The Barker Street Regulars

being taught what to do,” she said. “They wonder why, in the presence of this new animal, they are given no guidance. They say that you ordinarily communicate your wishes. They wonder why you are not doing so now.”
    “Because I don’t trust them, that’s why,” I said.
    “They understand that.”
    “And the reason I don’t trust them,” I said, “is that when it comes to cats, they are not trustworthy.”
    “They are eager to learn,” said Irene Wheeler. “Their feelings are hurt. They would like you to make an effort.”
    Thus I left Irene Wheeler’s with the most improbable piece of advice anyone could have offered me: the sensible suggestion that I, of all people, start training dogs.
     

Chapter Twenty
     
    I ARRIVED HOME FROM Irene Wheeler’s profoundly unnerved. I was, among other things, peculiarly angry about having gotten precisely what I’d paid for: the all-too-real sensation of encountering genuine psychic powers. Having made their acquaintance, I didn’t like them one bit. After greeting Rowdy and Kimi in an unusually perfunctory fashion, I pulled out my wallet, extracted the picture of the cat, held it up near the kitchen window, and examined it in the daylight. Did the cat look feminine in a way I’d missed? It didn’t have the jowly look of an adult tom, but to my eye, it could still have been male. The double paws were, of course, out of the picture. Furthermore, in the photo, the cat looked misleadingly relaxed. I’d said that I’d rescued the cat. My tone could have alluded to sinister circumstances; Irene Wheeler might have guessed about the cat’s fearfulness. And the ear? Nothing in the picture, nothing in my voice or my manner could possibly have suggested the tom ear. Unless... Could I have unconsciously raised a hand toward one of my own ears? As an experiment, I tried lifting my right hand, then my left, in the sort of movement I might have made. The gesture felt unfamiliar. To the best of my knowledge, I wasn’t in the habit of talking with my hands. A lifetime of dog handling should have taught me to keep my body language to a minimum. My mother had always emphasized the importance of controlled handling. To this day, I’d hear her authoritative reminder to keep my elbows in. And if I’d become sloppy, an obedience instructor or a dog-training friend would have taken me to task. How on earth had Irene Wheeler guessed about the cat’s torn ear? Or the double paws? How had she known that the cat was female?
    And how could she possibly have known about the gorgeous gray cat with the huge amber eyes? I’d told Steve about the TV commercial right here in my own house. I’d seen the ad months ago, and I’d immediately asked Steve about the gray cat’s breed. Even if Irene Wheeler employed spies to sneak around eavesdropping and ferreting out bits of obscure information about her clients, she’d hardly have sicced her agents on me long before she and I had ever heard of each other. She certainly didn’t collect random pieces of inside knowledge about the entire population of Greater Boston just to be prepared for the clients who showed up in her office. Had I mentioned my ideal TV cat to anyone other than Steve? I remembered telling Leah about the gray cat, but we’d been in the car on the way to a dog show; no one could possibly have overheard. I might have mentioned the cat somewhere in public where, by weird coincidence, Irene Wheeler had happened to be listening in. I couldn’t remember any likely occasion. I hadn’t run into her anywhere since our first consultation. Then, I’d had no sense of ever having seen her before. And neither Steve nor Leah had any reason to go around talking about my infatuation with the beautiful gray cat. How had Irene Wheeler known?
    From Ceci! Scrounging everywhere for a home for the damned little cat, I’d offered it to Ceci on the night Kimi had served as Hugh and Robert’s supposed tracking dog. Just before leaving Ceci’s, I’d stopped in at the house to thank her for her hospitality. In passing, I’d mentioned the cat. She hadn’t been interested. Had I said anything about the tom ear? I’d been trying to foist off the cat, hadn’t I? It would have been unlike me to stress its bad points. I must have described it as needy. I’d probably focused on what a wonderful home Ceci could provide for it. In my eagerness to place the cat in what really would have been a perfect situation, could I have gotten carried