Detective Biscuit: The Neighborhood Sleuth

I’ve always loved the idea of an unreliable narrator who doesn’t know they’re unreliable. One afternoon I was watching my neighbor’s cat stalk a squirrel with this intense, methodical focus, like a tiny furry detective working a case, and I thought: what if a cat genuinely believed it was solving crimes? The noir detective voice came naturally after that. Every cat already thinks it’s the smartest one in the room. Biscuit just happens to narrate like he’s in a Raymond Chandler novel, which, if you’ve ever watched a cat assess a situation from a windowsill, isn’t that far off.

THUD.

A perfectly ripe tomato exploded against my head, seeds and juice coating my left ear. I looked up to see Fluffball perched on Mrs. Kowalski’s garden trellis, yellow eyes gleaming with satisfaction, tail twitching in that special way that meant she’d been planning this attack for hours.

That’s it. You’re dead, Furrball.

I launched myself toward the trellis with the focused fury of a heat-seeking missile. Fluffball waited until I was exactly two feet away, the precise distance for maximum dramatic effect, before leaping to the garden shed roof.

The chase was on.

I scrambled up Mrs. Kowalski’s compost bin, using it as a launching pad to reach the shed. Fluffball was already moving, dancing along the peak like a furry tightrope walker, clearly enjoying every second of my undignified pursuit.

She leaped to the fence, then to the Hendersons’ bird feeder (sending sparrows scattering in twelve directions), then made an impossible bound to their deck railing. I followed, crashing through Mrs. Henderson’s prize marigolds and taking out a garden gnome in the process.

Come back here, you overgrown hairball!

Fluffball paused on the deck railing just long enough to knock over Mrs. Henderson’s watering can, sending water cascading directly onto my head as I bounded up the deck stairs. Then she was off again, leaping from deck to picnic table to fence post to the Rodriguez family’s swing set.

I vaulted over the picnic table (sending lawn chairs flying), caught my back paw on the swing set’s chains (very dignified), and nearly face-planted in the Rodriguez sandbox. Fluffball, meanwhile, had somehow teleported to the top of their basketball hoop, where she sat washing her paw with the casual air of someone who hadn’t just committed an act of vegetable warfare.

You can’t stay up there forever, Princess.

But even as I circled the basketball pole, plotting my next move, I had to admit there was something almost professional about her escape route. She’d led me on a path that avoided every major obstacle while maximizing my humiliation. The water timing had been perfect. The marigold destruction was an artistic touch.

Still going to murder you, though.

From her perch fifteen feet above my head, Fluffball looked down with what I could only describe as smug amusement. “Mrow,” she said, which obviously meant something deeply insulting about my athletic abilities.

Then she did the thing that made my blood boil: she started grooming herself. Right there. On the basketball hoop. Like she had all day.

That’s it. War is declared.

Frank’s voice echoed across three backyards: “BISCUIT! What are you doing over there? Get back here!”

This isn’t over, Fluffball.

“Mrow mrow,” she replied, which clearly meant “Bring it on, Dog-breath.”

As I trotted back toward Frank’s yard, tomato seeds still decorating my ears, I was already planning my retaliation. Fluffball thought she was clever with her high perches and perfect timing. But she’d never faced a Golden Retriever with a strategic mind and access to Frank’s garden hose.

Game on.

---

Morning sun streamed through the kitchen window as I plotted my revenge, highlighting approximately seventeen thousand dust particles (clearly Frank’s fault for not dusting). Frank sat at the kitchen table, aggressively stabbing his cereal while glaring at a crossword puzzle.

“Seven letters for ‘household detective,'” he muttered. “Sherlock? No, that’s eight.”

The answer is ‘Biscuit,’ Frank. But do you listen to helpful suggestions? No.

Also, I need to focus on more important matters. Like psychological warfare against a certain Persian cat.

That’s when I heard it: Mrs. Patterson’s voice reaching frequencies that could summon dolphins.

Perfect. A case to solve. And maybe an opportunity for strategic cat harassment.

“I CAN’T FIND MY READING GLASSES ANYWHERE!”

I looked through the window to see Fluffball perched on the fence post like a furry gargoyle, tail twitching with barely contained malice. She’d obviously heard Mrs. Patterson’s crisis and was probably planning to sabotage my investigation.

Two can play this game, Furball.

But as I headed for the door, Fluffball’s tail flicked in what I’d learned was her “incoming projectile” signal. I ducked just as a pine cone (strategically positioned earlier, no doubt) crashed into the spot where my head had been.

Oh, it is ON.

I bounded toward the fence with murder in my eyes. Fluffball waited until I was mid-leap before hopping down to the opposite side, where she’d apparently pre-positioned Mrs. Kowalski’s garden hose.

One perfectly timed paw swipe later, I was soaked and she was perched on Mrs. Patterson’s bird bath, looking like she’d just won an Olympic medal for Advanced Canine Torment.

You want a war? I’ll give you a war. Right after I solve this case and show you how real detectives work.

I abandoned my breakfast and executed my patented “I need to go outside for totally normal dog reasons” routine. Frank, being human, required the full performance: sitting by the door, intense staring, and a small, dignified whine.

“Oh, you need to go out?” Frank shuffled over in his ridiculous slippers, the ones with holes that I’d been trying to destroy for months as a public service. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

Because I’m a dog, Frank. We’ve discussed this.

The backyard was perfect for surveillance work. The morning air carried the usual cocktail of scents: Mrs. Kowalski’s overwatered roses, yesterday’s garbage truck visit, and something deliciously rotten under the Hendersons’ deck. But underneath it all was the distinctive scent of Mrs. Patterson’s reading glasses.

Time to show Fluffball how it’s done.

I squeezed through the gap in the fence while Fluffball watched with the expression of someone forced to observe amateur hour.

“Mrow,” she said dismissively.

“Mrow” yourself, Princess Whiskers.

The Pattersons’ backyard smelled like Harold’s failed tomato garden and Mrs. Patterson’s concerning collection of ceramic gnomes. I put my nose to the ground and began tracking, very aware that Fluffball was following my every move.

The scent trail led from kitchen to living room to back door to the garden shed. There, sitting on the workbench next to a bag of fertilizer, were the missing glasses.

Elementary, my dear Fluffball.

But as I carefully picked up the glasses, Fluffball appeared in the shed doorway.

“Mrow mrow mrow,” she said, which obviously meant something sarcastic about my methods.

At least I solve mysteries instead of knocking things off tables for fun.

I carried the glasses to Mrs. Patterson’s back door and began my “URGENT DISCOVERY” bark sequence. Fluffball positioned herself nearby, probably hoping I’d fail spectacularly.

The door flew open. “Oh my goodness! You found my glasses! Harold! Come see this! This dog found my reading glasses!”

Mrs. Patterson returned with bacon treats (the good ones). As I crunched my reward, Fluffball slunk away, but not before giving me a look that promised retaliation.

Bring it on, Fuzzbutt.

---

Two days later, the universe delivered my next case with Tommy Hendricks’ bloodcurdling scream.

“CAPTAIN AWESOME IS MISSING!”

I was monitoring Frank’s rose bushes for aphid activity when Tommy’s voice shattered the suburban peace. Time for some real detective work.

But as I headed toward the fence, Fluffball materialized on the fence post, blocking my path.

“Mrow?” she asked with false innocence.

Move it, Floofball. I have important business.

She didn’t move. Instead, she began grooming her paw with the deliberate slowness of someone who knew they were being annoying.

I don’t have time for your dramatics.

I squeezed under the fence rather than jumping over it, which required significantly more dignity management but avoided giving Fluffball the satisfaction of making me go around her.

The Hendricks’ backyard was its usual disaster zone of sandbox kingdoms and scattered toys. Tommy stood in the center, addressing his action figure army with military precision.

“Mom already looked everywhere! Even under my bed where the monsters live!”

Poor kid. He has no idea Captain Awesome is probably somewhere completely obvious that adults missed.

I began tracking, following the distinctive plastic-and-paint scent through Tommy’s chaotic play area. The trail led to the tree house, then continued upward to the rain gutter.

Bingo. Tommy and his slingshot made another poor tactical decision.

But as I positioned myself for the alert sequence, Fluffball appeared beside me.

“Mrow mrow,” she commented, looking up at Captain Awesome.

Yes, I can see him. That’s what makes me a detective and you a… whatever it is you do all day.

Fluffball jumped onto the Hendricks’ picnic table, then onto their deck railing, then made an impossible leap to the roof’s edge. She walked along the gutter until she was directly above Captain Awesome, then looked down at me with smug satisfaction.

Show-off.

But I had to admit, her vantage point was superior for confirming the target location. I began my jumping and pawing routine while Fluffball provided what appeared to be aerial reconnaissance.

When Mrs. Hendricks emerged to investigate my commotion, Fluffball positioned herself near the gutter, making it even more obvious where attention should be directed.

“CAPTAIN AWESOME!” Tommy shrieked. “He’s in the gutter!”

After the rescue operation, Mrs. Hendricks brought out meatballs (perfectly seasoned and still warm). As I enjoyed my reward, Fluffball cleaned her whiskers on the fence.

“Mrow,” she said, which I chose to interpret as grudging professional respect.

Don’t let it go to your head, Puffball.

---

The Ramsay family’s nightly remote crisis had become neighborhood entertainment. Every evening at precisely 7:30, the search would begin.

“It was RIGHT HERE!” Mr. Ramsay stood in their living room, holding every remote except the one he needed.

From my surveillance position at Frank’s window, I’d been documenting the pattern for weeks. The TV remote’s mysterious migrations were getting stranger, but I’d cracked the case: Emma’s sleepwalking episodes.

Time for some intervention work.

But as I prepared for my nighttime remote return operation, I noticed yellow eyes gleaming from the Ramsays’ bushes.

What are you doing here, Fluffball?

The Persian cat emerged from the landscaping with the casual arrogance of someone who belonged everywhere.

“Mrow,” she said, which clearly meant she was conducting her own investigation.

This is my case, Furbrain. Find your own.

But Fluffball had apparently decided to shadow my operation. When Emma sleepwalked into the garage at 2:17 AM, Fluffball was right behind me as I followed.

Emma set the remote on the workbench and wandered back inside. I carefully retrieved it, but Fluffball was already at the door, having somehow opened it wider with her tiny cat body.

I don’t need your help.

“Mrow mrow,” she replied, which obviously meant something about teamwork or efficiency or some other concept I didn’t want to acknowledge.

Together, we returned the remote to its proper location. Fluffball used her superior jumping ability to reach the coffee table first, while I provided ground support and moral authority.

When Mrs. Ramsay discovered the pattern and addressed Emma’s sleepwalking, she left treats for both of us: homemade cookies for me, and a small dish of fancy tuna for Fluffball.

I suppose even broken clocks are right twice a day.

Fluffball’s purr might have contained a note of satisfaction, but I refused to acknowledge it.

---

The Sophie Martinez situation proved that humans could miss the most obvious problems while obsessing over complicated solutions.

Poor kid can’t see the blackboard, and everyone’s wondering why her grades dropped. Sometimes I wonder how humans survived this long without proper canine supervision.

But my vision demonstration plan hit a snag when Fluffball appeared in the Martinez backyard, apparently conducting her own surveillance.

This is a delicate operation, Fluffiness. Your presence could compromise the entire mission.

“Mrow,” she said, settling into a perfect surveillance position behind Mrs. Martinez’s prize roses.

Fine. But if you mess this up, I’m telling Mrs. Kowalski about the time you knocked her favorite vase off the mantle.

When I began my tennis ball demonstration, Fluffball provided unexpected help. As Sophie squinted at the ball I’d tossed, Fluffball appeared next to it, her white fur making the ball’s location even more obvious against the dark patio stones.

The contrast was perfect: bright yellow ball, fluffy white cat, confused little girl squinting at something that should have been immediately visible.

“Sophie,” Mrs. Martinez said slowly, “can you see the ball? Or the cat?”

“The cat’s kind of blurry too,” Sophie admitted. “Everything’s been blurry lately.”

One week later, Sophie had glasses and was back to earning A’s. Mrs. Martinez brought us both rewards: peanut butter banana treats for me, and salmon treats for Fluffball.

I hate to admit it, but your positioning was… adequate.

Fluffball’s satisfied purr suggested she considered this high praise from a dog.

---

The Danny Nakamura situation required a different approach. This wasn’t about lost objects or hidden problems. This was about helping a lonely kid find his place in the pack.

Every kid deserves to belong somewhere. Even if that somewhere starts with one patient dog.

My daily friendship visits with Danny had been going well until Fluffball decided to insert herself into the operation.

I was conducting my usual 3:30 PM companionship session when Fluffball appeared on the Nakamura porch railing, apparently having decided that Danny’s growing animal expertise extended to cats as well as dogs.

This is my human, Floofball. Find your own.

But Danny was delighted to have two animal consultants.

“Oh wow, and here’s Mrs. Kowalski’s cat too! Look how she’s positioning herself where she can watch everything but still escape quickly if she needs to. Cats are much more cautious than dogs about new situations.”

Cautious. Right. That’s one way to describe pathological suspicion.

But I had to admit, Fluffball’s presence added something new to Danny’s animal education program. When other kids came by with pet questions, Danny could demonstrate the differences between dog and cat behavior using live examples.

“See how Biscuit approaches new people?” Danny explained to Emma Ramsay. “Head up, tail wagging, making eye contact? Dogs are social animals who want to connect. But watch the cat. She’s interested, but she’s staying high up where she feels safe, and she’s not making direct eye contact because cats consider that aggressive.”

Fluffball demonstrated perfect feline social dynamics, while I provided the contrasting canine perspective. Together, we became Danny’s living textbook on animal behavior.

I suppose there are worse partnerships. At least she’s not trying to knock Danny off the porch.

When the kickball games started including Danny as their animal relations specialist, both Fluffball and I found ourselves part of an expanding operation. Danny’s ability to understand animal psychology had made him valuable to his peers, and our presence backed up his expertise.

Look at that. Kid went from invisible to indispensable, and we helped make it happen.

Fluffball’s purr suggested she was equally satisfied with the outcome, though she’d never admit it.

---

Frank remained oblivious to my detective career, but he started noticing the partnership.

“Biscuit, why is Mrs. Kowalski’s cat always hanging around our yard lately?” Frank scratched his head, watching Fluffball perched on our fence. “You two aren’t exactly what I’d call friends.”

We have a professional working relationship. It’s complicated.

“And why are you both so tired every evening? What are you two up to?”

If only you knew about our caseload: ongoing remote management, regular vision check-ins with Sophie, friendship facilitation services, and three new families who’ve moved in and require assessment for potential mystery-solving needs.

Fluffball hopped down from the fence and, for the first time ever, approached my food bowl. She sniffed at my kibble, then looked at me with what might have been respect.

Don’t even think about it, Princess. That’s premium kibble.

But when Frank wasn’t looking, I nudged a few pieces in her direction. Professional courtesy between partners.

---

The storm hit on a Tuesday evening in late September, arriving with the kind of sudden fury that turned suburban streets into temporary rivers and made smart animals seek shelter immediately.

I’d been conducting my evening perimeter patrol when the first drops started falling. The wind picked up fast, bending trees and sending garbage cans rolling down the street like tumbleweeds.

Time to head home. This is going to be bad.

But as I rounded the corner toward Frank’s house, I heard it: a terrified whimpering coming from under the Patels’ car.

Oh no. Someone’s trapped.

A small beagle mix, one of the new neighbors’ dogs, was huddled under the vehicle, too scared to move as the storm raged around him. The poor thing was shivering and had obviously been caught outside when the weather turned.

Can’t leave him there. That car’s not going to protect him if this gets worse.

I approached slowly, using my calmest “I’m here to help” body language. The little dog looked at me with desperate eyes but was too terrified to come out.

Come on, buddy. I know a safe place.

That’s when the truck appeared.

It came around the corner too fast for the conditions, its driver struggling to see through the rain. The truck hit the standing water at the bottom of the hill and hydroplaned, sliding sideways directly toward the Patels’ driveway.

Move! MOVE!

I lunged forward, trying to grab the beagle and pull him to safety, but the little dog panicked and scrambled deeper under the car. The truck kept sliding, its front bumper heading straight for the vehicle we were under.

At the last second, I threw myself over the beagle, trying to shield him with my body. The truck’s bumper caught me instead, sending a shock of pain through my left side and throwing me several feet across the wet pavement.

Well. That’s not good.

The truck driver jumped out, horrified, but I couldn’t focus on his shouting. Everything hurt, and the rain was making it hard to see. The beagle was safe. I could hear him whimpering under the car, scared but uninjured.

Mission accomplished. Sort of.

I tried to get up, but my left leg wasn’t cooperating. The storm was getting worse, and I was lying in the middle of the street getting soaked.

This is a problem. Frank’s going to worry.

That’s when I saw yellow eyes gleaming from Mrs. Kowalski’s window.

Fluffball was pressed against the glass, staring at me with what looked like panic. Her mouth was open. She was yowling, though I couldn’t hear her over the storm.

Fluffball? What are you…

The cat disappeared from the window, then reappeared, then disappeared again. She was running back and forth, making enough noise that even from across the street I could see Mrs. Kowalski coming to investigate.

She’s trying to get help. For me.

Mrs. Kowalski appeared at the window, following Fluffball’s frantic gestures toward the street. The cat was practically throwing herself against the glass, pointing with her entire body toward where I lay.

Come on, Mrs. Kowalski. Follow the crazy cat.

It took three more minutes of Fluffball’s increasingly dramatic performance before Mrs. Kowalski grabbed a raincoat and umbrella and ventured outside. She found me immediately, thanks to Fluffball’s precise directional guidance.

“Oh my goodness! Biscuit!” Mrs. Kowalski knelt beside me in the rain, her hands gentle as she checked for injuries. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

The truck driver appeared, explaining about the accident, while Mrs. Kowalski called Frank and then the emergency vet. Through the rain, I could see Fluffball watching from the window, her tail twitching with what looked like anxiety.

Thanks, Fluffball. I owe you one.

---

The vet visit involved X-rays, pain medication, and a diagnosis of bruised ribs plus a sprained leg. Painful but not life-threatening. Frank fussed over me for three days straight, hand-feeding me pieces of roasted chicken and letting me sleep on the couch.

“You scared me, buddy,” he kept saying. “Mrs. Kowalski said you were protecting that little dog. That’s just like you, trying to help everybody.”

That’s what good detectives do, Frank. We protect our community.

On the fourth day, I was lying on the couch feeling sorry for myself when I heard familiar footsteps on the porch. Frank opened the door to find Mrs. Kowalski holding a cat carrier.

“Fluffball has been refusing to eat,” Mrs. Kowalski explained. “I think she’s worried about Biscuit. Would it be all right if she visited for a few minutes?”

Frank looked puzzled but agreed. Mrs. Kowalski opened the carrier, and Fluffball emerged with uncharacteristic caution.

She approached the couch slowly, jumped up beside me, and began the most gentle purring I’d ever heard from her. Then she did something that shocked me: she started grooming my ears with careful, delicate licks.

Fluffball? Are you… taking care of me?

“Mrow,” she said softly, which sounded more like concern than her usual sarcasm.

You saved my life, didn’t you? Made sure Mrs. Kowalski found me.

Fluffball settled beside me on the couch, her warm body pressed against my uninjured side. For the first time since I’d known her, she wasn’t trying to prove her superiority or claim territory. She was just there.

Thank you.

Frank stared at us in amazement. “Well, I’ll be. Look at that. You two are actually friends.”

Fluffball’s purr intensified and she tucked her head under my chin. I had to admit that maybe the line between enemy and friend wasn’t as clear as I’d thought.

---

Two weeks later, I was back on active duty with only a slight limp. Mrs. Patterson’s reading glasses had gone missing again. She’d apparently used them to examine her garden gnomes and left them perched on Gnome #4’s pointed hat.

I was conducting reconnaissance when Fluffball materialized beside me.

Great. Here to gloat about my limp?

But instead of her usual sarcastic commentary, she pointed one paw toward the gnomes and flicked her tail once. Check the ugly ceramic army.

Since when do you help without being asked?

She gave me a look that could have frozen water, then stalked off to investigate the suspicious activities of a squirrel near Mrs. Kowalski’s bird feeder.

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Patterson discovered her glasses on Gnome #4 and rewarded me with homemade liver treats. As I crunched my payment, Fluffball reappeared and sat precisely six inches away. Close enough to claim partnership credit. Far enough to maintain plausible deniability.

This is strictly professional, I told her.

“Mrow,” she replied, which clearly meant Obviously, fleabag. Don’t get sentimental.

But when Mrs. Patterson wasn’t looking, Fluffball knocked one of my treats in her direction with her paw. I pretended not to notice when she ate it.

The next week, the Rodriguez family’s car keys went missing. Their two-year-old had hidden them in the freezer, apparently conducting his own investigation into what happens when you put metal things in cold places. Fluffball provided indoor surveillance through the kitchen window while I handled external reconnaissance.

She spotted the keys first, a flash of silver behind the ice cream container, and made eye contact with me through the glass. Then she did something that should have been physically impossible: she rolled her eyes and pointed with her entire head toward the freezer.

Show-off.

But her intelligence was solid. When I led Mr. Rodriguez to the kitchen and began my “URGENT DISCOVERY” routine in front of the refrigerator, the keys were found within minutes.

Our reward came as a matched set: gourmet dog biscuits for me, imported tuna for her. We ate our respective treats on opposite sides of the Rodriguez patio, maintaining professional distance while occasionally glancing at each other to confirm we were both receiving appropriate compensation.

This arrangement is… adequate, I admitted silently.

Fluffball’s ear twitched in what might have been agreement.

When Danny Nakamura started middle school and needed backup for his first science presentation about animal behavior, he chose to demonstrate the difference between predator and prey responses using live subjects. Namely, us.

“See how Biscuit approaches new situations?” Danny explained to his classmates, who were visiting his house for the project. “Direct eye contact, open body language, tail wagging. Dogs evolved as pack hunters, so they’re naturally social.”

I demonstrated perfect canine confidence, approaching the group of twelve-year-olds with my best “friendly neighborhood dog” routine.

“Now watch Mrs. Kowalski’s cat,” Danny continued.

Fluffball perched on the porch railing, her yellow eyes scanning the group of kids like she was calculating escape routes and threat levels. Alert but not aggressive. Interested but ready to disappear at the first sign of trouble.

“Cats evolved as solitary hunters,” Danny explained. “They’re more cautious about groups because…”

That’s when Marcus Ramsay, attempting to impress a girl in his class, made the brilliant decision to grab Fluffball’s tail.

Fluffball’s response was swift and educational: she spun around, hissed once, and delivered a perfectly calibrated swat that left Marcus with three thin scratches on his hand and a thorough understanding of feline boundaries.

“And that,” Danny said calmly, “is why you never grab a cat’s tail. Biscuit, show them the difference.”

I approached Marcus, sniffed his scratched hand with appropriate concern, then sat down and offered my paw for shaking. Marcus shook it gingerly, and I wagged my tail to demonstrate that dogs generally forgave stupid human behavior more easily than cats did.

The presentation earned Danny an A+. His teacher was particularly impressed by what she called “the natural partnership between the two animals and their obvious intelligence.”

After the kids left, Danny brought us both treats. Premium dog biscuits for me, fresh salmon for Fluffball.

“You two are the best research partners ever,” he said, scratching behind my ears while Fluffball purred and rubbed against his leg.

I looked at Fluffball, who was eating her salmon with the satisfaction of someone who’d just provided a perfect demonstration of why cats deserved respect.

I suppose there are worse cats to work with.

She paused in her eating long enough to give me a look that said There are definitely worse dogs.

Then she went back to her salmon, and I went back to my biscuits, and neither of us mentioned that we’d just spent an entire afternoon working together without a single argument.

---

That evening, Frank stood in the backyard watching us conduct our joint surveillance of the new neighbors. Fluffball had claimed the fence post as her observation deck, while I handled ground-level reconnaissance. We’d developed a system of subtle signals. Her tail twitches meant “movement detected.” My ear positioning indicated “all clear” or “investigate further.”

The new family had three cats and a tendency to leave their garbage cans unsecured, which represented both an opportunity and a threat to neighborhood order.

“Will you look at that,” Frank mused, scratching his head. “Six months ago, you two couldn’t be in the same yard without starting World War Three.”

Fluffball’s tail flicked once (our signal for “human approaching from the east”). I turned to see Mrs. Kowalski walking over with a plate of something that smelled like fresh fish.

“I made extra salmon cakes,” Mrs. Kowalski announced. “Thought your detective team might be hungry.”

She set down two plates. Fish cakes for Fluffball, fish cakes mixed with rice for me, accommodating canine dietary requirements while acknowledging our equal status.

Frank watched us eat our respective dinners, maintaining a respectful two-foot distance from each other while occasionally making eye contact that conveyed professional appreciation.

“I still don’t understand how this happened,” Frank said.

Mrs. Kowalski smiled. “Maybe they just figured out they’re better together than apart.”

Fluffball finished her fish cakes and, in what had become her signature move, left one small piece near my plate before stalking off to conduct her evening patrol of Mrs. Kowalski’s garden.

I waited until she was gone before eating her leftover fish cake. Flaky salmon with just a hint of ginger.

Not terrible, I admitted to myself, watching Fluffball disappear into the shadows between the rose bushes.

From somewhere in the garden came a soft “mrow” that might have meant “you’re welcome” or might have meant “don’t expect this every night.”

Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.

The neighborhood was safer with both of us on patrol. Humans were still hopelessly incompetent at managing their own lives, but they had us watching out for them. Lost objects would be found, struggling kids would get help, and lonely neighbors would discover that sometimes friendship comes in packages you didn’t expect.

Plus, the treat situation has improved dramatically since Fluffball started sharing her intelligence about which houses give out the good stuff.

“Mrow,” she called from Mrs. Kowalski’s porch, which obviously meant she’d discovered that the new family had imported some kind of gourmet cat treats that might be worth investigating.

Duty calls. Time to get back to work.