By Bricklock Holmes

The scent is fresh. Male. Approximately three ounces in weight. Well-fed. Nervous. Smells of discarded peanut. Old nemesis.

His mistake: lingering too long in my Spotland Yard.

Reluctantly, I enlist the help of my sidekick, Chief Inspector Thumbs. I’ve frequently made clear my genius, but I am cursed with nothing but legs. I require the physical capabilities of a human if I am to capture the elusive Lord Ratwood.

I have stared relentlessly. Stomped feet. Poked with nose. Lord Ratwood hides beneath the grand obelisk of the patio. Nose confirms. Ears confirm. Logic confirms.

I must persuade Thumbs to move the obstacle that stands between me and Ratwood’s final act.

Ratwood is dangerous. Thumbs readily agrees to assist.

Empty. Nothing. No whisker, no tail. Impossible!

Thumbs mutters. She dares scoff. “Senile.” “Aging.” “Enough.” Words of a flatfoot, not a detective.

My olfactory instruments remain unmatched: twelve million receptors, calibrated to perfection. He was here. Is here.

Ratwood was no ordinary vermin. Suspected of darker arts. Has he used sorcery? Trap door? Concealed tunnel? Sleight of paw?

I demand this human monument of storage be relocated again. I stomp. I insist. My nails echo in the still of night as I bang them against the obstacle, ordering its removal.

Begrudgingly, Thumbs moves the grand box again. Still nothing. Ratwood gone. Air cold. But how – Black magic or human error?

Madam Opposable, steeped in mediocrity, flaunts arms and thumbs, daring to declare it bedtime. She hauls me in. Confines me to a cell.

How did he evade capture?

Smoke. Shadow. Trick.

He mocks me.

A shriek. Commotion. From my small prison I see him. A flash of whisker. A flick of tail. Lord Ratwood has escaped.

The game will continue.

But now, bedtime snack.