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“If only you’d taken better care of your teeth,Porthos,” said Harriet, giving me an icy look, “this would never have happened. So this is all your fault.”

“Why are you calling me Porthos? And how am I supposed to take better care of my teeth?”

“Porthos is the fat musketeer,” said Brutus. “He’s also very jolly,” he quickly added when I gasped in shock. “Fat, jolly and cheerful. He’s like Santa Claus. But with a sword.”

“Oh, my God,” I said, shaking my head in dismay. “I’ve never been so insulted…” That wasn’t true, though. I’ve been insulted a lot in my life. The curse of having big bones.

“You do look a little like Santa, Max,” said Dooley now, adding his two cents. “With the red head and the white beard and all.”

“It’s not a beard,” I said haughtily. “It’s my neck.”

“You should have brushed your teeth, Max,” Harriet said, not allowing herself to be distracted by all this Santa talk. “Twice daily, or even three times. Once after breakfast, once after dinner and once before going to bed. Didn’t your parents teach you anything?”

“Yeah, didn’t your parents teach you about dental hygiene?” Brutus echoed. “Take better care of your snappers, Max, and we wouldn’t have to eat this… junk.”

“Hey, I heard that, mister,” said Gran. “This isn’t junk. It’s chicken liver, chicken stomach, chicken hearts, chicken necks and… some other stuff. Cooked and put through the blender.”

“Did you really make this yourself?” asked Dooley. “You put in so much work, Gran.”

“Oh, well… “ said Gran with a throwaway gesture of the hand. “It’s a labor of love.”

“But you didn’t make this yourself, did you?” said Harriet, narrowing her eyes at the old lady.

Gran shrugged.“Who cares who made it? It’s good for you—and probably a damn sight better than that kibble. Who knows what they put into that stuff? Rat guts, probably, or pulverized beetles. Now eat up, before I chuck it all down the garbage disposal.”

Reluctantly, we all started eating from the cold pureed meat, straight from the fridge. It went down like cardboard. At least it was something, though, and after the ordeal I’d had the previous day I have to confess that I would have eaten pretty much anything.

Not Harriet, though, who, after one swallow, declared,“I’m not eating this crap. I’m sorry, but I’m not. I want my usual gourmet food, or else.”

“Or else what?” asked Gran, giving Harriet a distinctly nasty look—not the look a loving human is supposed to give a favorite and beloved pet, I might add.

“Or else I’m going on a hunger strike,” said Harriet, tilting up her chin.

“Suit yourself,” said Gran, and started collecting the bowls, then chucking their contents into the sink, turned on the garbage disposal, and let it chew up all of our food!

“Hey, you can’t do that!” Harriet cried, aghast at the chain of events her words had set in motion.

“Watch me,” said Gran, and we did. I hate food going to waste, even food that tastes as if someone has mixed in a splash of Drano, but this was taking waste to another level.

“Gran!” Harriet cried. “We have to eat!”

“I thought you said you were on a hunger strike?”

“You have to feed us!”

“Says who?”

“It’s in the Universal Declaration of Feline Rights!”

“There is no Declaration of Feline Rights,” said Gran. “And when I look at you bunch of ingrates I think a nice long fast will do you a world of good. Now if there’s nothing else, I’m off. Ta-dah.” And she hooked her arm into her purse strap and was off!

We stared after her, our jaws on the floor, except for mine, because opening my mouth that far still hurt a little.

“She can’t do this, right?” asked Harriet when we’d ascertained that Gran really had left the building.

“I think she just did,” I said, staring at the empty spot where my bowl used to be.

“We have to fight her on this,” said Harriet. “If I have to go all the way to the Secretary-General of the United Nations, I’m going to fight for my feline rights!”

“Good luck with that,” said Brutus, also looking distinctly dismayed at this sudden dearth of foodstuffs at our disposal.

“Just watch me. I’m going to fight until my dying breath!”

“Which may come a lot sooner than you think.”

Harriet pointed to the sink.“That’s waste. A waste of good food. What is Greta Thunberg going to say about this? Mh? She’s going to get mad. Mad at Gran. That’s what.”

“Uh-huh,” said Brutus sadly.

“Is Gran really going to starve us to death?” asked Dooley.

“I’m not sure, Dooley,” I said. “But it sure looks that way.”

And there was not a thing we or the Secretary-General of the United Nations or Greta Thunberg, whoever she was, could do about it.

Chapter 11

“I don’t like this, Max,” said Dooley, using one of his favorite phrases.

“Yeah, I don’t like it either,” I said.

“She can’t do this!” Harriet cried, starting to sound like a broken record.

“Maybe we should go and see what food Odelia has put out for us,” said Brutus, who turned out to be the only practical thinker in our small company today.