Free To Die Fur (A Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Mystery) by Dixie Lyle Page B

intrusion on his privacy if it keeps him safe.”
    In the end, we decided that our best defense was to stay alert but not overreact. Navarro wanted to create fear, and ZZ was determined not to give in. The man was to be treated civilly, much like an envoy from another country that was doing some aggressive saber-rattling but hadn’t actually declared war. Shondra would install her cameras and keep her law enforcement pals apprised of the situation, and ZZ would make sure Navarro was aware that the authorities were now involved.
    And me? I was told to go home.
    “I’m going to stay here,” Shondra said. “No arguments, ZZ. This is what you pay me to do.”
    “You’re always welcome to spend the night, dear,” ZZ said diplomatically. “I’m going to sleep shortly, Foxtrot; you should go home and do the same. One of the biggest weapons in the arsenal of psychological warfare is exhaustion, and we can’t afford a sleepless night. Come back tomorrow when you’re well rested; I’m going to need you at your best.”
    [Good advice. A soldier sleeps whenever he can, because he never knows how long he’s going to have to stay awake.]
    Thank you, General Patton . “I agree. I’ll see you all in the morning. Come on, Whiskey.”
    *   *   *
    On the drive home, Whiskey said, [I’m worried about Tango.]
    “Really? Why?’
    [Any animal in the grip of its reproductive system is inherently undependable.]
    I sighed. “Technically, that’s just about every being on the planet. All the living ones, anyway.”
    [Being a spirit does give one a certain objectivity.]
    “Sure. Except you’re still a creature of instinct, right? So you’re not exactly Mr. Spock yourself.”
    [I don’t understand the reference.]
    “Though your ears are kinda pointy.”
    [Still don’t know what you’re talking about.]
    “And your current form is a hybrid—half dingo, half drover.”
    [This is becoming tiresome.]
    “And you’re telepathic! Oh, my God, you’re a Vulcan!”
    [Vulcan is not a breed I am familiar with.]
    “Can you show me how to grab someone’s neck and make them fall down?”
    [Yes, but it takes strong jaw muscles and it’s rather messy. Now, about Tango—]
    “Tango’s fine, Whiskey. She’s just got a crush.”
    [If she gets too close to Augustus, she’s the one who could get crushed.]
    “She’s infatuated, not brain-damaged.” I paused. “Granted, the two conditions do share some symptoms. Drooling, poor judgment, mood swings…”
    [It’s her impulse control I’m worried about.]
    I had to admit that Tango sometimes rushed into things without giving them enough consideration. On the other hand, she could also sit and focus on a single thing for hours. If she were human, I’d call her obsessive-compulsive with a touch of mania.
    But she wasn’t. She was a cat, which meant I really had no idea what was normal for her and neither did Whiskey. “I get that you’re worried. We’ll keep an eye on her and speak up if we think she’s about to do something rash. We’re her partners; she’ll listen.”
    [And if she decides to go ahead and do whatever we’ve warned her about anyway?]
    I shrugged. “She’s a cat, Whiskey. She’s going to do exactly what cats always do.”
    [Whatever she wants?]
    “Yep. Whatever she wants…”
    *   *   *
    The next morning I took Whiskey for his regular walk—as an ectoplasmic being he didn’t need to eat or excrete, but the daily constitutional was about more than mere bodily functions. I called it checking his P-mail.
    “So what’s going in the neighborhood?” I asked him when we’d gone around the block and sniffed at every relevant fence post, tree, and damp patch on the ground.
    [The Shultzes’ dachshund has switched to a new, lower-fat dog food. The German shepherd at the corner has been drinking from the toilet again. And the Pekingese next door has worms.]
    “Ew. Sorry I asked.”
    We got in the car and drove. I’d already called ahead to talk to