Mom Says:
Dieter the Rottweiler carried Agent Eight downstairs to the “dungeon,” a basement filled with large, noisy machines. At the far end, a door opened to reveal a white room filled with big boxes. Dieter tossed Agent Eight inside, slammed the door, and trotted off muttering in German about fur between his teeth. Octavian, no happier about the “annoyin doggee slobbr,” sat down and bathed himself thoroughly before turning to examine his surroundings.
The room was a mountain range of boxes, many marked “This Side Up” with arrows interpreting “up” in creative ways. Octavian’s whiskers twitched. It would be fun to continue examining by leaping from box to box…
But no. This was a sort of dungeon, after all, even if it didn’t look it. Any one of these boxes could be filled with TNT or Gel-Ignite. Or Jack Russell terriers. Or water, even. He’d have to go cautiously.
He padded silently between the boxes, his whiskers forward, all his senses alert. His ears telescoped around at the slightest fall of dust on the grey carpet. And then they swiveled toward the far right of the room and he stopped rigid in a half-squat on his silky black haunches.
A deep regular vibration, like a purr, but not like the purr of any domestic feline on Ceiling cat’s good green earth—too deep, too loud, too—
But it was a purr of sorts. What was back there? A tiger? A lynx? A lioness?
Octavian quivered with anticipation.
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