The next time Blair came by the house she barely gave Zach a chance to kiss her before she wrinkled her pretty nose and said, "Ugh. What is that smell?"

"What smell?" He'd showered.

"Cat box," she said in disgust. "When was the last time you changed the cat box?"

"Tuesday, before I left for the station," said Zach.

She made a face and shook her head. "Your whole house smells."

He sniffed. Okay, it did stink a little. "I guess I'd better change it."

"I guess you'd better do something about the cat. Coming in here to that nasty odor is a definite buzz kill." She dug a small bottle of perfume out of her purse and spritzed it around the front hallway, shuddering the whole time. "I'll wait for you in the car," she said, leaving him alone with his stinky house and his stinky cat.

He started a new topic of conversation as they drove to Captain Crab for lunch, but later, when they sat in a corner booth, hemmed in by red tinsel garlands and looking over the menus, she brought up the subject again. "So, how are you coming with finding a home for the cat?"

"I'm working on it," Zach hedged. He set down his menu. "You know, Blair, I'm kind of surprised you don't like him. I thought you'd be more of an animal lover. I mean, your dad owns Pet Palace, for Pete's sake."

"Don't be silly," she said, making him feel both stupid and irritated. "That's like expecting someone who owns a j.a.panese restaurant to like sushi."

"Yeah? Why would you want to own a j.a.panese restaurant if you didn't like j.a.panese food?" he argued.

"To make money," she replied. "Look, I have nothing against cats, and I have nothing against the one you found except that he makes me sneeze. And now he's making your house smell. Really, Zach, I get one whiff and I have no desire to hang around there."

He knew what that meant. It meant, well, no desire. Blair's house was pretty much off-limits due to the presence of her teenage son. And the neighbors, who she was sure would tell the teenage son that she wasn't just cleaning house when he was gone. Dumb, if you asked Zach. The kid had to know she had a life. Still, that was the way she wanted it, so he had no objections. Except if hanging out at Zach's place stopped being an option ... This didn't bode well for their love life.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it," he promised.

"I hope you do," she said. And to prove she meant business she went straight home after lunch.

"No problem," said Ray, when a very frustrated Zach called him. "I can come over this afternoon and we can put in a cat door. Then he can come and go when he wants. No more cat box, no more smell."

It was a perfect solution, and when the guys were done Zach had a dent in his charge card and a dent in his thumb from where he'd hit himself with the hammer. But Tom had a cat door. Zach smiled as Tacky demonstrated how easy it was to use. Perfect.

But that evening, when Zach tried to introduce Tom to the wonders of having his very own door, the little guy balked. He not only balked, he ran away.

"Hey, come on, now," Zach called after him. "I'm trying to work things out so you can stay." He fetched the cat and tried again, and Tom dug in with all fours. When Zach flipped the door and tried to nudge him through he hissed and took a swipe at Zach and bolted a second time.

"Okay, guy. You had your chance," growled Zach, his feeling of goodwill toward cats evaporating.

The following morning Zach was back at Pet Palace, this time for a cat carrier. Somebody was going to get hauled here tomorrow to have his picture taken with Santa because somebody was getting a new home for Christmas.

He stood looking at the vast array of carriers and suddenly felt mildly guilty about stuffing Tom into one. The little guy had made up the night before and sat in Zach's lap while Zach read the December issue of Do It Yourself.

But if a man had to choose between having a cat or a woman on his lap ... Blair was absolutely right. Tom needed a real home, and posting a picture of him all dressed up for Christmas was a good way to ensure he got one. Zach grabbed a cat carrier and then went in search of cat treats, figuring bribery would make both him and the cat feel better about the whole thing.

Wouldn't you know? There on the kitty treat aisle stood the elfette, stocking shelves. Her cheeks turned rose pink at the sight of Zach and she managed a tentative smile.

He held up the carrier. "Had to get a cat carrier." Well, duh. "I'm bringing my cat in for a Santa picture tomorrow."

Her eyes lit up and her smile got big.

"With my girlfriend," he added. The pink in her cheeks turned to red and the smile faltered, a sure sign that he had, in just a couple of encounters, managed to lead her on. He felt like a heel.

She nodded gamely. "I guess I'll see you then. I'm taking the pictures."

"Oh," said Zach. Too bad you'll have Blair with you. Whoa, where had that come from? He wanted Blair with him, didn't he? Of course, he did. Blair came with no strings attached. "Well then, see you Sat.u.r.day," he said, and got out of there.

He was back on the road when he remembered he never did snag any cat treats for Tom. He'd get the little guy some after they were done with the pictures as a reward for good behavior. And maybe, if he was lucky, Blair would give him a reward for good behavior.

Ho, ho, ho. He grinned as he pictured ...

Oh, no. Not a redhead with green eyes. Where was the blue-eyed blonde? Blair. You're with Blair. You're happy with Blair. He booted out the image of Merilee posing for him in a skimpy outfit of red velvet and brought Blair back on stage wearing nothing but a Santa hat.

But she was looking stage right and scowling.

A second later there was Merilee again, tap-dancing her way to center stage, and suddenly Blair was nowhere to be seen.

Zach gave his head a vigorous shake in an effort to dislodge the image. What is the matter with you?

It was a question he found he couldn't answer, at least not comfortably.

A woman looking slick in designer jeans and an expensive jacket reached past Merilee to snag a couple of cans of cat food, the diamond ring on her left hand taunting Merilee. Everything about the woman, from her stylish coat and jeans to her makeup, said, "I'm perfect and I know it."

Merilee gave her a feral smile and pulled fresh cans out of the carton she was emptying, slamming them on the shelf. Jealousy is not attractive, she scolded herself. If only she was better looking she wouldn't have to fight the green-eyed monster.

But even if she transformed herself on the outside, she'd still probably find it impossible to untie her tongue and manage the art of flirting. Why, whenever she was around hunky men, did her confidence fade like the Cheshire cat?

Ha! Years of practice, that was why. The cool guys had never seen her, either in high school or college. They still didn't.

These days just being nice wasn't enough for a girl. You had to have pizzazz. You had to connect.

Sadly, Merilee connected better with animals than she did with men. Animals loved you whether or not you wore makeup. Animals didn't need you to be s.e.xy or witty and clever and entertaining. All they wanted was love and acceptance, and Merilee was good at that. She cared about helpless beings. She cared about anyone in need of help or a shoulder to cry on, which was why she had never lacked for girlfriends. In high school all her friends came to her with their boy problems. Looking back it was easy to see why. They knew they'd get plenty of empathy and no compet.i.tion.

She slammed down another can of cat food. Men didn't want nice, they wanted hot, and she was never going to be hot. She wasn't sure she could even achieve lukewarm. Why were people (especially male people) so shallow? It was what was inside that counted.

The last time she'd said something like that around her sisters Liz had informed her that most people would rather look inside a nicely wrapped gift box with a pretty bow than take a chance on a dirty paper sack.

She frowned at the memory. "I am not a dirty paper sack."

"Thanks for the update," said Dennis the floor manager as he walked by, proving that a girl could, indeed, get noticed no matter how she dressed.

Cat carriers were nothing more than portable cages, humiliating modes of transport for an animal. And in all Ambrose's lives not one of those contraptions had ever carried him someplace he wanted to go.

He watched through slitted eyes as Zach stowed the ugly gray thing in the downstairs closet. So Zach and the cat-killing cougar thought they were going to stuff him in that thing to go see the Santa monster, did they? Well, they could try.

Zach disappeared upstairs but Ambrose remained in the living room under the couch, ever vigilant. Today must not have been the day for the visit to the Santa monster because a few minutes later Zach appeared in his tattered clothes. That meant ... sure enough, soon he was in the eating room, pounding and banging.

Ambrose bolted up the stairs and hid under the bed. All that noise! It was enough to shatter a guy's nerves. Why oh why did he have to end up here? Why couldn't his mission have involved bringing comfort to another nice old lady like Adelaide? Of course, he knew the answer and it was the only reason he was still hanging around. He owed Zach. And Zach definitely needed help.

Later that evening, when they were settled in on the couch with the TV on, Ambrose decided this mission wasn't so bad after all. Zach was a nice enough human. Easily led, though, which obviously was why he needed to be with someone other than the cougar, someone who would be a good influence on him and teach him how to consider the feelings of others, like his cat.

They had a cozy sleep that night-Zach under the bedcovers, Ambrose curled up on top of them. Beds were wonderful things, soft and warm, and lying on one next to a human (even if he wasn't the brightest one on the block) gave a guy a sense of security-a sense of community, too. Contrary to popular belief, cats weren't sn.o.bs. They liked to belong. And Ambrose could see himself with Zach for a long time. Once he got the boy whipped into shape.

He was still on the bed in the morning, dreaming he was feasting on a nice, fat mouse, when Zach picked him up. "Hey, guy, it's showtime."

Showtime? That had to mean they were going to watch something on Zach's TV. Zach would make a home for Ambrose on his lap and pet him. What a good idea! Ambrose allowed himself to be carried downstairs.

But as they reached the foot of the stairs Ambrose spied the pet carrier and ... the cougar. Oh, no! They were not putting him in that thing.

Zach had antic.i.p.ated Ambrose's reaction, though, and even as he tried to propel himself to freedom, Zach held him tighter. "Sorry, buddy," he said, and the next thing Ambrose knew he was caged.

Zach should feel sorry, Ambrose thought indignantly. This was betrayal of trust, plain and simple. He watched from behind his prison bars as Blair Baby showed Zach the hat she'd brought for Ambrose, a small version of the silly red hats with the white pom-pom that some humans wore this time of year in honor of the Santa monster.

"This will cover his torn ear," she said. "It's got an elastic strap so it will stay on."

She had to get it on first, and if she thought Ambrose was going to let her anywhere near him with the ridiculous thing she could just think again. A dog would go along with such nonsense and think it a great joke, but no self-respecting cat would lower himself to that level.

"That may be pushing it," Zach said doubtfully.

There was an understatement.

"Oh, he'll be fine," said the cougar.

He would not!

The next thing Ambrose knew, he was airborne and swinging like a bird in a cage. Eeew. He was going to be sick. He watched bushes and lawn and trees pa.s.s dizzily by and then he was in the back of the shiny black car. Zach and the cougar climbed in front and the engine roared to life. Once again Ambrose was moving ... and getting more nervous by the second. Why was Zach torturing him like this?

The cougar, of course. It had probably been her idea to install that horrible pet door.

Oh, the terror he had felt at the mere sight of the thing. It had brought back vivid memories of his most humiliating death. Granted, if he hadn't dug his claws into poor Snoopy and ridden the crazed beagle all over the house he wouldn't have met his end in the first place. Those pet doors weren't meant for piggy-backing pets. Snoopy had ducked through theirs at the last minute and, like some silly cartoon character, Ambrose had crashed into the actual door. The impact had broken his neck. So, yes, his bad. He'd gotten what he deserved, but still, those things should be outlawed. And women who convinced impressionable men to install them should be put down.

It felt like an eternity before the car stopped. Zach took the cat carrier from the backseat and Ambrose got a view of an endless field of cars. In front of them loomed a big, big building. Ambrose huddled in the corner of his cage. This wasn't going to be good.

Inside, the building was larger than all the houses Ambrose had lived in put together. And scary, with humans milling around and ... dogs!

Ambrose backed farther into the corner of his cage. This was worse than the animal shelter. At least there the horrible beasts were behind bars where they belonged. Here they strolled around on thin leashes attended by distracted humans. Ambrose's fur began to stand on end. This was awful. And they hadn't even gotten to the Santa monster yet. At this rate Ambrose would probably never live to complete his a.s.signment and save Zach. He'd die of fright right here. Good-bye life number nine.

He bobbed and swayed as Zach carried him across the huge place. Somewhere a chorus of cats was meowing "Silent Night," a Christmas carol Ambrose remembered from past lives. But he didn't see any of his fellow felines. Where were they, and how could they be so calmly singing in such a dangerous place? Were they brain damaged?

Finally Zach set the cage down and Ambrose got a close up glimpse of human feet and legs, and more dogs-a little dachshund, a sloppy old ba.s.set, and, oh, no, there was a German shepherd, sitting with his tongue hanging out. Nasty things, German shepherds. Horrible. Unpredictable. Mean. He knew this from personal experience. He'd had a horrible encounter with one in the life he'd lived as an alley cat, right around the holidays, naturally. Talk about your blue Christmas. At the sight of Ambrose, this one stood and barked, almost giving Ambrose a heart attack.

Never let them see you sweat. (A man in Adelaide's TV had said that once.) Ambrose arched his back, puffed out his fur, and hissed.

Zach's voice drifted down to him. "It's okay, Tom. He can't get you."

So you say.

As if to prove it, Zach picked up Ambrose's carrier and moved him out of range.

"Hi," said a disembodied female voice.

"Uh, hi," said Zach.

"We're almost done with the dogs," said the voice. "If you'd like to browse and come back in five minutes that will give your cat a chance to calm down."

The only thing that would help Ambrose calm down was getting out of here. When would the torture end?

Never. Zach and the cougar wandered around the store, giving Ambrose glimpses of birds he couldn't hunt and fish swimming out of reach. The ways people could find to torture a cat in this place were endless.

The carrier finally came to rest once more and this time Ambrose saw no dogs, only a few sets of human legs and feet. Still, he couldn't relax. He may have escaped the dogs, but the Santa monster was still waiting.

The cage door opened and even though Ambrose tried to resist, Zach managed to haul him out.

"It's okay," cooed Blair Baby, the animal hater.

No fur today. Instead she was wearing a sweater with snowflakes. It was too late for camouflage. Ambrose already knew she was the enemy. She came at him with that ridiculous hat and he pushed up against Zach with his ears flat to warn her she'd better back off.

Here was another reason not to like her. (As if he needed another!) She was stupid. She kept right on coming. Ambrose averted his head, but her bloodred claws continued reaching for him. So he did what any self-respecting cat would do. He defended himself. With a hiss, he unsheathed his claws and shot out a paw. Ha! Got her.

His attacker backed away with a bleeding scratch and let out a screech followed by a word that Ambrose learned way back in his third life. It was not a nice word. She held out her hand. "Look what that animal did to me!"

So it was bleeding. So what? She started the fight.

"d.a.m.n it, Tom," snapped Zach, and shut Ambrose back in the cage.

Imprisoned unjustly, and in trouble with Zach-this was not good.

Meanwhile, outside the carrier, Blair Baby was still carrying on. "That animal should be put down. He's dangerous."

"No, he's not," scolded the same female voice Ambrose had heard earlier. "He's just scared."

"Excuse me?" snapped Blair Baby.

"I said he's scared," the voice snapped back.

"And what are you, a cat shrink?"

"Come on now, Blair," said Zach. "That's uncalled for."

You could say that again.

"I know a few things about cats," said the other female.