Free Whisker of Evil by Rita Mae Brown

effusive. That was dog stuff.
    The humans chatted. Tazio, who was half Italian and half African-American, was warm, gentle, and very, very gifted. Young as she was, she was being sought out for large commercial commissions ever since her design won the competition for the new University of Virginia Sports Complex.
    Just then Paul de Silva came in to pick up his mail.
    â€œPaul, hear you went up in flames.” Fair pointed to Paul’s cute, tight rear end.
    A small burn hole in his left back pocket was evident.
    Paul, embarrassed, told his story and was delighted when Tazio laughed, too. They walked out together, his heart beating so hard in his chest he could barely breathe. He still couldn’t work up the nerve to ask her out, but she smiled at him, giving him hope.
    Miranda, observing this from inside the post office, said, “They make a cute couple.”
    Harry and Fair turned to look.
    â€œThey do.” Fair smiled. He was much more romantic than Harry.
    But even Harry agreed. “They do.”
    â€œOf course, not as good-looking as you and I.”
    â€œFair.” She punched his arm but was nonetheless pleased at the compliment.
    Mrs. Murphy rolled her eyes.
“Another woman would have kissed him, but, no, Harry punches him.”
    â€œShe’s dyslexic,”
Pewter said.
    â€œShe can read fine,”
Tucker opined.
    â€œEmotionally dyslexic,”
the gray cat shrewdly said.
    The other two remained silent but knew there was truth to Pewter’s insight.

10

    P otlicker Creek earned its name in the early nineteenth century. The runoff from the eastern slopes of the Blue Ridge Mountains, clear and cool, tumbled into Potlicker Creek and many others that ultimately rolled into the James River, the first river in the New World to nourish an English colony, which survived back in 1607.
    The Native-American name of Potlicker Creek had been lost along the way. The strong-running waters took on a succession of names over the centuries depending upon who owned the land, but finally, after the War of 1812, Potlicker Creek stuck. The many stills tucked away in the hollows along the creek testified to the curative effects of the water when distilled.
    Harry and Fair worked the western bank while Susan paralleled them on the eastern. The cats stayed with Harry, while Tucker and Owen assisted Susan.
    The deep pools under the overhanging trees remained still, the current gentle underneath. Small schools of smallmouth bass called rockfish in these parts lazed there along with other fish.
    Muskrats plied their trade, skippers darted on the glassy pools, while blue herons and green herons fished along the banks. Crayfish burrowed to get away from those long, lethal bills. Frogs croaked, turtles slept in the sun.
    The late-afternoon warmth lulled everyone except the insects. As the humans would approach, small clouds of tiny black no-see-ums would flare up, occasionally aided by a hornet buzzing by to a football-size gray home hanging overhead from a sycamore limb.
    The deer slept in small coverts, the squirrels dozed in their nests, and the groundhogs, already plump, waddled in the small meadows that dotted the woods like green jewels.
    The goldfinches and purple finches chirped and darted about along with bluebirds, indigo buntings, and nuthatches. Cultivation was close, and the birds made the most of having the best of both worlds. Then, too, finches are active little creatures with bright black eyes, missing nothing.
    The cats ignored the chirping and chatter. Never let a bird know it’s getting to you.
    The humans diligently looked for any suspicious sign—a weathered rock pile, a beaten-down mound. Nothing presented itself except for the occasional faded beer can, a few old glass soda bottles from long before they were born. Susan could never resist that stuff and soon she was toting her treasures, begriming herself in the process.
    They walked about three miles away from the borders