“Of course, Harriet,” said Rufus. “What do you want to know?”
“You’ve heard me sing, right?”
“Oh, lots of times,” said Rufus. “And you have a lovely singing voice. Very… clear.”
She perked up considerably. “So would you say that you enjoy my singing? That you actually like to listen to me sing?”
“Of course,” said the big sheepdog. “Who wouldn’t? Your singing is like listening to a church bell. It’s very loud and very clear.” He smiled. “I like loud and clear voices. Not like those modern singers who mumble and you practically can’t make out what they’re singing.”
Harriet seemed extremely pleased with this compliment from an unsuspected source. She turned to Fifi, and the latter already knew the way the wind was blowing, for she held up a paw. “Yes, I like your singing, Harriet,” said the little Yorkie. “It’s just like Rufus said: you sing very loud and clear, and I enjoy that very much. Like the sound of a car horn, you know. Or a fire truck. You hear it and immediately you’re like: that’s Harriet singing. Unmistakable.”
Harriet didn’t seem entirely sure if she had just been given a compliment or not, but decided to accept it anyway. “Why, thanks, Fifi,” she said, and cast a meaningful look in my direction. “See, Max? There are pets who appreciate true art. You could learn a thing or two from Fifi and Rufus.”
“Oh, but I agree that your singing is very loud and very clear,” I said. It just wasn’t a lot of fun to listen to. Just like Fifi had indicated, it was like listening to a car horn or a fire truck. It’s distinctive, and it certainly has its purposes, but you can’t listen to it for hours at a time.
We had arrived at the park, and Harriet immediately went in search of Shanille, the choir conductor, to ask her how she felt about her qualities as a singer. Which just goes to show: even when you think you’re about to die, you better hold back on blurting out those truth bombs.
I joined Kingman, who was standing on the sidelines for a change and wasn’t the center of attention like he usually was. “Everything all right, buddy?” I asked.
“I can’t complain, Max,” he said, and I got a feeling he was about to do just that. “The thing is that I’ve been eating the same kibble for a week, and I’m getting a little bored, you know.”
“Wilbur keeps feeding you the same stuff?” I asked.
“He thinks it’s all different brands he’s giving me to try out, but when you get right down to it, it all tastes the same. Just like that kibble you guys tried today, remember?”
“But that was the same kibble,” I said.
“No, it wasn’t. It was different, but in the end it was the same. Very odd.”
“Maybe it’s all the same company? And they simply use different labels?” I suggested.
“It’s possible. I don’t like it, Max. If they put a different label on it and use different packaging, you expect there to be a difference, right? But there isn’t. It’s all the same. Identical.”
He had certainly changed his tune, as he had insisted before there was a big difference between Brand A and Brand B. Having snacked on the stuff all day, he had come around to my way of thinking.
“Max!” said Dooley as he came hurrying up to us. “Come quick. It’s Harriet. She’s picking a fight with Shanille!”
“Oh, dear,” I said, and hurried after my friend. It was as he had said: Harriet and Shanille were at daggers drawn for some reason.
“I’m the finest singer this choir has ever had,” said Harriet. “And I’ll prove it right now!”
“Oh, please don’t, Harriet,” said Shanille. “Let’s just get to our rehearsal, shall we?”
Harriet looked around at the other members of the choir, who had all gathered around the two ladies. “I’m going to sing a song—any song—and you have to give me either a thumbs up or a thumbs down. The majority will decide whether I stay on as lead soprano or I quit the choir. Is that clear?”
There were loud cheers, as cats all love a spectacle, and this was definitely going to make a big splash.
“Okay, give me a song to sing,” she told Shanille.
The choir leader rolled her eyes. “Look, all I said was that there is always room for improvement. You’re an excellent singer but you’re not perfect. But then nobody is!”
“Just give me a song, Shanille!” Harriet demanded.
“Okay, so how about Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now?” said Shanille.
Harriet smiled. “You’re on, sister! Oh, you are so going to regret taking on this wager!”
“But I didn’t take on any wager!” Shanille protested. “I just want to get back to our regular rehearsal. Can we not stop this silly nonsense?”
In response Harriet opened her mouth and started wailing Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now to the excitement of all those gathered around. She certainly put the power in the word power ballad, I thought, as the hair on the back of my neck rose from her rendition of the popular song. When she paused to take a breath, plenty of thumbs went up—and down—and as she looked around, I could tell that she was a little disappointed that not all thumbs pointed to the sky but that a lot of them pointed to the ground. “Okay, give me another song!” she snapped.
Shanille sighed. “Fine. How about It Must Have Been Love?”
Harriet did as the choir leader suggested, and expertly massacred this lovely song in her own typical fashion. This time more thumbs pointed up than down, and it was clear that this pleased her to no end. “Another one!” she demanded. “Three out of three!”
“Um… try Heaven, the Bryan Adams song,” said Shanille.
And as our friend started belting out the opening notes of the famous tune, I could see plenty of cats grimacing a little as their eardrums were being subjected to a particularly brutal treatment. Several shoes started landing all around us, proving that the park’s neighbors had also joined the wager and were voting with footwear instead of their thumbs. I didn’t know how to interpret this, though. Was a thrown shoe a thumb down or up? Hard to determine! This time the number of thumbs pointing down were in the majority, causing Harriet to be faced with quite the head-scratcher. Was she in with a chance or out on her ear?
She turned to Brutus. “Did you keep count, smoochie poo?”
“I did, as a matter of fact,” said her loyal and faithful mate. “I counted more thumbs up than down—plenty more, my precious angel.”
Harriet shook her fist and did a little victory dance on the spot. “See!” she told Shanille. “I’m popular—the most popular soprano this choir has ever had!”
“You’re the only soprano this choir has ever had,” said Shanille, never one to mince words. “And I never said you weren’t good, Harriet. I just said there’s always room for improvement.”
“You’re wrong, Shanille,” Harriet snapped. She tossed her head back dramatically. “You can’t improve on perfection and I’m the living proof!”
