2018 Jan 22: The Fox

It had been an intense two days for Slylock Fox. Exciting, for he had the opportunity to spar with his intellectual peers, but exhausting at the same time. On the train back home Max had rambled on about the Sidekick Convention held at the Motel 6 down the road. While Slylock had only wanted a few hours’ rest, he tried to maintain polite interest; every detective needed a sidekick after all, and Max was valuable in demonstrating to potential clients that Slylock recognized prey animals were people too.
He unlocked the door to their flat and immediately sensed something off. But before he had a chance to investigate quietly, Max and his comically large suitcase collided with his frozen form. Why did the mouse pack a suitcase he could fit into for a two-day Con? Especially when he only ever wore a pair of shorts and bowler hat?
That was one mystery Slylock had decided long ago to leave well-enough alone.
“Oops!” Max squeaked. “Sorry there, pal! Hey, you wanna turn on the light?”
Slylock silently cursed his sidekick. They’d lost any chance for the element of surprise. But all might not be lost. He feigned ignorance. “Oh, yeah, sorry about that, little buddy.” He turned on the overhead light, eyes darting about the room. Though it appeared cluttered to the outside observer, he knew every pencil, every book, every sheet of paper. A couple of times a week he had Max change 6 random things around, just to keep his powers of observation honed. But this wasn’t as subtle as a fake pair of whiskers or a missing chair leg. Out from the cracked door to his bathroom, steam wafted.
“Sly, why’d you stop? What’re you looking at?” Max’s whiskers twitched as he noticed. “Aw, cheese an crackers! I coulda sworn I turned off the water after my swim last week!” His suitcase thudded to the ground. “I’ll get it now.”
Sly’s hand shot out, grabbing Max’s arm and making him cower briefly. Though predator and prey had been living side by side for generations, the instinct ran deep. “No!”
Slylock softened his tone. “No, don’t worry about it. I could actually use a bath after that trip.” He knew perfectly well that Max had indeed turned of the spigot to the geothermal spring from which they drew their hot water. But he’d caught the scent, familiar yet longing. Sweet vanilla, heady lavender… and spicy catmint. He had to think fast, before Max’s rodent nose recognized it as well.
But he always thought fast. It was his job. It was his calling.
“You know, it sounds like you had quite the time too. The Last Jedi is still playing at The Marquee. Why don’t you go catch the late show?”
Max’s ears stood to attention. “Really? You sure you don’t want help unpacking?”
Two images flashed incongruously through Slylock’s mind: Max gratifying his porg fetish at one of the literal hole-in-the-wall joints downtown; and Cassandra Cat, fur sleek and glistening, as she bathed herself just a few meters away. He shoved his wallet at the mouse.
“I’m sure.”