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“She came into the store the day before yesterday to buy shampoo, and so they got to talking, and one thing led to another…”

“So has Wilbur heard from her since last night?”

“Nope. He tried calling, he tried texting, but nada. She froze him out.”

“Poor Wilbur,” said Dooley with feeling.

“So look, Max,” said Kingman, giving me a serious look. “I feel for the guy, you know. He’s going a little nuts right now. He’s sent her like a hundred texts already, and he’s left about a thousand messages, and if he keeps this up she’ll probably go to the cops and have him arrested for stalking or harassment or something. So maybe you could ask Vesta to sit down and talk to him?”

“I don’t know about that, Kingman,” I said. “Gran and Wilbur went out on a date once, too, and it didn’t end well. So she’s probably not the best person to give him advice about his love life.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. So maybe Odelia? Or Marge? Marge is a book person. Maybe she can give him some hot tip that will turn this thing around.”

“But I thought you’d be happy to be rid of the woman?” I said. “There’s a fifty-percent chance that she hates cats, and that means you’re out, Kingman.”

“I know, but look at the guy.”

We all looked at the guy. He was sitting slumped behind his conveyor belt, listlessly scanning items, and looking like something Kingman had dragged in.

“He’s lovesick,” I said.

“How sweet,” said Dooley with a smile.

“So talk to Odelia or Marge, will you? Tell them to give Wilbur some advice. Cause if this keeps up, life with him will be a living hell.” He shook his head. “And to think it all looked so promising.”

“I’ll talk to Odelia,” I said. “What’s the girlfriend’s name?”

“Um, Loretta something,” he said. “Loretta… Gray?”

I frowned. Somehow the name sounded familiar.

18

Our next stop was the doctor’s office. But since we didn’t want to announce our visit, we decided to sneak around the back, and to this end we snuck down the blind alley that leads to the houses that face the back of Tex’s place of business. You see, Tex has one of those nice little city gardens, which isn’t reallymuch of a garden at all, but a couple of paving stones and grass surrounded from all sides by buildings. The only way to reach it is through the door of Tex’s little kitchen, or at least that’s the only way for humans to reach it. But as you may or may not know, cats are more agile than your garden-variety biped, so we jumped the dumpster that usually lines the back wall of that blind alley, then hopped up onto the wall, made our way over to the low roof of the next house, and then it was simply a matter of following along until we’d reached that small patch where Tex likes to sit with a cup of coffee and a newspaper on any given day, at least when he’s run out of patients to see.

He wasn’t sitting there now, though, which told us that he was probably busy inside, offering medical advice to some human in need, and as we hopped down, and then stealthily snuck up to the window, we soon found ourselves in the position that we could look into that small kitchen.

“The bottles will probably be in his office,” Dooley said. “He wouldn’t keep them in the kitchen where everyone can see them.”

“So how do we get into his office?” I asked.

“Couldn’t we ask Gran to spy on her son-in-law? She could sneak in when Tex is out and search his office.”

I stared at my friend. This was an avenue of thought I hadn’t pursued, and it sounded a lot easier and less stressful than what we were doing.

Then again, it was too late now. We were there, and I was adamant to find out what was going on before Tex accidentally cut out someone’s spleen or liver or, God forbid, their heart or lungs.

And as we sat there, glancing into the kitchen window, and seeing no sign of liquor anywhere, suddenly a large pigeon landed in the little tree in Tex’s city garden and regarded us censoriously.

“Hey, cats,” the pigeon said. “Looking for food, huh?”

Why is it that the first thing anyone thinks when they see a cat is that we’re looking for food?

“For your information, we’re not looking for food,” I told the large pigeon. “In fact I could probably tell you the same thing. Aren’t pigeons always looking for something to eat?”

“I resent that, cat,” said the pigeon. Then it made that cooing sound that pigeons are so famous for, flew down to the ground and pecked at a piece of bread that was lying there.

“We have a strong suspicion that one of our humans is an alcoholic,” Dooley said. “So we’re trying to collect evidence, so his wife and daughter can stage an intervention.”

“Not Doc Poole?” said the bird, for the first time giving the impression that he might be useful and not just a nuisance.

“Do you know Tex?” I asked.

“Oh, sure. He’s the reason I’m here right now. He saved my life, you know.”

“Saved your life?”

“Absolutely. I owe that man a big debt of gratitude. In fact I tell anyone who will listen that Doc Poole is by far the greatest human of his kind. A true hero to any pet facing a medical issue.”