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And as we all speculated on what the Queen’s corgis smelled like, and thought of ways and means to convince them not to murder us by hanging or removing our heads with an ax, the paperwork seemed to be in order and finally Odelia proceeded in the direction of the airplane, the muscular man stacked our pet carriers onto a trolley and started pushing it in the direction of the plane. It was almost as if we were in bunk beds—a truly novel experience.

“Why do you get to be on top, Max?” lamented Harriet.

“Just happenstance,” I said, though I preferred to be on top. I had a nice view, which I didn’t think Harriet had from down below on the trolley.

“It’s because Max is Odelia’s favorite,” said Brutus, harking back to a theme he likes to return to from time to time.

“I’m not her favorite,” I said. “We’re all her favorite.”

“She likes you more than the rest of,” said Brutus. “Admit it, Max.”

“I’m not admitting any such thing. If anything, she likes me less.”

“And how do you explain that?”

I didn’t. I just wanted to get on top of the argument. “Well…” I began.

“It’s because Max is the oldest,” said Dooley. “Everybody knows humans prefer the youngest child. They spoil it rotten and the same goes for cats.”

“Which would mean that she likes you best,” said Harriet.

“Hey, I guess that’s true,” said Dooley, sounding surprised.

“No, it means she likes me best,” said Brutus. “I’m the last one to join the family, so technically that means I’m the youngest child and I’m the favorite.”

“I like none of you guys best,” Odelia suddenly whispered as she bent down. “I like you all the same. And now will you shut up and enjoy the fun?”

I smiled.“See? She likes us all equally.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brutus grumbled. “That’s what she wants you to think. She likes me best, and that’s a fact.”

“I’m the youngest,” said Dooley, “so she likes me best.”

“But I’m the prettiest,” said Harriet, “and it’s a proven fact that humans like beautiful babies more than ugly babies. So she likes me best.”

“I’m strong,” said Brutus. “Humans appreciate strength more than beauty.”

And on and on it went. Cats. You can’t live with them. You can’t kill them.

Chapter 6

Like I said, I’d never flown on a plane before, but I’d heard all the horror stories. About cats being locked up in cages in the cargo hold, freezing their tushies off, or being cooked like a lobster. Or even being stowed in the overhead bin only to suffer a claustrophobic episode. So in all honesty I wasn’t exactly looking forward to my first experience as a passenger on an airplane.

On the other hand, the alternative was to stay home with Marge and Tex, and go without my favorite human for an unknown length of time, while she whooped it up over in England, solving crime and having a great time with Chase and Grandma and the lavender-smelling corgis.

So… when you’re forced to choose between the lesser of two evils, what do you do? Tough one, I know. We’d opted to join the adventure, after a unanimous vote. Harriet was the one most keen to take the plunge, as she’d always wanted to travel to London and see the sights—maybe put in some shopping on Bond Street or Harrods or even spend some time being pampered in some of those fancy pet clinics they have over there, where the rich and famous spoil their pets rotten. Though I pointed out to her that those rich and famous more often than not had dogs, not cats. One of those sad facts of life.

“So we’ll be the first,” she said stubbornly. “We’ll be the avant-garde of a new revolution: out with the pampered dogs and in with the pampered cats!”

“Good luck with that,” I said, reminding her she sometimes got seasick riding in the car with Gran.

“That’s because Gran is a terrible driver,” she snapped. “And I happen to have a very sensitive stomach.”

She does have a sensitive stomach. But then she has a sensitive everything.

“I also happen to think I just might have irritable bowel syndrome,” she went on.

“More like irritable person syndrome,” I said with a light laugh. She would have poked me in the snoot but we were still tucked tightly into our carriers.

The muscular man who’d driven the Range Rover now carried us aboard, along with more muscular men who seemed to be part of a group of muscular men. They all looked similar and I was starting to wonder if they were related.

“Who are all these people?” asked Harriet, as our carriers were deposited on the floor of a spacious cabin that did not look like the interior of all of those airplane movies I’d watched over the years. It looked a lot more luxurious.

“I think they work for Angela’s daughter,” said Brutus. “Tessa Torrance probably has lots of people working for her now that she’s a princess.”

“She’s not a princess,” said Harriet. “She’s a duchess. Duchess of Essex.”

“What does a duchess of sex do, Max?” asked Dooley.

“Essex,” Harriet corrected him. “It’s a place in England where they make reality shows. Or at least that’s what Gran told me.”