I was sitting at my desk, finishing the last bits of Lickers® gelled tuna from a long pink tube. Not the best snack, but I hadn't eaten since my humans put down my morning bowl, so it would have to do.

I'd pulled the file on the Plankk case from my desk drawer. Going over the facts I'd written down and looking at the sketches I'd made, I finally realized what I needed. I headed to my tiny kitchen and put on some water to boil.

It is a well-known fact that cats — not dogs, not horses, not even those big furry birds that can talk — yes, cats are the most intelligent species that God has ever put on this Earth. Even if one were to consider a human being, that most complex collection of cells and synapses, what comes to mind? Greed, deception, and a general lack of compassion for their fellow man. Yes, of course, there is the occasional kindness, but more often than not, humans will find themselves in 'self-preservation' mode, which belies all of their other intentions, good or bad.

I have an innate knowledge of these things, for I am that aforementioned creature, the cat. And a black one at that. I've spent my whole life weaving between these humans' legs, purring in their laps, joining them as they use the facilities, covertly watching for predators. Perhaps they've been unaware of my sentience, probably so. They've undoubtedly had no inkling of my comings and goings while away at work or on vacation. I can certainly take care of myself for at least a week at a time when they're away, yet they insist on hiring someone to 'look in' on me. I guess it makes them feel better. Or less guilty. The fact is, human vacations are when I do my best work. Crime-solving is a delicate career indeed, and it's most fruitful without the constant interruptions of chin scratchings and belly rubs.

When William Shaw decided to build a larger utility shed in our backyard, I contracted out for some work of my own to be done. Lenny from Woodchuck Construction gave me a great deal — one custom office with a small kitchen in exchange for my detective services at any point in the future. It was only a day's work for him and his crew, so he considered it fair. Once the shed was up and the Shaws were gone for a weekend, Lenny and his crew hollowed out the underneath, constructed my new office, and then paneled everything in a very aromatic knotty pine.

Business was good, but having my own office made things easier for me — no more birds, chipmunks, or even dogs coming into the house through my cat door to meet in the sunroom while the Shaws were out. As if my job wasn't hard enough, a couple of sets of muddy paw prints from the Bernese down the street had taken me practically an hour to clean. So, the office afforded me space to work away from the main house should any prying eyes happen to notice my midnight excursions. My office door faced away from the house, hidden behind a set of thick bushes. On the front, the raven, Ellery, who had done all the intricate woodwork around the office had chiseled into the green pine the words: B. BUCKLEBERRY. And beneath that, BLACK CAT DETECTIVE AGENCY.

The office itself was rather small, but it suited me. Maybe the shelves of books surrounding the office on every wall made it seem tight. But needless to say, books were a necessity. The fireplace and hearth were on the long outside wall, right by my desk, perfect for the colder weather. I didn't know of any other cats who had such a nice space to work. Finally, the kettle whistled.

When I needed to think, I'd sip an Earl Grey, nipped, of course. I had a robust selection of cat nips perched along the top of the stove in small porcelain jars, along with a cabinet full of international teas and a small selection of coffees. I picked a Persian catmint nip that always invigorated me when pondering a case. Putting the tea bag in my mug and sprinkling it with the nip, I poured the water over the top and carefully brought it to my desk, a wooden stirring spoon resting inside.

The R. Plankk matter was my first unsolved case. I refunded the client, a Mister Rathbone Plankk, the initial charge. I felt that it was unfair for a vole to hand over my requested fee just for me to tell him that I had no idea who stole his priceless 1952 Picasso sketch of a woman with two milk jugs, which had been hanging in his underground study.

"Did Picasso ever paint this piece?" I asked the first time I met him. Cats don't typically eat voles, and while I was tempted to bat him around a bit, I had to maintain a professional demeanor.

"He did," said Mr. Plankk. His voice was very high and somewhat pathetic and sad.

"What was it called?" I took a thick art book down from my library, put it on the desk, and started to leaf through it with my paws.

"Woman With Two Milk Jugs."

"Of course."

After a minute of searching, I found it. "Ah yes, here it is. Seems the original painting is hanging in a museum in Milan. Where did you get the sketch, Mr. Plankk?"

"I found it near the curb of the art gallery in Sturbridge, someone must have dropped it. I took it back to my hole, and it had been hanging in my study for years until last night. I'm heartbroken. Voles don't often get anything of value, living underground and such. I mean, things get dirty. But I pinned it to the wall and straightened it every afternoon."

So that's how the meeting with my client went. That very day, I walked around town, talking to some of the critters around the vole's underground domicile, sniffing around both entrances, trying to detect a scent different from Mr. Rathbone Plankk or his family. I could not. I also interviewed and smelled the wife, Tilde. I, of course, could not fit into the vole tunnel to examine the crime scene, so I had little to go on. I followed up on a few leads over the following days, but eventually, I had to call Mr. Plankk into my office to give him the bad news. By refunding his fee of one new shiny dime, a felt toy mouse, and a crunchy leaf, I had hoped he would not tell the neighborhood how poorly the investigation had gone. He understood and went back to his Picasso-less den. And it's been bothering me ever since.

But last night, I fell asleep to the wind blowing leaves past my window. I dreamt of running through the woods, chasing them, leaping high into the air and trying to catch one. And when I woke, that's when it hit me.

So, I looked over the Plankk case once more. Everything lined up. The next step was to get in contact with the vole himself. I opened the front door and called out.

"Ariella!" I stepped away from the door, leaving it open, and went back to sit at my desk, sipping from my tea, which was now unpleasantly lukewarm.

After a moment or two, a beak peeked in.

"Ariella, it's fine. Please come in." Her head twitched to the right, her black eyes looking around my office. "Please. I promise you're safe." She put one foot forward, and then I could see her yellow body. I put my mug down on the desk with a thud, and immediately, she stepped back outside, scared.

“Wait, look." I reached behind me into a small silver bucket and picked up a long, juicy worm in my paw. She stepped into the office and gingerly walked to the front of my desk, ducking her head with every step. I threw the worm to her, and she caught it in her beak, gulping it down within a second.

"Can you please retrieve Mr. Plankk, the vole, for me…" I started, but then, involuntarily, my words changed to chitters, little chirps almost, that I could not control. I cleared my throat and tried again.

"Ahh, the umm, the vole, Mr. Plankk, I need you to…" And now my tail. It twitched back and forth, snapping this way and that. The golden bird slowly moved toward the open door, never taking her eyes off me. I had a small envelope that I tossed to her, and it landed by her feet.

"I'm sorry, Ariella. It's just that, I c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-can't really c-c-c-c-c-control it, but I promise I won't hurt you…" My tail snapped again, and I held it down with my paw. "Just get Mr. Plankk to c-c-c-c-c-c-c-come by, please, and I'll give you another worm."

Ariella was truly the most reliable messenger in all of Copper Summit. I had tried pigeons, parrots, and US Postal, but she was, by far, the fastest and cheapest. USPS wanted 73 cents for a stamp. That was more than my daily rate.

She picked up the envelope in her beak, bowed her head, and with a quick hop was out the door.