There was something not quite right on Växjö Lane.
Ruby, sleek, black, and notoriously uninterested in anything not involving tuna or naps, lifted her head from her favourite sunspot on the windowsill. She narrowed her green eyes. The garden across the street looked suspiciously…gnomeless.
Again.
“Third one this week,” she muttered, hopping down with a dramatic sigh. “Gnomes don’t just grow legs and leave, you know. Not unless they’ve unionized. And I would know. I once saw a squirrel stage a picket over peanut rationing.”
With a flick of her tail and the gait of someone who had clearly solved more mysteries than she cared to recall (and possibly committed one or two), Ruby strutted out the cat flap and into the suburban underworld.
* * * * *
Ruby wasn’t just any feline. No. She was the pet detective of Oakwhistle Lane. She had cracked the Case of the Missing Sausage Roll (Gary the dachshund, shamefully greasy evidence on his snout), the Mystery of the Unflushed Goldfish (unfortunate hamster cover-up), and that unforgettable Toothbrush Affair (never trust a ferret with a flair for oral hygiene).
But this…this gnome thing? It was getting personal.
Mrs. Chumley’s entire porcelain front-lawn militia had disappeared overnight, leaving behind only tiny hats and a few flakes of glitter. Suspicious glitter. Ruby sniffed it that morning. It smelled faintly of…
“…theatre,” she whispered ominously. “And…margarine?”
* * * * *
By twilight, Ruby was on the move. Stealth mode. Tail low. Paws silent. Whiskers twitching like high-powered antennae. She slinked past Mr. Jacobsson’s flamingo-shaped sprinkler (which she hated with a passion bordering on irrational), leapt over a hose pipe, and crouched in the hedge.
Voices.
“Places, people! Gnome Scene Six! Gnome-mancing the Stone!”
Ruby blinked. She hadn’t had catnip in three days, but that definitely sounded like a human yelling about gnome romance.
She crept closer.
Through the hedge she saw them. Kids. Maybe ten of them. Lights strung across the backyard like some sort of fairy rave. And in the middle of the madness…
A stage. A real one. Made of plywood, duct tape, and unbridled childhood ambition.
And there they were.
The gnomes.
Dressed. In costumes.
One had a wig. Another wore a toga made from a sock. There were lights. A paper moon. A sound system powered by what looked like Mr. Jenkins’ leaf blower.
“Action!” a small girl with a tiara barked.
One gnome, painted with glittery eyebrows, was placed gently onto a matchbox-size chaise lounge. A boy in a magician’s cape began narrating, badly:
“Alas, sweet Gnometheus, thou art banished from the lawn…”
Ruby stared, horrified.
“Dear furballs of fire. They’re repurposing them.”
She had to stop this. For gnomekind. For sanity. For suburban lawn aesthetics.
She leapt from the hedge dramatically, possibly too dramatically, knocking over a lemonade pitcher.
“Holy MEOW!” shouted one kid. “A panther!”
Ruby glared. Panther? Rude.
Chaos erupted. Kids screamed. Someone threw a garden hose at her. Another tried to smother her with a Shakespeare script.
“I am not your emotional support villain!” Ruby yowled, dodging stage props. She zigzagged through the paper moon, knocking it over like a meteorite of justice.
“You can’t steal garden gnomes for unauthorized backyard musicals!” she declared.
A girl in fairy wings held up a gnome and said earnestly, “He wanted to be a star.”
“He wanted to hold a tiny shovel and mind his begonias,” Ruby growled. “Now hand over Gnometheus and no one gets fur in their juice boxes.”
* * * * *
Eventually, after mild threats of furballs in sneakers and some light bribery involving cheese cubes, Ruby convinced the children to return the gnomes. Each one was escorted back home with the dignity of a tiny soldier returning from war.
Mrs. Chumley sobbed with joy when she saw them, whispering to one:
“I knew you weren’t just a lawn ornament. I felt your soul.”
* * * * *
Back in her windowsill, Ruby stretched luxuriously. Job done. Justice served. Gnomes home. She watched as the children reassembled their theatre out of cardboard pirates instead.
She licked her paw thoughtfully.
“Let them have their drama. But if I see one more top hat on a ceramic dwarf, I swear to whiskers…”
She closed her eyes, tail twitching.
Detective. Diva. Defender of lawn décor.
Ruby was many things. But above all, she was always on guard.
Because in the suburbs…
The lawn is never truly safe.
THE END.
(Meowvelous. Absolutely Meowvelous.)
Ruby Forensics 