Field Journal Day 74


When Horgan told me I would be doing another undercover mission, I thought it would be like the last one. I got out my carrier and my blanket, and snuggled right in. “I’m under the covers, Boss. When do we leave?”

“We’re not going to the airport this time, Timber.” He dumped me on the floor.

Honestly, I was relieved. Flying made me throw up.

But then he started packing the hair dye.

My long and luxurious silver and gray striped coat is my best feature. It is not my fault if I have gained fame and notoriety as a feline espionage agent over the past year of working for the CIA. Never again would I let Horgan dye me a dull, ugly, Garfield orange.

I bolted for the panic zone, but Pfizz was already under the bed, taking a nap.

“This location is for emergencies only!” I tried to shove him out of the way, but he’d wedged himself in between the ammunition case and a pile of gym socks.

He swatted my ear. “It’s warm. And quiet. Besides, Lester was making too much noise in the kitchen.”

I sighed and settled next to Pfizz, who I had grudgingly come to accept as a tolerable companion. Although he tended to bite first and ask questions later, even with his closest friends. That I was one of those said a lot.

Unfortunately, he was right about the kitchen. Lester was trying to make tuna fish cookies. Things weren’t going well with the blender. It sounded like something was being beaten to death by Play-Doh.

Something about the sagging mattress, the plush carpet, and the soothing darkness of the panic zone always lulled me to sleep. I had just shut my eyes when Horgan’s hand grabbed my tail. “Come here, Timber. You too, Pfizz. I need all of you guys for this mission.”

Horgan may have won this round, but I wasn’t going to help him. I let him drag me out, all twenty-eight pounds of sleek, lean, well-honed muscle.

He heaved as he tossed me on the bed. “You’re getting fat.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over a high-pitched electric whine. Before I could express my outrage, he called out, “Everything okay in there, Lester?”

“Fine! I’m just adding the butterscotch chips!”

Horgan winced. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I think Timber needs to go on a diet.”

“That’s not fair!” I cried. “Pfizz eats twice as much beef jerky as I do.”

“He exercises more.”

Which was sad but true. Pfizz was a tiny ball of black fuzz who packed a surprising punch despite his round little belly. If he wore clothes, he’d be a black belt in karate.

Pfizz landed on the bed in a Sumo attack stance. “Who are we going to kill this time?”

Horgan wiped his face with both hands. “We are not assassins. We are not Ninjas. You watch too much TV.”

The whirring, screaming noises in the kitchen screeched to a halt. Lester walked into the bedroom, wiping globs of batter off his chin onto his apron. Horgan had offered to sew one for Pfizz and me, too, but that was one thing we’d agreed on:

Cats don’t wear clothes.

“Have you told them about the mission?” Lester asked. Lester had been Horgan’s first secret agent cat, so it was no surprise he already knew about the mission.

“I was getting to that,” Horgan said. He picked up the bottle of hair dye. “Timber, we need you to—“

Pfizz bounced up and down on the bed. “Go to Hollywood? Has Garfield been kidnapped? Is Morris in trouble? Do I finally get to meet Sensei Wu?”

Horgan pushed Pfizz’s head down, ending with a gentle pat. “It’s better than that. My sister wants to hire us as private investigators. She thinks her cat is having an affair with another family.”

Continued in: It’s good to be a spy cat (Part 2)