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“Turn it over,” said Marge. “Maybe there’s something written on the bottom.”

Obligingly Vesta turned the object over, and they both frowned when they saw that on the bottom a sticker had been glued, announcing that the object was actually part of a collection of objects, number 141 in a series of 360, in fact, and made by one Otto Spiel.

“Otto Spiel,” said Vesta. “Sounds German. Do they have goats in Germany?”

But Marge was already pointing her phone’s camera at the object and entrusting Google Lens with supplying the solution. Promptly a picture popped up, and she clicked through to a Wikipedia page. “Otto Spiel,” she read, “was an early twentieth-century Austrian sculptor and artist, famous for his series of female goatherd figurines, which are highly sought after, and which sell at exorbitant prices at auctions held all over the world.” Her eyes widened when she read on. “An original Otto Spiel goatherd figurine typically sells for one million, and in some cases even up to four million—Oh, my God!”

“Oh, my God,” her mother echoed, as she reverently turned the figurine over in her hands, then ever so carefully set it down on the kitchen table. “Four million dollars!”

Tex, who’d returned to the kitchen, laughed when he saw his wife and his mother-in-law staring at the goatherd as if it were the Second Coming. “Still looking at that thing?”

“Tex?” said Marge, slowly raising her eyes from the goatherd to her husband. “It’s an Otto Spiel.”

“A what now?” asked Tex, opening the fridge and taking out the jug of OJ.

Vesta now turned the label in Tex’s direction. “An actual Otto Spiel, Tex.”

Marge reread the Wikipedia entry, bringing her husband up to speed on all things Otto Spiel, but even then it took some time for the good doctor to put two and two together. But when his brain finally made the necessary computations and permutations, his jaw dropped precipitously, and so did the jug of OJ. He actually had to support himself against the kitchen sink as his eyes goggled at the little girl goatherd.

“Oh, my God!” he cried, earning himself knowing nods from his family members in response. He then glanced up at the kitchen cupboard. “But… how did it get up there?”

“That,” said Marge with a shrug, “is the million-dollar question.”

Vesta grinned.“And you can take that literally.”

Chapter 3

One of the disadvantages of being a cat is all of that fur that we carry. Humans did the smart thing and lost most of their fur a long time ago, possibly around the time they learned how to walk on their hind legs, but cats hadn’t made it to that stage—yet.

So there we were, Dooley and I, standing stiff as boards in the middle of that inflatable pool, the sun relentlessly beating down on us from a clear blue sky, and our thick coats of fur doing very little to make our position more agreeable.

“Maybe we can move inch by inch,” Dooley suggested. “In a couple of hours we might reach the edge.”

We both glanced at the edge, which seemed miles away, but when I moved a paw, it immediately lost traction and I almost submerged into the cold waters of the pool!

“Max, careful!” Dooley yelled, horrified at watching an accident in progress right under his nose.

“I’m not moving a muscle,” I announced, thoroughly shaken by my brush with death.

For a long moment, we were both silent, then Dooley suddenly cried,“I’ve got it!”

“Dooley, please don’t yell like that,” I said plaintively. “You’re giving me heart palpitations.” I was indeed starting to feel a little faint.

“Why don’t we make a hole in the bottom of the pool? That way the water can escape and before we know it the pool will be empty!”

It was an excellent idea, and proof that when placed under considerable pressure, the feline mind can come up with some of its best ideas.

“Great idea, Dooley,” I said therefore. “Let’s give it a shot.”

So I extended a claw, and dug in, and since Dooley did the same, I was sure that soon we’d see the water level start to drop precipitously.

Unfortunately between dream and reality there’s a huge chasm at times, and this was clearly one of those times, as the water level wasn’t dropping, precipitously or otherwise.

“The holes probably aren’t big enough,” Dooley said. “Let’s try again.”

So we tried again, and dug in all of our nails in equal measure, giving that thick, slick plastic the full acupuncture treatment.

Alas, to no avail, as ten minutes passed and nothing happened. Probably the pool was pressing down on the lawn too tightly, and the water had no avenue of escape—like us.

“Max!” Dooley said suddenly. “I am starting to feel weird. As if I’m going to pass out.”

“Me, too, buddy,” I said. “But we’ve got to hang in there. We’ve got to survive long enough for Odelia to save us!”

Odelia, or any other human who might pass by. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be any human within earshot, for we’d already given hollerin’ and yellin’ for help a shot, and that hadn’t brought success either.