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“Let’s you and I have a little chat first, Kurtis,” said Gran.

“The name is Kurt, not Kurtis,” Mr. Mayfield growled.

I’d decided to linger in the hallway, to keep abreast of Gran’s progress. In case she spectacularly failed her mission, we probably needed to abort and do so on the double.

“Did you know that my son, your chief of police, has launched a new campaign to improve the health and safety of our beloved community?” asked Gran, launching into her spiel. “And did you know that as a consequence of his campaign he requires upstanding citizens such as yourself to adopt a new rule prohibiting the deposit of dog excrement on our town’s sidewalks? Yes, that’s right, Kurtis Mayfield. From now on, it is strictly forbidden to take your dog out for a walk and allow him to soil our trees, our pavements, our parks and our waterways with his poo and with his pee.”

“It’s Kurt, and I don’t get it,” said Kurt now, scratching his shiny bald scalp. “What are you saying, Vesta, cause it all sounds like gibberish to me?”

“I’m saying that Wilbur Vickery has a great deal on litter boxes and you need to take advantage of this promotion and get yourself one of those fine items pronto and then you’re going to train that silly mutt of yours to take a dump in the box from now on.”

“You’re telling me to do what?!” Kurt vociferated.

“I’m telling you that your chief of police wants you to stop messing up the sidewalk with your dog’s disgusting crap, Kurtis. And if you can’t get that simple message through that thick skull of yours, I’ll make it even plainer: stop polluting my town or else!”

“This time you’ve gone too far, Vesta,” growled Kurt. “Show me where it says I can’t take my dog out for a walk. Show me this new rule of your son and I’ll gladly comply.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about the new rule. It is coming, and faster than you think. As soon as Alec is appointed mayor, the rule is going to be voted in so fast it’ll make your head spin. In fact it’s the first policy he’ll put to the vote, his crowning achievement.”

Kurt stared at Gran for a moment, then declared,“I always said you were nuts.”

And slammed the door in her face.

Which had as a consequence that five members of the CCREC were now effectively locked in with this irate cat-hating neighbor, and one presumably vicious dog.

While I’d stayed behind to keep an eye on the proceedings, my fellow CCREC’ers had gone in search of Kurt’s mutt, and now returned, their search having proven fruitless.

“I don’t think this man has a dog, Max,” said Shanille, reporting from the trenches.

“Oh, yes, he has,” I said. “He got his dog around the same time Marcie and Ted Trapper got Rufus. It’s a happy little yapper that answers to the name Fifi.”

I decided to head into the backyard, which was an easy feat to accomplish, as Kurt had installed a pet door similar to Odelia’s. I squeezed myself through the thing—it was a lot smaller than Odelia’s—and found myself in Kurt Mayfield’s backyard, which wasn’t as nice as my own, but nice enough for a man living by himself. You hear these stories about confirmed bachelors: how their houses are a mess, and their backyards are complete jungles, but Kurt obviously was a man who appreciated order and cleanliness, and both his house and his backyard were nicely maintained, I had to admit.

“Fifi,” I called out. “Where are you?”

And then I saw her. The little Yorkshire Terrier was hiding behind a tree near the back fence, and just about all I could see were two beady eyes and a quivering snout.

“Oh, there you are,” I said, and approached the little doggie carefully. She might be small and cute, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t also be vicious—a happy little biter.

“There’s something we need to discuss, Fifi,” I said. “Something that will benefit you.”

“Don’t hurt me, cat,” said the Yorkie. “Don’t scratch me with those claws of yours.”

“Scratching you is the furthest thing from my mind,” I assured the sweet little thing.

Behind me, four more cats had squeezed through the pet flap, and now joined me as I prepared to give Fifi the CCREC talk, as outlined and drilled into us by Grandma Muffin.

“The thing is, Fifi,” I began, “that there’s a revolution sweeping through Hampton Cove right now. Dogs from all shapes and sizes are taking part in this revolution and joining this popular movement and I’m sure you don’t want to be left behind, right?”

Fifi didn’t respond, but merely crawled further behind the tree, looking even more scared than before. Then again, if one cat scares the bejesus out of you, five probably are a living nightmare.

“Why is she hiding, Max?” asked Dooley. “Doesn’t she like us?”

“I think she’s scared of us,” I intimated.

“A dog? Scared of a cat? I didn’t think that was possible,” said Shanille.

“Well, it is possible, and Fifi is obviously very scared, so maybe you guys should back off a little and give her some space,” I suggested.