The Riley Files

The temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the bane of our profession.

Sherlock Holmes

Monday, June 28, 2010
9:20 PM

Catie and I are hanging around waiting for our next unsolved case. Results from the investigation of Catie’s missing whiskers and the naked patches remain inconclusive. Suspect has covered her tracks well. The good news is that Catie’s bare patches seem to be slowly growing in and she doesn’t particularly miss the whiskers anyways.

Case closed due to insufficient evidence.

Mom is running up and down the stairs doing laundry. Catie’s rolling around on her back with her three legs in the air. I’m thinking that if I was a real supersleuth I’d be kicking back with a whiskey or brandy or even some Kentucky bourbon like dudes Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade. Instead, I’m stuck with water in a stainless steel bowl.

“Good grief,” Mom says, marching another basket of clothes up the stairs, “One of you guys really has bad gas. Phew.”

9:40 PM

When is Mom going to bed? I want my bedtime snack.

9:50 PM

Surely this is the last time she’s going to run down the stairs to the laundry room. Arms full, she pauses at the foot of the stairs and gives an exaggerated noisy sniff.

“It really stinks down here. Phooey,” she says. She carries the clothing up to the bedroom and returns to the family room.

The investigation doesn’t take long. She spies the dirty deed on the area rug between the television and dad’s amplifier and guitar. A perfect pile of excrement. “What the h—,” she says. She is genuinely shocked. “Where did that come from?”

A rhetorical question I’m sure. The critical query, as any supersleuth knows, is: “How long has that been there??”

After Mom removes the deposit, she lifts Catie’s tail and checks her butt. She checks mine. She’s dusting for carpet fibres. Oh come on! She’s watched too many episodes of CSI.

10:25 PM

The carpet’s been spot cleaned and scrubbed. Mom’s been all-over scrubbed and showered. I’m subjected to another random bottom check before being allowed on the bed.  Catie’s on the floor by the bed. We’re still waiting for our snack.

“Did you poop on the floor, Riley?” she says. Me???? Her face is alarmingly close to mine so I squirm and wiggle to disarm her. I know how to work the charm when I have to. She asks me again and again. I squirm and wiggle again and again and make short order of the interrogation.

Three days later Mom still obsesses over the crime. She talks about it with dad, the neighbours, her friends, strangers on the street, she’s sent query emails to Ace Ventura Pet Detective.. It drives her crazy not knowing who the culprit is. Again, however, she’s totally missed the relevant question: WHY?

Riley’s Supersleuth List of Clues:

• no evidence of any gastro-intenstinal distress on my part or Catie’s
• shortly after dinner Monday evening there was a rocking  thunderstorm. Now, storms aren’t enjoyed by dudes, but they are tolerated albeit with mild apprehension. However… Catie hates storms. Catie is petrified of storms. Catie quivers and pants and shakes and sometimes crawls into the bathtub during storms. Most importantly, there is no way Catie will go outside during a storm. For ANY reason whatsoever. Period.

It is my conclusion, based on all the circumstantial evidence, the window-shaking crack of thunder at 7:05 PM, simply scared the poop out of Catie.

Mom, this case is closed.