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The painting Harriet had thusly created essentially consisted of blots and splashes. I guess it was art of some kind, though of course I’m not an expert.

“Very nice,” I murmured as I regarded our friend’s latest creation.

“It’s very… colorful?” Dooley tried.

Harriet regarded us sternly. Clearly such half-hearted praise would not do.

“Nice? Colorful?” she said. “Is that the best you can do? Don’t you mean earth-shatteringly innovative? Stunningly creative? Stupefyingly amazing?”

“Absolutely,” I quickly said. “All of that and more, I’m sure.”

“Mh,” she said, giving me a distinctly critical look. “Brutus!” she bellowed, waking up her loyal mate. “What do you think?”

“It’s wonderful, sugar plum,” the black cat rasped sleepily. “Absolutely gorgeous.” He opened his eyes. “What am I looking at?” And when Harriet pointed toward her painting with a sort of indulgent smile, I could see how Brutus winced a little, but then managed to plaster a sufficiently appreciative expression onto his mug. “Great stuff!” he finally croaked, but he couldn’t stop one eyelid from trembling at being subjected to such a smorgasbord of riotous color. It’s one thing to practice the novel art of paw-painting, but it’s quite another to do it well, and I think it’s safe to say that Harriet hadn’t yet moved past the novice stage.

She now frowned.“One problem I seem to be facing is that paint is so hard to get off. Just look at my paws.” She held up her paws, which usually are a pristine white, but were now covered in a smattering of color.

I staggered back at the sight. No cat enjoys the prospect of getting even a teensy tiny bit of dirt on their coat. It’s a matter of pride to be clean. And now this!

“Harriet, that’s terrible!” I cried. And I wasn’t even referring to her painting.

“Yeah, how are you going to get that off?” asked Brutus with a frown of concern.

“Oh, stop fussing,” said Harriet. “It’s just paint. The lifeblood of my art.”

“Better be careful,” I warned her. “Some of these paints are poisonous.”

“Yeah, some of it is full of lead,” Brutus added as he regarded his beloved nervously for signs of lead disease.

“I’m sure Odelia wouldn’t buythat kind of paint,” Harriet said dismissively. “She’s a responsible pet parent, and would never put me in harm’s way.”

“Still,” I said. I suddenly found myself wondering about the dangers of art. Hadn’t I heard stories about artists who’d died destitute and in ill health? Some of them living in the gutter? Maybe toxic paint was a factor in these situations.

“You’re absolutely right,” said Harriet after I’d relayed my concerns.

“I am?” I said, much surprised. It’s a rare thing when Harriet agrees with me on anything. Secretly, of course, I was hoping she’d give up painting, which would certainly be beneficial to our mental health.

“And so I’ve decided that from now onyou’re going to do the actual painting!” As she spoke these words, she was directing a proud look at Brutus.

At first, our friend didn’t respond. I don’t think he’d actually realized the implications of Harriet’s words, to be honest. But when he finally did, he gave me a startled look, then said, in a sort of hoarse whisper, “What, me?!”

“Yes, you. You’re a terrific artist, Brutus, and I’m going to prove it. Under my guidance you’ll become almost as good as me.” And she beamed upon him with pride, not unlike a parent looks upon a favorite, even though dimwitted, child.

“But… I can’t paint!” Brutus cried.

“Of course you can paint. Anyone can paint. Now get off your tush and let’s get to work!”

CHAPTER 3

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And while Harriet was grooming her newly discovered assistant and a new burgeoning talent was about to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world, we decided to look for our peace and quiet elsewhere. And that’s how we arrived in the next-door backyard where we came upon Marge, our human’s beloved mom.

Oddly enough, Marge didn’t look her customary relaxed self. She wasn’t reading a hefty page-turner in one of the lounge chairs positioned there just for that purpose. Instead, she was standing behind what looked like an easel, squinting at it with a sort of pensive look in the one eye that was still open.

“What’s that in her hand, Max?” asked Dooley in a sort of hushed tone.

“If I’m not mistaken, Dooley,” I said, studying the object under discussion more closely, “I think that’s called a brush. And it’s commonly used to paint things.”

“Paint what?” he asked.

“Well, I would assume she’s painting something on the canvas she’s staring at.”

“I don’t get it,” said Dooley. “I thought Marge was a librarian, not a painter?”

“If Harriet is to be believed, anyone can paint, Dooley, even librarians.”

We circled the entrancing scene, careful not to disturb Marge, who was obviously in the throes of some artistic mood. Once we caught sight of the canvas, I saw she was painting what looked like a tree. Or at least as much like a tree as can be accepted, taking a liberty with the limitations of the physical universe.