1c8c0f371c0d914159db2df0bf94b5c6

But the priest was gone, presumably to return to his cherished woods. He reminded me of those soldiers in Vietnam who were never informed that the war was over.

“Poor man,” said Odelia. “He’s clearly lost it.”

And so Uncle Alec and Chase set off to retrieve the confused priest.

See what I mean? A nice zombie invasion brings us all closer together. Which is a good thing, wouldn’t you agree? It had gotten Uncle Alec his old job back, now that all that nasty gossip about him and Pamela Witherspoon had finally stopped, and it had even caused Gran and Scarlett Canyon to put their differences aside long enough to rail against Doc Clam, their common foe. So much to be thankful for.

“Do you think cows can be zombies, Max?” asked Dooley now.

“I doubt it, Dooley,” I said.

“Okay.” He paused, then: “How about chickens?”

“Um…”

“Or dogs or ducks?”

“Well, theoretically anything can be brought back to life, I guess.”

He smiled.“I like that, Max. I like that very much.”

“But why are you so adamant on zombies existing, Dooley?”

“Because everyone has a right to be alive, Max, even dead things. Life is so wonderful—why should we be the only ones that get to enjoy it?”

And then he put his head on his paws and dozed off, a happy smile on his face.

I watched as he slept, and thought of something Father Reilly was fond of saying: blessed are the pure of heart. For some reason Dooley always came to mind when I heard those words. And maybe my friend was right. Life was so precious even the dead deserved a taste of it. Though maybe, for the sake of my equanimity, not anytime soon!

21. PURRFECT SAINT

Chapter 1

I was leisurely lounging on the freshly mowed lawn behind the house I like to call my home, allowing the sun to play about my noble visage, and letting my paws dangle where they might. Birds were twittering in a nearby tree, lawnmowers were humming in the distance, and it was fair to say that this was a particularly wonderful time to be alive.

Next to me, Dooley was positioned in the same idle stance, lying on his back with his eyes closed, producing soft snores and generally enjoying a peaceful slumber.

No doubt you will tell me that a beatific scene like this is rare in a town as infested with crime and mayhem as Hampton Cove but you would be wrong. Generally speaking ours is a peaceable community, and if in the past I’ve given you the impression of the opposite I do offer my sincere apologies. It’s probably because when I regale you with my adventures and the happenings in my little nook of the world, like any storyteller worth his or her salt, I like to skip the boring parts and jump straight to the hot stuff. In between gruesome murders and spine-tingling crime, not much actually happens in Hampton Cove, which is why I tend to leave those interludes out of my chronicles.

And I’d just closed my eyes and was about to pay a visit to the land of dreams where no dogs exist and food is always aplenty, when a strange phenomenon attracted my attention.

“Pshhht!” said the rhododendron bush located to my immediate left.

I glanced over, intrigued. Rhododendrons are known in the close-knit community of shrubs and plants as the strong, silent type, in that they rarely, if ever, raise their voice.

“Pshhhht, Max!” the bush said, and I frowned. I may not be a stickler for formality but I like to have established relations with a bush before being placed on a first-name basis.

But then it occurred to me I had probably fallen asleep already and this entire scene was only playing in my head. A dream, so to speak, if a pretty mundane one.

So I simply closed my eyes again and decided to ignore these attempts to snag my attention. If next a rabbit jumped out from under the shrub and invited me to join him down his rabbit hole for a nice little visit to Wonderland, that was all right by me.

“Max! Over here!” said the bush, and once again I was compelled to glance over.

“Max, that bush is talking to you,” said Dooley, who’d apparently joined my dream.

“It’s all right,” I said. “We’re sharing a dream. Rhododendrons don’t speak. At least not in real life.”

“I know,” said Dooley. “But its voice sounds surprisingly a lot like Brutus’s.”

“Max! Dooley! It’s me—Brutus!” said the bush now, and I had to concede that Dooley had a point.

So it was with some reluctance that I heaved my lazy form from the smooth lawn and decided to see what was going on with my fellow cat. Dooley and I traipsed over to the bush in question and ducked behind it. Brutus, when we finally joined him, seemed both relieved and anxious.

“I’m in big trouble here, you guys,” he said. “Big, big trouble!”

Brutus is often in big trouble. He’s one of those butch cats, whose forceful personality tends to clash with other, more laid-back ones inhabiting our cozy hamlet. Brutus was born and raised in the big city, you see, and New York City cats, when they are repotted to the suburbs, sometimes have trouble adjusting to a more leisurely pace of life.