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Chase, walking out after me, saw me staring at the pool and must have misinterpreted my expression for one of admiration, for he said proudly,“Yeah, I did that. Pretty simple, really. Just like fixing a bicycle tire. And this time please be careful with the nails, will you? I don’t want to have to patch that thing up again.” He grinned at me. “Go on, Max. I can see you can’t wait to jump in and practice your floating technique.Do you want me to give you a hand?”

And then, showing me that he knew absolutely nothing about cats and their habits, he actually picked me up and deposited me squarely into the middle of the inflatable pool!

I squealed in shock when the cold water hit my newly shaved belly, but Chase merely laughed.

“I love it when you do that, Maxie,” he said. “Tell me when you’ve had enough, will you? I’ll be inside.” And much to my dismay, he returned indoors, and simply left me there!

No, Chase clearly wasn’t Jesus. Jesus would never have dumped me in a pool of cold water. And Jesus would most certainly not have turned his back on me in my hour of need!

“Heeeeelp”! I cried therefore, because once again I found myself incapable of navigating that slippery plastic pool bottom for fear of going under for the first and final time. “Heeeeelp meeeeee!”

But the only one answering my call of distress was an owl, and all he said was:“Ooooh-ooooh.”

Fat lot of good that did me.

So for a moment I just stood there, frozen in place, and then my brain rebooted and I started thinking up ways and means of escaping my terrible predicament. Harriet and Brutus had gone out, presumably to attend cat choir in the park, and Dooley was still inside, probably stretched out on the couch and taking a well-deserved nap after the trying times at the Garibo plant.

Basically all I had to do was wait for a human to appear on the scene—any human would do: Odelia, Marge, Gran, or even Tex or Chase. And they’d fish me out of the pool and that would be the end of my renewed acquaintance with that terrible contraption.

Only no human was showing their face. Used to be the streets of Hampton Cove were teeming with them, but these days they all preferred to stay indoors, close to their air-conditioning units and glued to their televisions.

“Heeeeelp!” I said therefore, with renewed fervor. “Heeeeelp meeeeee!”

A cat’s meow can be quite loud and persuasive, but so far I wasn’t having any luck. And then suddenly help came from an unexpected corner when Fifi appeared on the scene. “Max? What’s going on?” the little Yorkshire Terrier asked as she stuck her head through the tiny hole in the fence.

Fifi belongs to Kurt Mayfield, who’s Odelia’s next-door neighbor and not a great friend of cats. Kurt, I mean, not Fifi, who’s just the sweetest little ball of fluff around.

“I’m stuck in this pool,” I explained. “Can you help me?”

“Oh, sure,” said Fifi, and darted through the hole and into our backyard. She tripped up and studied the situation from every angle, which is to say she circled the pool three times in one direction, then repeated the procedure in the other direction before finally coming to a full stop and staring at me excitedly, panting all the while.

“Why don’t you just come out, Max?” she asked, which wasn’t helpful, I can tell you.

“Because this pool floor is slippery,” I explained, “and if I move I’m going to trip and fall and then I’m going to drown.”

She stared at me, then at the water, then back up at me.“I don’t understand,” she said.

Of course she didn’t. Dogs are excellent swimmers. Like human babies they can probably swim the moment they are born. So I sighed deeply, and revealed a big secret no cat likes to admit to a dog—ever. “Cats don’t swim, Fifi. We just don’t. We hate the water, and fear it.”

She frowned.“I don’t understand,” she repeated.

“Look, I can’t swim, all right?”

“But there’s hardly any water in there,” she said. “You can’t drown in a foot of water, Max. It’s impossible.”

“Oh, trust me, I can and I will drown in a foot of water. In half a foot of water, even.”

“No, you won’t. Trust me. All you have to do is swim to me and you’ll be fine.”

“I’m telling you, Fifi: I cannot swim. No cat can.”

“I’m sure that’s all in your head, Max. I’m sure you can swim if you want to. Now just close your eyes and visualize yourself swimming and then open your eyes and do it!”

If there’s one thing I hate it’s these kinds of motivational hacks. Visualize yourself rich and you’ll win the lottery. Visualize yourself thin and you’ll lose a hundred pounds in a day. It just doesn’t work like that! And I was about to tell Fifi when I hit upon the solution for my predicament. “You can swim, right?”

“Of course I can swim,” she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, which to her it probably was!

“So maybe you can wade in and come and get me?” I suggested.