Chapter 13
Chip
The Country Cottage Café, late at night, is where calories don’t count and dignity goes to die.
Josie agreed to let Fish and me do a little patrolling while she went up to catch some zzz’s.
I’m stationed under table three, where an elderly gentleman with shaky hands is eating apple pie.
He’s good for at least three dropped crumbs per bite.
Fish has claimed table seven—a mother with twin toddlers who throw more food than they have on the table.
And Sherlock Bones patrols the perimeter, catching anything that rolls.
Status report, I announce to my team. Table three is producing steady results. Anticipating whipped cream spillage within two minutes.
And it will all be mine. Everyone knows it’s prison rules when it comes to whipped cream.
Table seven is chaos, Fish reports. The kids are flinging scrambled eggs. It’s undignified but pretty profitable when it comes to filling our bellies.
Y’all are doing this all wrong, Cupcake says from her position by the dessert counter.
Yeah, we’ve let her in on the loot. Who could blame us? She’s got the face of an angel and the body of a circus performer. Is there a better combination? I think not.
You wait by the kitchen door, sugar pie, she gives a soft woof my way. That’s where the waitstaff has been known to drop entire plates.
That’s cheating, Sherlock protests. The sport is in the hunt, not the ambush.
Sport? Cupcake’s Southern accent drips with disdain. This is survival, sugar. We’re not playing games here.
A French fry hits the floor near table four, and both Sherlock and I lunge for it.
MINE! we shout simultaneously.
I saw it first! I yowl.
I’m closer! he barks.
I’m faster! I try again, even though we both know it’s a lie.
I’m hungrier! he howls.
He looks a little thin around the ribs. He just might be hungrier indeed.
Fish delicately picks up the fry while we’re arguing and eats it with the smugness of a feline that actually relies on strategy instead of appetite.
Settle down, boys, she mewls as she licks the salt off her paw.
Rub it in, why don’t you? I growl.
The bell above the door chimes, and Bizzy walks in from the lobby, checking on the late night crowd.
“Are you four terrorizing my customers again?” she asks with a friendly laugh.
We immediately assume our we’re-just-innocent-little-pets positions.
I flop on my side, showing my ample belly.
Fish sits perfectly still like a statue with her front paws crisscrossed to make her look more girly than she already is.
Cupcake does that head-tilt thing that makes hoomans coo at her as if she’s a newborn.
And Sherlock wags his tail so hard his entire back end moves with unmitigated glee.
“Ha! Nice try, guys,” she says, giving Sherlock a quick scratch between the ears. “I’m not buying it.” But she’s already reaching for the treat jar behind the counter.
Mission accomplished, Fish murmurs.
We should do the cute thing more often, I suggest.
You can’t do cute, Fish replies. You can do pathetic and spherical, but you still need to work on cute.
My sphere IS cute! I protest with a yowl.
A crash comes from table seven, and we look over to see that one of the toddlers has knocked over an entire glass of milk.
JACKPOT! Sherlock barks, already moving.
That’s dairy, Fish warns. You know what dairy does to your digestive system.
It’s still worth it! he calls back, already lapping.
Come on, Chip, Fish calls out as she darts in that direction and slashes her tail over Sherlock’s hind leg. Leave the milk to the professionals, you big oaf. She glances back my way. Move it, Chip! We’ve got a milk cleanup to conduct, and it’s the delicious full fat variety!
Twenty minutes later, we’re all suffering from what Bizzy calls snack comas but what I call strategic food storage and a decent milk buzz. Tomorrow there’s another murder to solve, another TV show to perform for, another costume to endure.
But right now, in the Country Cottage Café, surrounded by my crew and the promise of dropped bacon at breakfast, life is good.
Same time tomorrow night? Sherlock asks with a woof.
We wouldn’t miss it, Fish mewls back. The widow at table two always orders too much on purpose.
And tomorrow they’re serving those maple donuts, Sherlock adds with an enthusiastic bark. Someone always drops maple donuts.
Y’all are assuming we survive tomorrow, Cupcake points out. A majority of us are employed at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland.
We all pause, considering.
Good point, I concede. We’d better eat extra tonight. Just in case.
And we do.