I ate grass out of sheer frustration. Then I upchucked the mess and sat there feeling utterly miserable for about an hour. When I was finally allowed back in I came with drooping head. I was thoroughly ashamed of myself for such childish behavior, but a complete admission of guilt was out of the question. Jacob forgave me right away, Jessie wasn't far enough from 'accidents' herself to condemn me, but I got stern looks from the parents.

I tried to please them by doing my Business in the box, rather than beside it. For some reason this brought howls of laughter. They didn't even yell at me for all the grit I kicked out on the floor, they just swept it up and told me to restrict my Business to the outside, where it belonged.

My one pleasure of the day was watching Jessie play Baby with Simon. She dressed him in a little yellow jumpsuit decorated with unicorns, and tied a pink bow in the fur between his ears. To his credit, he didn't fuss or scratch at her. He handled it with much more grace than I've shown in the past. But still the disgusted look on his face said it all.

When Mom and Dad went to check on Jessie before going to bed, they found her asleep with Simon hugged in her arms like a teddy bear. Simon was also sound asleep, his head snuggled up under her chin, and making a noise that could have been either a purr or a snore. Jake never let me sleep like that, something about dog drool.

I awoke the next morning hoping that it had all been a terrible dream, like the time I dreamed that I'd been put on a diet of Thriftee Value Dog Grub. I've eaten dirt that tasted better.

It was a Saturday. That meant Jacob and Jessie were allowed to ignore nutrition and have bowls of sugar encrusted cereal in front of the television while cartoons about shape changing robots blared. They always left a little sweetened mild in the bowl for me to lap up.

Jacob was having Marshmallow-Maple Crunch, and Jessie was having my favorite, Fudgey Flakes. Jacob left a couple of the tiny maple marshmallows in his bowl when he handed it over, and that was nice. But by the time I'd made sure that I couldn't lick the pattern off the bottom of the bowl, Jessie had handed her bowl over to Simon. All I could do was watch as he slurped down the chocolaty milk, and hope that it gave him cavities.

Simon spent the day exploring the house. Or, in my own terms, poking his nose into every nook and cranny, and into everybody's busi... affairs. He even sat beside the computer as Dad worked on his latest masterpiece. At least until he batted a piece of equipment off the table, then he was ejected. He seemed puzzled, and kept muttering to himself "But he said it was a mouse..."

He went under every piece of furniture and into every closet. Every shoe was sniffed, every bed tested for comfort. He was a thorough little thing, I'll give him that. He'd make a good junior security guard, if he wasn't so catly.

I found him in the laundry room that afternoon when I went in for a snack. Jacob had tacked an old piece of carpet to the wall. Simon was on his hind legs, scratching at it like he was trying to dig his way through the wall. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Gotta maintain the weapons. See?" He thrust a paw in my face, needle sharp claws extended.

I tried not to flinch back, remembering my nose. "Put those daggers away. I hardly think you need to worry about that. I take care of defense around here."

He shrugged. "I have to. It's my nature. All cats are natural warriors. It may be buried under a load of cat show ribbons, but it's there." I cocked my head skeptically. "Don't believe me? You've never gone around a litter of new kittens when the mother was there have you?" He smiled. "I saw my Ma rip the ear clean off a mongrel four times her size once." His smile faded. "I miss her."

Despite myself I was touched, remembering my own mother's passing. "Why did you leave home, then?"

"I didn't mean to. There was a fire in the dumpster next to where we had our box. We all got out okay, but there was so much confusion... Humans everywhere, running around and yelling... I have a crook in the tip of my tail from where one of them stepped on it. Smoke...water...I could hear Ma calling us, but I couldn't get through that stampede. I hid in a drain till it calmed down. When I went back to he alley, the box was gone. I never saw Ma or the other kittens again. She must've moved them somewhere else."

I hated to admit it, but a sad story is a sad story. "That's terrible. I'm sorry for your loss."

He shrugged, and fluffed his fur, trying to look tough. "I did all right. I made it to the park. There was always plenty of water, and sometimes there were picnic leftovers, if I could get to them before the squirrels and pigeons."

"I couldn't believe it when that little girl offered me a whole fish. I was suspicious, but I hadn't eaten anything but the bread crusts I could steal from the ducks for two days."

My tummy twinged in sympathy. Nothing but dry bread and water? "And then when they gave me the whole can, and nobody was kicking me or pulling my tail... I just knew that these were some special people, and I'd better stay as close to them as they'd let me. Do you know..." he lowered his voice confidingly. "they put perfectly good food down on the floor in here?"

"Of course. They're very good about that. Speaking of which, it's time for my snack, so pardon me." I went to my bowl, and stopped short. I mentally measured the contents. I was sure I'd left at least five or six mouthfuls in the dish, and now there was three, at the most. I dismissed the thought, and finished the rest of the food. Even I can make a mistake occasionally. I didn't stay long, because it was still drafty.

I didn't think about the mysterious food shortage till I came down for breakfast the next day. Simon was having a drink as I entered the laundry room. He greeted me so cheerfully that I didn't feel right ignoring him, so I inclined my head with gracious dignity, then went to my bowl.

It was wrong, it was distinctly wrong. Every morning and afternoon for the past seven years, one of the family had doled out precisely three-quarters of a cup of the current flavor of dog kibble. Today there was only two-thirds cup, no more. I looked at the shelf in the storage cabinet, but the bag of kibble was still there. That meant that they hadn't run out unexpectedly.

I looked at my rear end appraisingly. There had been nasty rumors about diets now and then, but I would think that they would inform me before taking such drastic action. Still a little uneasy, I decided that they must have made a mistake. "Like I did yesterday," I thought. "You said it yourself, Inga. Everyone can make a mistake." I made sure I was there to supervise the afternoon serving. It was all correct, three-quarters cup.

But when I returned for my bedtime snack, the few morsels I'd left were gone. And Simon was crunching something.

I am not one to jump to conclusions, but the evidence was clear. Three times my food had gone missing. Each time the only other animal in the vicinity was a cat. Simon, to be precise. I decided to get him to confess, so I said craftily, "How's breakfast, Simon?"

He swallowed. "Great, as always. Dad was putting something in the oven when I came in. It smelled like sour cream coffeecake." That almost distracted me, as I'm sure he intended, but I persevered. "Did you have enough to eat?"

"Not so much that I won't be able to handle as much of that coffeecake as they'll give me."

"I thought that maybe you were still hungry, and had looked around for a little more."

"Wasn't any more."

"Not in your dish." He just stared at me. "There was other food here." He scratched under his chin, and I gave up on subtlety. "Simon, did you eat my food?"

Now he looked surprised. "Yours? You mean that liver and bacon stuff? Sheesh, I'd have left that for the squirrels if I found it in the park."

"Ha! A likely story! The fact remains, my food has been disappearing, and you been at the scene each time. Confess!"

He thrust his face into mine and I flinched. He opened his jaws wide, lips wrinkling back from teeth that looked far too big and sharp for such a young cat. Then he exhaled, blowing a hot, fetid breath right into my face. Ugh! I hadn't smelled anything like that since Mom fertilized the rose bushes. It made my eyes water.

"Does that smell like liver and bacon to you, Miss Weed Patch? No, it smells like tuna and mackerel, which is what I had. All I had." His tail was lashing so violently that it made whapping sounds against the floor.

I was pawing at my nose, trying to drive out the stench. The air blowing from under the washer helped a little. "I believe you."

"Look, I may have snatched a few leftovers that weren't technically mine when I was living in the park, but that was survival. I'm not going to steal from someone who's taken me in. Not liver anyway." "All right, all right. I said I believe you."

"I don't care what you think." But there was a sad look in his eyes, and I felt ashamed of myself. He did care what I thought, and he was hurt that I'd accuse him.

But if Simon wasn't responsible, who was? Did we have a hungry ghost loose in the house? Jessie hadn’t tried to eat my food for almost a year now, though I still had to watch her with the dog biscuits. They looked too much like the teething cookies she'd had as a baby.

My food continued to vanish. It got so that I scarcely dared leave anything in the dish. The moment that it hit my plate I began bolting it down, and I just didn't get the same enjoyment out of it that I used to. What's more, Dad witnessed my hurry and interpreted it as greed, threatening to cut back my rations.

I decided that the only solution was a stakeout. I'd hide and wait for whoever, or whatever, was purloining my meals, and give them what for. I posted myself at the laundry room door one morning after breakfast and began the stakeout.

For days... well, hours... Okay, minutes... I sat there, head near my entrance flap, listening intently. Dad tripped over me on his way to wash a load of dishtowels, and I got a scolding for sitting in doorways. Every now and then I would poke my head quickly through the flap to check out the crime scene, but nothing. I gave it up when Jacob came home with a bag of chips he needed help eating.

That afternoon I found Simon sitting in front of his bowl with a puzzled expression. He reached in with his paw, gently touching the two or three nuggets of catfood, then nodded to himself. He carefully smelled the floor around the dish, then crept along the washer, nose to the ground. Another draft gusted, and he sneezed. Then he dashed to the back of the washer and thrust his head into the space between it and the wall.

"Did you know," his voice was muffled. "That there's a hole back here?"

"Of course I knew. The service man didn't fix it like he was supposed to. It means that we get cold when the wind blows."

"It means more than that, Miss Inga." He pulled his head out and looked at me. I took a step back. Simon's pupils had widened till his eyes looked black, with gold rims. He was showing needle sharp teeth in what could have been a smile. "It means we have a rat."