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  • Writer's picturejshannon727

Detective Flea interviews the tabby cat

The pound has a smell you never forget. It’s pet dander, sprinkled with poor hygiene and whiffs of regret. I found our suspect, the tabby cat, at the end of a long row of crates.

“Are you my lawyer?” she asked me with a disappointed look.

“I’m Detective Flea,” I replied. “I have some questions about your recent arrest.”

“So do I!” the tabby laughed sarcastically. Then in an abrupt change of manner, she added, “You can call me Kiki.”

“Okay Kiki,” I said with a confidential tone. “Were you working alone when you broke into the White House?”

“Why don’t you open the door, so we can talk more intimately,” Kiki suggested. She sidled against the bars of the crate and pouted prettily.

I took a step back to put some distance between us. “Perhaps you partnered with a foreign agent or a co-conspirator from abroad?” I suggested.

Kiki’s green eyes glazed with delight, “Are you always so charming? So handsome?” She examined the wax stuck to the hair around my ears but barely flinched. With a dainty paw, she pointed to the door.

Instead of pursing the foreign interference theory, I followed a different hunch. “How does a stray like you maintain such a healthy body weight?” I asked.

Kiki abandoned all flirtatious notions. “I want my lawyer,” she demanded.

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