Squirrels, Suspects, and Severed Heads

It was a Saturday afternoon when I discovered the gruesome scene. Perched grotesquely atop our television set was the severed head of my mother's prized canary, Sir Bananas. I stood frozen in shock, staring into its tiny, accusing eyes.

“Oh, this is so not good,” I whispered, biting my lip.

“What's not good, Princess Flat Face?” drawled a bored voice from the windowsill. I spun around to see Mr. Boots casually licking his paw, acting completely indifferent.

“You! Did you do this?” I pointed dramatically at the bird's remains.

He slowly raised his emerald eyes, flicked his tail, and yawned. “Do what? Decorate the room with your mother's flying alarm clock? Please, Lady Short Muffin, I have standards.”

I folded my arms, skeptical. “You realize you're suspect number one, right?”

“I suppose you'd blame a cat for having claws, too,” he sniffed, resuming his grooming.

“Mr. Boots, you're the only one who could've gotten to him. We don't exactly have bird-murdering ghosts.”

He tilted his head slightly, giving me a flat look. “Ghosts would be a more likely culprit, Meat Breath. Why would I soil my paws with yellow fluff?”

Ignoring his sass, I took out my trusty notebook, flipping dramatically to a fresh page. “Let's review the facts—”

He groaned theatrically, rolled onto his side, and started batting at his worn-out stuffed mouse.

“Are you even listening?”

Slowly, deliberately, Mr. Boots looked up at me, the toy dangling from his mouth. He paused, then opened his mouth, letting the mouse drop to the floor. “Yes, Madam Noisy, please bore me with your profound detective skills.”

I sighed, tapping my pencil against my notebook. “Fact one: Mom left for yoga at precisely ten o'clock.”

“Ah, the thrilling intrigue,” he purred sarcastically, pacing slowly around me.

I shot him a glare. “Fact two: I spent thirty minutes in my room, writing my mystery blog.”

“Ah yes, that literary masterpiece with six readers.” He stopped to chew on the toy mouse's ear thoughtfully.

“And fact three: At exactly 10:47, I came downstairs to discover—”

“Canary tartare?” Mr. Boots interrupted lazily. He flopped onto the rug, paws in the air, completely indifferent.

“No, the severed head!” I exclaimed. “Mr. Boots, you have motive and opportunity!”

“Oh please, Stinky Feet. Motive? Do you really think I crave something that tastes like a feathery lemon sponge filled with stupid syrup? I prefer rodents. Preferably the crazy kind. They taste like seasoned pork.” He began cleaning his hind leg vigorously.

“Can you not do that right now?” I scowled. “It's distracting.”

He paused mid-lick, green eyes narrowing slightly. “Is this investigative jealousy, Stubby Nose? Or are you just uncomfortable with a little feline flexibility?” He resumed cleaning with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Stop it!” I squeaked, turning away. “It's not appropriate.”

Finally, he sighed dramatically and stretched out on his side, tail flicking slowly. “Fine, fine. Continue with your tedious theories.”

“I think you're guilty, but I just don't get why you'd leave the head there. It doesn't make sense.”

“Precisely, Penny-Poop-Face.” He got up and began pacing around the TV, scrutinizing the scene mockingly. “A little sloppy, don't you think? Clearly, this was a frame job. Someone wants me out of the picture.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And who, exactly, would want to frame you?”

He paused dramatically. “Who wouldn't? I'm handsome, charming, and supremely intelligent. Quite frankly, I'm astonished it hasn't happened sooner.”

“You're ridiculous,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “Look, either confess or help me figure out who did this.”

He blinked slowly, then sauntered over, sitting neatly by my feet. “Very well, Lady Short Stick, since you're clearly helpless without my superior intellect.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He sniffed delicately. “Did you consider the window?”

I glanced over; it was slightly ajar. “What about it?”

He sighed again, dramatically loud. “The squirrel mafia, of course.”

I stared at him blankly. “The…what?”

He leaned closer, eyes wide with mock seriousness. “They're vicious, organized, and have been targeting Sir Bananas ever since he taunted them from his cage. Honestly, Penny, keep up.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. “You can't be serious.”

“As serious as a hairball at midnight,” he replied gravely. “Squirrels have a wicked sense of humor. They're sending a message.”

“And that message is…?”

“Keep your tweets to yourself, birdbrain,” Mr. Boots deadpanned, batting his toy mouse across the carpet.

I sighed heavily, rubbing my forehead. “You're impossible. Fine, if it wasn't you, and it wasn't the imaginary squirrel mafia—”

“Alleged squirrel mafia,” he corrected.

“Then who?”

Before he could answer, the front door swung open. Mom stepped in, holding her phone, looking sheepish. “Um, Penny, dear? You didn't…find anything weird in here, did you?”

“Uh, you mean like Sir Bananas head?” I said cautiously.

Mom blushed deeply. “Oh dear. I told your Aunt Lydia not to bring her ferret over with her when she dropped off the blender I let her borrow. It doesn’t like birds. She just texted me that she did and that it got away from her and is somewhere in the house. Have you seen it?”

I turned slowly to Mr. Boots, who raised an eyebrow smugly. “I told you it wasn't me. Apology accepted.”

“You didn't—”

With a swish of his tail, he turned, proudly displaying his rear end as he strutted off. “Next time, listen to the superior species, Fat-Head. I left a present for you on your pillow.”