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If only she knew where the old lady was canvassing.

And then she had an idea, and started typing into her phone.

Chapter 23

“Oh, thank god, Father Reilly!” the man cried, and practically dragged the priest and his band of associates into the house. “Is it my wife? Has something happened to Alice?”

“Oh, no, I’m sure Alice is quite all right, Victor,” said the priest.

Grandma Muffin and Harriet and Brutus and Shanille had quickly followed in the priest’s wake, and now found themselves inside a house that was slightly dilapidated.

It had been Gran’s idea to start their door-to-door way out here, and then work their way back to town. She’d told her cats in the car that she now realized her mistake. People in the heart of town were all too arrogant for their own good. And that’s why they hadn’t taken her message to heart. But out here, in the sticks, people would be more receptive to the dog litter message. They were a lot dumber, sure, but also a lot nicer.

And it would seem her theory was correct: this Victor Ball guy certainly was very receptive indeed. Maybe a little too receptive.

Harriet was starting to have her doubts about the whole scheme. She now realized Max was right: it was too much for people, and too quick. These kinds of changes didn’t happen overnight, and would take a long time to gestate—years, maybe. And she didn’t feel like going door to door for the rest of her life, listening to Gran’s preaching, while she and Brutus and Shanille talked to the dogs. Most of the time the dogs they’d talked to were nice, but there had been some specimens that had been less than forthcoming, and told them in no uncertain terms what they thought of the litter revolution.

She glanced around. They were in some old farmhouse, and she saw that an old dog was lying on the couch, resting peacefully. She approached the dog, her companions in tow, and launched into her spiel, even as Gran and Father Reilly worked on its owner.

“Hey, there, dog,” she said. “Have you heard about the litter revolution currently sweeping the land? Do you want to be part of the avant-garde? A cool dog? A dog that is ahead of the pack? Well, you’re in luck, buddy, for we’re here to bring you up to speed…”

“He can’t hear you, Harriet,” said Shanille.

“Yeah, he’s either asleep or he’s dead,” said Brutus.

Harriet gave the dog a poke in the snoot. She didn’t like it when her words landed on deaf ears. “Hey! You! Wake up!”

The dog slowly opened its eyes. It was a large dog, of the Schnauzer variety, and now yawned cavernously, its maw gaping. Harriet reeled back. The stench! Unbearable!

“Yuck,” she said, waving a paw in front of her face. “Never heard of Tic Tac?”

“Oh, hey, cats,” said the dog, once it had focused its eyes on the feline trio. “Nice of you to pay me a visit. I don’t get a lot of visitors out here.”

“That’s so sweet,” said Harriet with a fake smile. “Now have you heard about the litter revolution or not? The movement sweeping through America? Well, you’re in luck—”

“Is that the werewolf Victor keeps going on and on about?” asked the dog.

“Werewolf?” asked Harriet, once again knocked off balance. Once she got going, it was important she be allowed to keep going until her pitch had reached its natural conclusion: the call to action. Now she had to start all over again, which she hated.

“Yeah, Victor met a werewolf late last night. Out by Garrison’s Field. He dropped his bike and ran all the way into town, the silly man. Police wouldn’t believe a word he said, though, which doesn’t surprise me. He’s usually more drunk than sober when he’s been out and about. But this time I think he might be onto something. I heard some weird rumblings about these sightings myself, from several of my buddies.”

“Rumblings about what?” asked Brutus.

“Well, like I said, a werewolf.”

“Werewolves don’t exist,” said Shanille. “They simply don’t. That’s just an old wives’ tale to scare the kids.”

“I thought so, too,” said the dog, “until I heard the same story from Franky, the German Shepherd who lives next door. His owner claims he heard a scream last night, but he’s usually drunk as a skunk, same as Victor, so I’ll bet no one believed him either.”

“Werewolf sightings, huh?” said Harriet. Well, it sure made for a nice change of pace from having to hawk litter all day long. “So what did he look like, this werewolf?”

“Big and hairy, according to Victor. And with long sharp teeth. He was howling a lot, too. It scared the hell out of him. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so scared.”

“What does he do, your Victor?” asked Harriet, her curiosity now thoroughly piqued.

“Oh, this and that. He collects old junk and then sells it as scrap metal, he’s got a couple of cows and sells milk—doesn’t bother with cheese or butter. Too lazy, I guess. And he has an orchard. Apples and pears. His wife Alice is the real breadwinner, though. She works in town as a cashier.”