Turning down the little side street toward his and Clyde's white Cape Cod cottage, running beneath its sheltering oaks toward the ragged lawn that Clyde seldom mowed, and the gray shake roof that constantly needed fixing-repairs supplied by Clyde's girlfriend, Charlie Getz-Joe breathed in the comforting, warm smells of home.

But crossing the yard, eyeing Clyde's antique Chevy roadster still parked in the drive, knowing Clyde had not yet left for work, he began to wonder what Clyde was going to say about bringing the two puppies home.

And he wondered if, when he tried to get a message to Max Harper about the cut brake line, Clyde would respond in his usual supercritical manner-if Clyde would hide the telephone and give him another of his high-handed lectures about how cats should not get involved in police business. How he, Joe Grey, ought to mind his own simple affairs. How Max Harper needed to pursue his official police business unencumbered by inappropriate feline meddling.

3

TROTTING UP the three steps to his cat door, Joe could smell coffee and fried eggs mixed with the meaty scent of dog food. He slid inside fast, under the plastic flap. Behind him, the pups pushed their black noses through-two wet, disembodied snouts sniffing and shoving, forcing his cat door so hard he thought they'd rip out the metal frame.

The familiar room embraced him: the shabby, soft rugs; his own tattered, fur-covered armchair by the window; Clyde's new leather chair and ottoman, which were the latest additions to the room; the potted plants that Charlie had brought over to soften the stark bachelor quarters. And, best of all, Charlie's drawings of Joe and Dulcie, and of Rube and the household cats, handsomely framed and grouped on all four walls. These finer touches had turned the tatty room into a retreat with charm enough to please any human or feline. If Clyde ever married, Joe hoped tall, slim Charlie Getz, with her kinky red hair and freckles, would be the one. The fact that she could fix the roof and repair the plumbing, as well as decorate a house and cook a mean steak, was a definite plus.

Charlie had figured out on her own that Joe Grey and Dulcie were more than your average cats. But she had kept her mouth shut, and this was more than a plus. In Joe's book, Charlie Getz was already family.

Though so far there was no talk of a wedding. Charlie seemed happy in her own small studio apartment above the village shops, from which she ran her housecleaning-and-repair business.

"Joe? That you? What's going on out there? What's all the banging? You stuck in your cat door? I told you you're getting fat."

At the sound of a human voice, the pups went wild, pawing and whining.

"Shut up!" Joe hissed. "You want to get your heads stuck in that little square hole? Idiots!" He was rooting at his back to dislodge a flea-thanks to the strays- when Clyde strode out of the kitchen and stood looking at the two black noses pushing in through the cat door.

Joe concentrated on licking his shoulder.

"Now what've you brought home?"

"What do you mean, now} What have I ever brought home? I didn't bring those home." He regarded the noses as if he had never seen them before.

"You have brought home dead rats," Clyde began. "Dead birds. That live bird that plastered its feathers all over the kitchen. Live snakes. Not to mention a parade of randy and ill-mannered lady cats. Before you met Dulcie, of course."

"Dulcie is a lady."

"Don't twist my words."

"Are you implying that Dulcie is not a lady? Or that she is not welcome?"

"I am not talking about Dulcie. You have brought home enough trouble through that cat door to send me to the funny farm for life. There's never a week, Joe, that you don't get into some kind of new predicament and drag your problems home. Do you see these gray hairs?" he asked, pointing to his ragged, dark haircut.

"Debauchery," Joe told him. "That's what makes gray hair. Too many women and too much booze. That's where the gray hairs come from."

"I guess you should know about debauchery, every hair on your lecherous body is gray. Before Dulcie, you…"

"Can't you leave Dulcie out of this? What do you have against Dulcie?"

"I don't have anything against Dulcie. If you had half her decent manners-to say nothing of her morals and charm and half her finesse-life would…"

"Oh, can it, Clyde. Dulcie's a female. You want me to act all prissy, tippy-toe in here every morning smelling of kitty shampoo and primrose-scented flea powder?"

Clyde sighed and retrieved his coffee cup from atop the CD player. He was dressed for work in a pair of clean jeans, his new Rockports, and a red polo shirt beneath a white lab coat that, this early in the morning, was still unsullied by the grease from a variety of BMWs and Jaguars. His dark hair was damp from the shower, his cheeks still ruddy from shaving.

Clyde regarded the two large canine noses, then regarded Joe. "You'd better tell me what this is about.

But please, make it brief. Cut to the chase, Joe. It's too early for a long-winded dissertation."

Joe chomped the offending flea. The one-spot flea killer was okay, but it took the little beasts a while to die.

"Joe, where did you find the dogs? Why did you bring home two dogs? From the size of their noses, I assume they are rather large. From the sound of them and their behavior, I imagine that they are young. What are they, Great Danes? Are there more outside? What did you do, drag home a whole litter?

"I did not bring them home! There are only two. I think they're half Great Dane."

"They followed you by accident. You really didn't know they were there." Sighing, Clyde stepped to the front door.

The instant he turned the knob releasing the latch, the pair burst through, in their enthusiasm slamming the door against Clyde and slamming Clyde against the wall.

Dancing around the living room like two drunk buffalo in a phone booth, the pups leaped at Clyde, delighted to meet him, ripped his lab coat across his chest, and slurped dog spit across his face.

Joe, having fled to the top of the CD player, watched their happy display with interest.

"They're hungry, Joe. Look at them, they're all bones. They need food. Can't you see they're starving?" Clyde knelt to hug the monster puppies, his voice softening to a patter of pet words that sickened the tomcat.

"They can't be five months old." He looked up at Joe. "They're going to be huge. Where did they come from? Where did you find them? Well, you could at least have found some food for them-"

"Caught them a rabbit, I suppose?"

"Well, yes, you could have done that."

"And give them tularemia? Pierce their livers with rabbit bones?"

Clyde rose and headed for the kitchen, trampled by the fawning pups. "You don't have tularemia. Your liver seems okay."

"I'm a cat. Cats don't get tularemia. My liver can handle anything. They're here only because they followed me, because I couldn't ditch them. There was a wreck-"

"They're probably thirsty, too. Look at them. You could have led them to some water."

"I'm trying to tell you, there was a wreck. The cops are there now. If you would listen…"

Clyde lifted the loose skin on one pup's neck and let it go. It didn't snap back, but remained in a long wrinkle. "They're dehydrated, Joe."

He filled the dishpan with water and set it on the floor.

"Will you listen to me! There was a wreck. A car went into Hellhag Canyon," Joe shouted over the racket of the two pups slurping and splashing. "The guy lost his brakes-nice '67 Corvette-powder blue- totally trashed it."

"Really?" Clyde said with more interest. "A Corvette. I haven't seen a '67 Corvette around the village in a long time. Was the driver someone we know? How bad was he hurt? Are the police there?"