“Okay, so if your big brother is also my big brother,” said Dooley, who’d been thinking hard, “that means you and me are brothers, Brutus. Which means we’re family!”

  “Oh, Dooley,” Harriet sighed.

  3

  “So did you have a good time?” asked Marge later that evening during dinner.

  “Oh, absolutely,” said her husband Tex as he pronged a piece of fish and brought it to his mouth. We were sitting out in the backyard, enjoying one of those balmy evenings that are such a blessing. Around the dinner table sat the entire Poole clan, of course, but also Charlene Butterwick, Uncle Alec’s girlfriend and also the town mayor, and Scarlett Canyon, Gran’s best friend.

  “Did you shoot a lot of nice footage, Dad?” asked Odelia as she fed me a piece of that same fish, which I took an appreciative preprandial sniff at to start those gastric juices flowing. Then she stared at me, and before I could stop her, picked up the fish and said, “According to Vena we should limit your intake of animal proteins, Max, and judging by the Better Pet Yet dashboard I’m afraid you’ve already reached your limit for today.”

  “But-but-but!” I sputtered. But Odelia was already turning back to her table partners to continue the conversation and paid me no mind. Clearly the discussion was closed!

  “I shot a lot of footage,” said her dad, “but I have no idea how to access it.” He turned to his son-in-law. “Maybe you can help me, buddy. How do I get that footage onto my PC?”

  “Can’t be that hard, Dad,” said Chase, nodding. “I’ll give you a hand after dinner.”

  “So where did you go?” asked Gran.

  “Just the park,” said Uncle Alec as he buttered a piece of French toast. And as the three men shared a knowing glance, suddenly I had the feeling there was something they weren’t telling us. The others hadn’t noticed, as they happily prattled on, the conversation now turning to those snazzy new collars we’d all been outfitted with. But since the dinner table no longer held any promise of food for me, I turned away, feeling a little dejected, and slunk onto the porch swing to lick my proverbial wounds and heal my bruised ego.

  “You’re not getting any more food, Max?” asked Dooley, who’d been snacking on a piece of fish and now took a break.

  “No, Odelia says I’ve reached my protein intake for the day.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” said my friend. “Do you want some of mine?”

  I eagerly stared at the remnants of his meal, but then shook my head. “I’d better not. Odelia is right. I need to watch what I eat.” The recent episode of getting stuck in that awful pet flap had rankled, and I didn’t want to repeat the experience if I could help it.

  “You’re absolutely right, Max,” said Brutus, who finished eating his share of fish and now released a tiny burp to indicate he’d eaten his fill and didn’t want for more.

  “Yeah, Max, you definitely have to watch what you eat,” said Harriet.

  “Easy for you to say,” I grumbled. “You can eat as much as you want without gaining a single ounce. I just have to look at food and I’m gaining weight already. It’s just not fair.”

  “It’s those big bones of yours, buddy,” said Brutus with a nasty grin.

  “Ha ha ha,” I said. “Very funny, Brutus. You can’t imagine what it’s like, to have my body constitution. It’s not much fun.”

  “I know, buddy,” said Brutus ruefully. “I was just kidding.” And he slapped me on the back so hard I almost toppled off the swing. “You know what you should do? Gain muscle, and lose that flab. It’s the flab that gives you trouble,” he added as he poked me in the belly, and caused ripples to form there. And then, since he seemed to like the effect of his poking, he jiggled my belly for good measure and loudly laughed at the resulting effect.

  “Oh, stop it, Brutus,” said Harriet. “You’re being very mean.”

  “It’s called tough love, sugar bun,” said Brutus. “Max needs to change his ways, and with me as his trainer, I can assure you he will.”

  I looked up at this. “You’re going to be my trainer?” I asked.

  “Of course, buddy! We’re besties. And I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I allowed you to continue down this road, would I now? So I’m going to train you, and when I’m through with you, I can promise you this: you’ll be in the absolute best shape of your life. Rock-hard pecs, not an ounce of flab on you—in other words: a completely new you!”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, causing Brutus to give me a distinct look of censure.

  “That’s not the positive mental attitude I like to see in my trainees, Maxie baby. Tomorrow, bright and early, I’m starting you on your training program. And I’m not taking no for an answer,” he added when I opened my mouth to protest. “This is happening.”

  “Oh, sweet pea,” Harriet gushed. “You’re a true friend to Max, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, snuggle bun. I love the big guy, and I want to see him healthy and happy!”

  “Look at this,” said Odelia, as she held up her phone. “This is Max, see? And this is his heart rate, his blood sugar level, his blood pressure, and see, this is how many steps he’s walked today—not enough, I can tell you,” she added with a glance in my direction.

  I offered her an appropriately contrite look. I had spent a lot of time on the couch. Frankly I’d been feeling a little weak, now that I was limited in what I could eat. Of course it could all be in my head, but I had experienced a definite sort of weakening sensation.

  “And what’s that?” asked Tex, interested in the new gadget.

  “Those are his brainwaves,” said Odelia. “It shows you what he’s thinking right now.”

  “That’s so cool,” said Charlene. “You can tell from this thing what Max is thinking?”

  “Well, it’s not sophisticated enough yet, but Vena said that Intended2, the company behind Better Pet Yet, in time wants to be able to translate pets’ brainwaves into actual speech patterns and thought patterns, so we’ll know exactly what they’re thinking.”

  “You mean we won’t need your special skill to understand our pets?” asked Scarlett.

  “Isn’t it great?” said Marge. “Vena said that if this thing works the way it’s designed to, we’ll all be able to understand our pets, what they need, what they want, what they’re telling us. That way when they’re in pain, they’ll be able to tell us, and we can do something about it.”

  “This is nothing short of revolutionary,” said Tex admiringly.

  “I think we should try this out on our patients, Tex,” said Gran. “That way we can monitor them twenty-four-seven.”

  “I don’t know,” said Tex. “It seems like a nifty device for pets, but humans are a different beast altogether.”

  “I’d try it if I were you,” said Uncle Alec. “It will give you a definite advantage over the competition.”

  “What competition? I’m pretty much the only doctor in town.”

  “This is the way of the future, Tex,” said Marge. “And I think you should get on board.”

  “Mh,” said the doctor, who didn’t look entirely convinced of the collar’s benefits.

  “Imagine Ida wearing a collar like this,” said Gran, referring to Tex’s most faithful patient. “You’ll know she’s sick before she does. And so you’ll work in a preventative capacity and head off any diseases before they even have a chance to manifest!”

  “No more cancer,” said Chase, nodding. “Or heart disease. Sounds good to me, Dad.”

  Tex shrugged. “Sounds like a lot of maybes.”

  “Nothing maybe about it,” said Gran. “You better get on board this train, Tex, or else someone else will, and you’ll be left behind.”

  “I think I’d want to outfit my boyfriend with this,” said Scarlett. “If I can read his mind I’ll know when he’s thinking about another woman and then I can dump his ass before he jumps into bed with her.” She gestured to Odelia. “Sign me up for one, hon.”

  Odelia laughed. “This is designed for pets, Scarlett—not boyfriends.”

  “So? A boyfriend is a pet, right? Not as loyal, obviously, but still a lot of fun.”

  Once more the three men at the table shared a look of significance, and I wondered what this was all about. Clearly they were up to something, but what?

  But since I had more important things to worry about, namely this ridiculous diet Vena had put me on, and whether I’d ever be able to fit through the pet flap again, I decided not to bother. If they wanted to be secretive, it was their right. In a world dominated by Better Pet Yet, Marge, Charlene and Odelia would know exactly what their men were thinking, by interpreting their brainwaves, and frankly it wasn’t the kind of world I wanted to live in. The sanctity of my brainwaves is important to me, you see. At least I think it is. I’ve never actually looked into what my brainwaves are all about. Maybe there’s nothing special about them. Maybe they just show a big image of a nice juicy fish filet or a healthy portion of chicken kibble, and now that I wasn’t getting it, I was upset!

  4

  That night the four of us were the talk of cat choir. With our cool new collars every single member of the choir wanted to know where they came from, what they did, and where, after we’d explained the ins and outs of the high-tech gadgets, they could get their paws on one.

  I wasn’t so sure any pet would want one, but clearly the notion of being monitored every minute of every day didn’t seem to scare off our friends. They saw the benefits and weren’t too worried about the disadvantages or even the blatant violation of their privacy.

  “I think it’s amazing,” Shanille announced, cat choir’s director. “Father Reilly knowing what’s wrong with me would be so great. Like when I have a headache or something.”

  “Do you have a headache?” asked Dooley, interested.

  “Well, not right now, Dooley, but I get headaches from time to time, sure. Don’t we all?”

  Dooley stared at her, as if the very notion of headaches was alien to him.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure I want Odelia to know more about what’s going on with me than I do.”

  “No, but see, Max, that’s your problem right there,” said Kingman, one of my oldest friends. “You need to look at the bright side here. Take cancer for instance.”

  “Cancer!” said Dooley, as he glanced up at Shanille. “Oh, no, Shanille. That’s probably why you have headaches all the time—you have a brain tumor!”

  “I don’t have headaches all the time, Dooley,” said Shanille, slightly annoyed.

  “Nobody’s got cancer, Dooley,” said Kingman, who’s an even more voluminous cat than me. “But imagine one of us did. How would you know? You wouldn’t, would you? But if we had these collars, Wilbur or Father Reilly would immediately get some kind of alert or whatever—I’m imagining something would start beeping like crazy and the screen would go all red and blinky, like in the movies when the bad guys are launching a rocket to evaporate the free world and James Bond has to stop it, only using a Swiss Army knife and his funny accent. And they’d take us to Vena and she could nip that cancer in the bud.”

  “I’m not sure this thing picks up tumors,” I said dubiously. As far as I had understood Vena, it only monitored my heartbeat and blood pressure and such. It wasn’t exactly a panacea for everything that ails us, no matter how well-rehearsed Vena’s sales pitch had sounded. But obviously the idea that it could predict cancer appealed to my friends.

  “Just look at Buster,” said Shanille, as she shook her head.

  “Buster has cancer?” said Dooley, alarmed. “Oh, no! How long does he have to live?”

  “Buster does not have cancer,” said Shanille, “but he does have a cold. And if Fido had kept the door of his hair salon shut and not subjected Buster to that nasty draft, he wouldn’t have had to miss cat choir and I wouldn’t had to do without my best tenor.”

  Cat choir is sacred in Shanille’s eyes, and anything that impedes its unobstructed and smooth performance on a nightly basis is always a big issue in her view.

  “Look, I’m not sure this thing is as sophisticated as it says on the box,” I said, trying to counter some of the erroneous notions that were floating around about this device.

  “And I think it is,” said Kingman. “In fact I think Better Pet Yet is the future, you guys. And I just wish I could talk to Wilbur, for if he gets in at the ground level, I’m sure he’d clean up. What did you say the name of this company was?”

  “Um… Intended2,” I said. “I think it’s Japanese.”

  “Intended2,” said Kingman thoughtfully. “Are they on the Nasdaq?”

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  He gave me a keen look. “Could you tell your gran to talk to Wilbur and advise him to buy some of their stock? Imagine if you bought Apple or Amazon or Google when they were just starting out, you’d be a gazillionaire now. And the same goes for Intended2.”

  “I’ll tell her,” I said, “but I’m not sure—”

  “Thanks, Max,” he said as he patted my back. Then he eyed my belly affectionately. “So I heard you got stuck in your pet flap?”

  I frowned at Brutus, who was chatting with some of our other cat choir friends. “Who told you?” I asked frostily.

  “Never mind who told me—is it true?”

  I reluctantly admitted that I had, indeed, had an incident involving our pet flap.

  “You know what you should do?” said Kingman, and I could tell that he was on the verge of dispensing with some advice.

  “What?” I asked wearily.

  Kingman’s advice, though often well-meant, often makes me feel even worse about my big bones.

  “You should ask your humans to make that pet flap bigger,” he said. He spread his paws. “Do you see me getting stuck in pet flaps? No, sirree.”

  I must say that the idea of not having to go on a diet very much appealed to me.

  “You mean I should simply ask Odelia…”

  “To make it bigger! Make it plus-sized!”

  “I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea,” I said, even as I was thinking that this was probably the best idea I’d heard all day, nay, the best idea I’d heard ever—bar none!

  “Look, why torture yourself, Max? You just have to accept that you are a plus-sized cat, and act accordingly.”

  “I’m not plus-sized, Kingman,” I said, feeling a little annoyed that Kingman, who’s probably twice as big as me, would consider me part of the plus-sized club.

  “See, that’s your problem right there,” Kingman said, nodding. “Denial.”

  “I’m not in denial. I just don’t think I’m plus-sized, that’s all.”

  “Yes, you are, and the sooner you accept the truth the better you’ll feel. You are a large cat, Max, just like me, and in fact you’re only at the start of your journey.” He patted his large belly. “Just look at me—I’m your future, Max—something for you to aspire to.”

  I looked at him, and frankly I did see my future, and it scared me!

  “Do I look unhealthy to you?” asked the large cat.

  “Um…”

  “I just had my annual checkup last week, and Vena gave me a clean bill of health.”

  I frowned at him. “She did?”

  “Sure! And that’s because I am healthy, bud. It all comes down to the same thing.” He tapped his noggin. “A positive mental attitude. You have to think yourself healthy, that’s all there is to it.”

  It was the second time that day that someone had mentioned my mental attitude, and I was starting to think there was something in it. I do have a tendency to fret, you know, especially when Odelia gives me a nice piece of fish and then takes it away again.

  Still, I had the distinct impression that no matter how hard I tried to think positive, I still wouldn’t fit through that dreaded pet flap any time soon.

  “I think Kingman is right, Max,” said Dooley. “It’s all in your mind. If you think you can fit through that pet flap, you will.”

  “I’m not convinced that’s true, Dooley,” I said.

  “Oh, but it is. I once saw a documentary about three men who believed in thinking themselves to health, and it worked out just fine for them. Of course they all died at the end, but that had nothing to do with the program.”

  “They all died at the end?” I asked, not finding that a very comforting thought.

  “Yeah, see, one suffered from diabetes, the second had a bad heart, and the third had cancer. They didn’t believe in doctors, so instead they thought themselves to health.”

  “Clearly that didn’t work.”

  “Oh, but it did. They got healthier every day in every way, until they died. One of them had a blackout while driving his car and drove into a ravine, his friend’s heart stopped in his sleep, which can happen to anyone, and the third ate a bad burger and dropped dead.”

  Kingman was frowning. “There are no bad burgers, Dooley. Take it from one who knows.”

  Frankly I found all this talk of health and positive mental attitudes a little discouraging, but when I expressed this view, both Kingman and Dooley accused me of harboring a negative mental attitude, so I decided to keep my mouth shut and enjoy cat choir rehearsal, which, after all, is the whole point of getting together of an evening in the park with our friends and singing our hearts out. Before we assumed our respective positions, Kingman said he had one more piece of advice for me, and it concerned a few adjustments his human Wilbur had made to his pet flap. I was eager to hear his advice, of course, but then Shanille raised her head and held up her paws as a clear sign that we were about to start, and unfortunately she doesn’t allow idle chatter during practice.

  And as we all launched into a moving rendition of Céline Dion’s My Heart Will Go On, with Harriet providing the solo soprano part and going for those hard-to-reach high notes Céline does so well, I couldn’t help but think that this idea Kingman had suggested of simply widening the pet flap held the solution to all of my problems: it would make my diet go away, and maybe it would also convince Odelia to drop this tracking collar. For in spite of the fact that I’d professed to the others that I didn’t mind that Odelia looked at my brainwaves and whatnot, it still felt a little odd to me that she would be hovering over her tablet or phone at that very moment, studying what was going on inside my brain.