a Grand Olympian Imperial Champion of Champions. They should consider themselves lucky.

Hutch

The first two weeks of watching the cats were… surprisingly smooth, though not without their quirks. Prinny, the big Maine Coon, carried himself with a regal air, acting like the undisputed king of the house. He often lounged around, claiming various spots as his thrones—my papers and books included. I tried to gently discourage him from sprawling all over my work, but he seemed to take it as a personal challenge to find the most inconvenient place to rest. Each time I shooed him away, he’d give me a piercing look as if deeply offended that I didn’t appreciate his “help.”

My partner spent most of his time lounging around, keeping an eye on the cats, and trying to drag me out of the study for a walk or a swim in the lap pool. I appreciated the effort; he knew I needed a break now and then, but he seemed to think that every hour spent indoors was an hour wasted. His carefree attitude towards the cats was a stark contrast to my structured routine. He’d often laugh off Prinny’s antics, saying, “He’s just helping you think, Hutch.”

Our mornings fell into a predictable rhythm: I’d go for a run, come back, and lock myself in the study, while Starsk would watch his favorite B-rated monster movies or soak up the sun by the pool. The cats, especially Prinny, seemed to enjoy Starsk’s attention, lounging around him and occasionally swatting at the TV remote to change the channel when the monster movies became too much for them.

One quiet afternoon, while Starsky was out running errands, I was buried in my notes, trying to concentrate. The house was peacefully still, save for the occasional rustle of pages and the distant hum of traffic outside. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Curious, I got up to answer it and found two people standing there, dressed in uniforms that vaguely resembled what the cat groomers had worn the previous week. They introduced themselves as the substitute groomers, explaining that the regular person was sick and that they were there to take over the weekly grooming session.

I hesitated for a moment, not recognizing them from before. A faint alarm bell rang in the back of my mind, but they offered to let me call their boss to confirm. I did, and the person on the other end of the line, sounding preoccupied, confirmed that the regular groomer had called out sick. Before I could ask for a description of the replacements, the line went dead with a curt, “Sorry, busy day. Gotta go.”

I shrugged, feeling slightly uneasy but not overly concerned. It seemed plausible enough—after all, even groomers have off days. As I led them to the grooming station, my mind drifted back to my work. I barely noticed when one of them stepped closer behind me until it was too late. A sudden, sharp pain struck the back of my head, and everything went black.

 

Prinny

The day started like any other. Blondie retreated to his study after his morning rituals, leaving me to bask in the sun. Curly had gone out, leaving the house peacefully quiet. Miaow Tse Tung, or Momo as he’s often called, was grooming himself, occasionally glancing at me, perhaps questioning my choice of lounging spot. Not that it mattered; every spot in this house was mine by right.

The tranquility was interrupted by a knock at the door. Blondie, mildly annoyed, answered it. I observed from a distance, too dignified to greet the visitors. Two individuals, dressed in familiar uniforms, claimed they were substitute groomers, as the regular one was ill.

Blondie hesitated, which was unusual for him, and even made a call to verify their story. The conversation was brief and unsatisfactory, but I was more interested in returning to my sunspot. Blondie eventually let them in, leading them toward the grooming station. Momo, always prudent and cautious, followed too, albeit with more curiosity than usual.

Then it happened. One groomer swiftly struck Blondie on the back of the head, knocking him out. My fur bristled as I watched in disbelief and indignation. How dare they lay a hand on my household!

Momo, sensing danger, backed away, ears flattened. One of the groomers lunged at him. Momo hissed and swiped with his claws, scratching the intruder’s arm before darting around the room to avoid capture. The intruders were persistent, though, cornering him after a frantic chase.

With a final yowl, Momo made a desperate leap, only to be caught mid-air. Despite his struggles, they stuffed him into a large, dark bag. His muffled cries and frantic movements were heartbreaking to witness. Momo thrashed inside, but the groomers efficiently zipped the bag shut, silencing him.

Meanwhile, they quickly bound Blondie’s hands and feet and gagged him, preventing any calls for help. They worked with chilling efficiency, showing no hesitation. Blondie, still unconscious, lay helpless on the floor, now bound and silenced.

Panic surged through me. This was no ordinary grooming session; these were intruders with nefarious intentions. But what could I do? As they made their way out, Momo’s muffled cries echoed through the hallway. I stayed hidden, realizing any attempt to intervene would be futile—and likely dangerous.

The door closed behind them, leaving the house eerily silent. I padded over to Blondie, who lay bound and gagged on the floor. I nudged him gently, but he remained still, a furrow of concern on his brow even in unconsciousness.

Left alone in the quiet, I realized the gravity of the situation. Momo had been kidnapped, and Blondie was incapacitated. It was up to me to ensure that when Curly returned, he understood the urgency of the situation. For now, all I could do was wait and keep watch, the weight of responsibility pressing down on me. The intruders might have taken Momo, but they would not go unpunished.

Not while I still ruled this house.

To be continued…