Focus.

But it was hard when every sight and sound and smell was a distraction. As he continued on his way, he tried to divert himself from a growing sense of panic and his inability to understand why anybody would ever leave home. He tried to calm himself by redirecting his attention to the qualities he would look for in a mate for his mistress.

The new guy had to have a nice voice. Nothing deep or scary. And he couldn’t move too fast either. He couldn’t smell funny. That was a big one-smell. Nice hands. Yes, hands were important. Maybe that was selfish, but so be it. They were a family, and the new person had to fit into both Max and Melody’s life.

Max was just beginning to calm down, to think that this world beyond his backyard wasn’t too bad and that it might even be exciting and fun and he might like to come here again even after he found a guy for Melody, when suddenly all hell broke loose. Sirens shrieked, almost shattering his delicate eardrums. Tires squealed, cars pulled to a stop in the middle of the street, lights flashing. Doors slammed, people shouted, and uniformed officers threw a skinny girl against the hood of a police car while she screamed and cussed.

From off in the distance came the sound of an ice-cream truck. Max recognized the distinctive music because sometimes Melody would buy what she called a drumstick, and she would let Max lick ice cream from her finger. The happy music relaxed him a little, but instead of running, he sat frozen on the sidewalk, watching the drama unfold. Like he’d done when David was killed. He’d been unable to move. Unable to help.

Cops.

So familiar. The shoes, the pants, made from fabric that was too thin, in Max’s opinion. He much preferred jeans. Easier to sink his claws into. The belt with a gun that, if shot, would be louder than the sirens.