Ruby was not your average cat. She wasn’t sleek. She wasn’t graceful. She wasn’t even particularly well-behaved. What she was, however, was the unofficial and entirely self-appointed Pet Detective of Wisteria Lane. A street where lawns were trimmed, hedges were suspicious, and squirrels had recently… gone silent.
She’d noticed it during her morning perimeter patrol, a highly skilled operation involving hopping onto Mrs. Crumbly’s fence, staring menacingly at the recycling bin for suspicious activity, and peeing directly into Mr. Henderson’s rhododendrons (a routine she referred to as “the triple threat”).
But this morning, no chatter.
No squirrel chitter-chatter. No acorn insults. Not even that one who called her a “fuzzy sausage on antidepressants.”
Gone. Silent. Like they’d joined a witness protection programme for rodents.
“Oi!” Ruby meowed at a blue jay sitting suspiciously smug on the telephone wire. “Seen any squirrels today?”
The bird flapped nonchalantly. “They’re gone, feline. Vanished. One minute screeching about nuts, next minute poof. Like my ex after I laid an egg on the toaster.”
Ruby narrowed her eyes. Something stank, and it wasn’t just the compost bin behind Number 9.
* * * * *
11:08 AM – The War Council (a.k.a. Ruby’s Butt on the Hood of a Toyota Prius)
She held an emergency meeting with Biscuit, a pug who looked like he’d been kneaded by an angry toddler, and Madame Pompom, a Persian cat with the personality of a velvet throw pillow soaked in gin.
Ruby paced.
“I don’t like it,” she said, tail flicking with calculated urgency. “Something’s off. The squirrels… gone. And just yesterday I saw Big Nuts Carl burying a walnut behind the hydrangeas. That was his spot. His sacred nut nook. He would never abandon it.”
“You sure they’re not just hibernating?” Biscuit asked between bites of a stick he was trying to eat and date simultaneously.
“It’s July, Biscuit.”
Madame Pompom lit a cigarette out of sheer stress. “You’re saying we have a… what? A squirrel exodus? An uprising? Did they… find religion?”
Ruby leapt onto the mailbox and stared into the distance. “No. It’s worse. I think they were… taken.”
* * * * *
1:43 PM – Stakeout Near the Oak Tree of Questionable Repute
Ruby crouched in the grass like a furry coiled spring, except with more belly drag.
She’d smeared herself in eau de compost (Mrs. Crumbly’s leftover lasagne) and was camouflaged under three leaves and a receipt for scented candles.
Then—movement.
From behind a bin, something rustled. Tiny feet. A flash of tail.
“Show yourself, nut whisperer,” Ruby growled.
A squirrel appeared. One she knew. Twitchy Tom.
Except… he was different. Eyes wide. Twitchier than usual. Wearing… a tiny tinfoil hat?
“They’re listening,” he whispered.
Ruby’s ears flicked. “Who?”
Tom shivered. “The… birds. The magpies. They got Steve. And Clarabelle. And Carl. They’ve taken the nuts.”
He pressed an acorn into Ruby’s paw like it was a sacred relic. “Protect this. Don’t trust the bins. Or the pigeons. ESPECIALLY not the pigeons.”
And then… poof. He scampered into the drainpipe.
* * * * *
4:17 PM – Confrontation at Pigeon HQ
Ruby marched onto the rooftop of Number 6, where the pigeons nested in arrogant clusters, like overfed clouds with trust funds.
Their leader, Gary the Grey, blinked slowly. “What brings the alley fuzz up here?”
Ruby held out the acorn like a badge. “Don’t play dumb, Gary. Where are the squirrels?”
Gary looked unimpressed. “They’re not missing. They’re… occupied.”
“Occupied where?”
A pigeon cackled from behind him. “Squirrel bootcamp! The birds recruited them. Nut storage security has gone corporate.”
Ruby’s jaw dropped. “You turned them into freelance nut consultants?!”
Gary shrugged. “Times are tough. You try surviving off breadcrumbs and broken dreams.”
Ruby hissed. “You’re gonna pay for this.”
Gary sighed. “Take it up with HR.”
* * * * *
6:03 PM – Operation: Nutstorm
Ruby launched a full-scale cat-style coup. She rallied the dogs (mostly confused but eager), recruited Madame Pompom (who showed up drunk in a fascinator), and armed herself with a sock full of catnip and a tube of expired salmon paste.
Under cover of darkness, they raided the bird coop.
It was chaos.
Biscuit got stuck in a hedge yelling “FOR THE NUTS!”
Madame Pompom slapped a magpie with a glove and challenged it to a duel.
Ruby drop-kicked a decorative garden gnome that looked too judgmental.
In the end, the squirrels were freed, though most were too traumatized to remember their nut passwords.
* * * * *
8:49 PM – Debrief and Fancy Feast
Ruby sat on the patio wall, victorious, slightly sticky, and high on adrenaline and salmon paste.
Twitchy Tom approached. “Thanks, Ruby. We didn’t know who to trust.”
Ruby licked her paw like a war veteran licking their wounds… except with fewer medals and more fleas.
She purred. “Just doing my job. Justice never sleeps. And neither do I. Because the garbage truck comes at 5 AM and I have beef with that guy.”
Tom nodded solemnly and handed her a peanut. “For your service.”
Ruby bowed. “Nut accepted.”
* * * * *
FINAL ENTRY – Ruby’s Personal Logbook, Written on an Old Pizza Box
Case: The Squirrel Silence – Closed.
Collateral Damage: One gnome, three pigeons’ egos, Madame Pompom’s dignity (unclear if she had any to begin with).
Lessons Learned: Never trust a pigeon with a clipboard.
Ruby curled up on the warm hood of the Toyota, tail twitching, heart pounding with the satisfaction of another mystery solved.
The neighbourhood was safe again.
For now.
Tomorrow, she’d investigate the case of the disappearing tuna from Number 4’s kitchen.
She narrowed her eyes.
It had paws written all over it.
Nut. Panic.
Justice is a fluffy thing.
Ruby Forensics 