While we are on holiday hiatus, here’s our Sherlock Herms Purranormal Mysteries for you to enjoy.
We will be back December 1st.
While we are on holiday hiatus, here’s our Sherlock Herms Purranormal Mysteries for you to enjoy.
We will be back December 1st.
When Mosey had that fight with Fergus and zoomed without me back to the future, he’d broken our connection, inadvertently erasing my presence in 2017. Like I’d never existed! But me and my mom have a soulmate connection and she’d found me. She’d appeared to me looking like a red laser light, and said Jack and Opie were busy working to reconnect me to Mosey. But until they did… I would remain in 1894.
In order to distract me from totally fweaking out, I’d asked Fergus to teach me how to solve cases like Doyle wrote for Sherlock Holmes. Fergus was a Bedlington Whippet cross. He’s also the real brains behind the Sherlock Holmes detective mysteries. (I know, I’m as shocked as you that my hero is a legend of fiction and not a living breathing detective).
I didn’t know if I had the attention span, much less the desire to learn about the detective biz, but I was despurrrate to keep my mind busy on something other than the fact that I might never see my Mom or Dori ever again.
“A detective of Sherlock Holmes’ caliber continuously analyzes the details and looks for clues to possible solutions,” Fergus told me. “When Holmes goes about the business of searching for clues, he treats them like a puzzle with a missing piece, going to great lengths to find that missing piece so he can then move on to the next level of success.”
“Not at all. I can break it down into simple steps for you.”
We moved to Doyle’s office with the door closed so Mrs. Gray wouldn’t disturb us while Fergus recited the “simple” steps Doyle used to make Sherlock Holmes a Master Detective.
“Pay attention to the details, especially what might first appear to be insignificant,” Fergus was saying. “When you begin a case, start with the basics of what you already know to be certain, without question or exaggeration. Be alert when you’re talking to someone, yet behave in a passive manner so as not to influence the subject into elaboration.”
I know this was important stuff he was telling me, but his flat, Ben Stein-like monotone made it hard for me to keep my eyes open. Clearly he found it as boring to say as it was for me to hear. Read More
Previously on Sherlock Herms: The Making of a Master Detective…
“I am happy to answer your questions, Fergus. But I traveled here to learn about being a Master Detective from Sherlock Holmes, and you said you’d share your secrets with me.”
“With your time machine gone, we have all the time in the world.”
“I don’t think so. I’m worried, but not fweaked out. I think Mosey will return for me.”
“Is fweaked out similar to being balmy on the crumpet? You Time Travelers have strange words for everything! Do they still use the heliograph in your time? Has miasma been eliminated? Tell me they still make roly-poly in the future! I do so love roly-poly.”
Closing my eyes, I placed my chin on top of my paws. Charlie! Please hear me. I need you to rescue me. I don’t want to be stuck in 1894. I can’t eat their noms. I have a delicate tummy. And I don’t want to widdle in the flower bed, or learn a whole new language!”
As sleep threaded its way through my body, Fergus’s voice faded and the shade on the inside of my eyelids went from firey-orange to torpor-black.
I found myself in a dark place with no light…cuz it was dark. I felt a soft rug under my paws, and the space wasn’t hot or cold…just right. At first I didn’t smell anything, but then something familiar found its way into my nose and I breathed in deep.
“Charlie?” I whispurred. “Is that you?”
The smell grew stronger. I took comfort from its familiarity. Then I saw a tiny red light in the darkness, hurling toward me. And when it arrived it was still no bigger than a pin point laser, darting back and forth in an enticing way that made me want to spring from my crouch to catch it.
“Herman? Oh, Herman! I’m so relieved I’ve found you.”
“Mom? Mom! Is that you?”
“It’s me, Monkey Boy! I’ve been worried sick ever since Mosey returned without you.”
“I want to come home. Tell Mosey to come get me.”
The red dot settled on top of my left paw. “First, tell me how you got separated.”
“Mosey got into a fight with Fergus, this dog who lives with a guy named Doyle. Did you know Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character in a book? I’m still in shock. I—”
“Herman! Focus! This is important. Charlie tried to come, but you went back in time before he was born and he’s unable to reach you. It is my love for you that has made this communication possible. But I don’t know how long I have. I need to know what happened.” Read More
Previously on Sherlock Herms: The Making of a Master Detective…
Fergus stared at me with wide eyes. “Hello? Did you just wee on my master’s chair?”
My ears burned hot pink with embarrassment. “I-I did.”
“I would have excused you to the loo, if you had only asked,” the dog told me, his tone filled with shock and… perhaps a hint of amusement.
“You were fighting with Mosey. I didn’t know how to stop you from hurting each other.”
Fergus’s bushy white brows rose. “So you shook your tail onto the Jean Avisse signed hand-carved Bergère French armchair?” He rolled onto his back, barking out loud with laughter. “I’m liking you more and more, Herman.”
I felt relieved that Fergus wasn’t angry, but I also felt numb with worry. Mosey had freaked after being attacked by the dog and hightailed it out of the house…and out of this century, leaving me stranded in 1894.
What was I going to do? Was I doomed to remain in the past? What would Mom say when she found out I was missing? Would she think I’d run away? I felt my lower lip quiver as hot tears blurred my vision. I would never see my Mom again! Unable to stop them, tears rolled down my whiskers. I covered my eyes and sobbed into my paws. I didn’t care what Fergus thought of me. I was scared.
“Why did you fight with Mosey?”
I felt his paw awkwardly pat my back. “It’s a dog thing. You wouldn’t understand. There, there. You can live here with me. You can even share my bed by the fire.”
His niceness made me sob all the harder. “I miss my meowmy!”
Fergus led me back to his bed where he barked an order to Mrs. Gray to place more logs on the fire. Seeing I was upset, the housekeeper brought me a bowl of cream. Nice gesture but…
“I can’t drink milk. I’m lactose intolerable.”
Fergus and Mrs. Gray both crooked their heads to one side. “What is…lactose?” they asked in unison.
“Milk products,” I explained. “They make me frow up.”
Mrs. Gray quickly removed the bowl of cream. She already had the hand-carved Bergère French armchair to clean. Instead she fed me tiny morsels of a poultry product I didn’t recognize, but Fergus said was guinea fowl.
“Is it free-range? Organic?” I asked Mrs. Gray, who looked at Fergus with concern.
“Your guest has strange food requirements for a cat.”
“What is strange?” I asked them.
“Cats typically eat vermin,” she said. “Mice. Rats. Magpies. Squirrels. Pigeons. Doves. Rabbits.”
“Is Vermin a high-quality pet food company like Blue or Hills? Does Magpie come in both pate and kibble?” Read More
Previously on Sherlock Herms Master Detective…
Satiated by the delicious sammiches served by Mrs. Gray for tea, Fergus and I lay side by side on his cushy bed in front of a blazing hearth fire. ‘Life’s darkest moment,’ one publication called Sherlock Holmes’ death,” the dog told me. “One of the letters my master received was from a woman who called him a Brute! Still another woman Doyle met on the street struck him with her handbag. Twenty thousand furious readers cancelled their subscriptions to The Strand that published Sherlock Holmes. That nearly bankrupted the magazine. Londoners wore black to express their mourning. The Prince of Wales is still upset. The day the story broke of Holmes’ death, the headlines read, “Tragic Death of Mr. Sherlock,” as if he were flesh and blood–not print and imagination.”
“So I’m not the only one who thought he was real.” My ears still warmed with embarrassment that I’d never suspected Sherlock Holmes to be a fictional character.
“I dare say, the World suffers for heroes to pin their hopes and dreams on,” Fergus replied. “Although I am bewildered as to why the World would choose to make a hero out of such a narrow-minded, self-centered, barely likeable hoomon with an addictive personality.” The dog glanced over at me. “What made you so infatuated with him that you chose to emulate him?”
I flicked through my recall of what my Word of the Day calendar said ‘emulate’ meant before I replied, “He knows almost everything about pawfessional detecting. That’s impressive.”
“Yet he’s indifferent about everything else,” Fergus countered. “Lit-tra-chure. Philosophy. Poly-ticks. Sex!”
“You’re his creator,” I told the dog. “Why did you make him like that?”
“I suppose that was my flaw as Doyle’s muse. I allowed him to focus too hard on Holmes using his eyes and brains to solve cases. It didn’t occur to me that he would become shallow in all other hoomon respects.”
“Well, you aren’t a hoomon,” I pointed out.
“This is true.”
“Thank Cod!” we said in unison…then laughed with newfound companionship. Read More
I don’t recall how I ended up in front of the fireplace warming my whiskers. There’s a good chance that after I heard the dog’s shocking news—I fainted. I know. Not very Master Detective behavior. But ex-cuuuuuse me! I’d just learned my hero had been murdered.
“You’ve done more than just missed Sherlock Holmes,” the dog had told me. “Sherlock Holmes is dead. Doyle killed him!”
The dog introduced himself as Fergus. Or maybe Farkus. Or … Fairrr-gus. He had a thick accent that was hard for my Ameowican ears to understand. Plus, I was in shock.
Sherlock Holmes was dead! As tears burned my eyes, I turned my back on the dog. I didn’t want him to see me sob my little heart out.
What would Watson do when he heard this tragic news? Would he track down the scoundrel Doyle to seek revenge? Would he give up detecting, go back to doctoring? Or… would he be in the market for a new Master Detective partner… like me?
I felt the dog’s paw on my back, petting me softly. “Yur takin’ the news a bit hard, laddie.”
“I c-can’t believe he’s… gone!” I wiped my eyes with my floofy tail, resisting the urge to blow my nose cuz… gross. “How did it happen? During his last case?”
The dog shocked me by laughing. “Well, it would be his last case since he died, wouldn’t it?” Read More
I awoke to the sound of British accents, and found myself inside Mosey who had rolled into an alley for the night. Feeling a soft vibration beneath me, I realized he was still asleep, so I placed my chin on the tops of my paws to think.
I’d left Dori, Opie, Jack, and the rest of my W.A.D. team back in my attic office in order to find Sherlock Holmes and ask him to teach me to be a Master Detective like him. But I couldn’t find him, even when I typed 221B Baker Street, London, UK into Mosey’s control panel.
First I came to a restaurant named The Sherlock Holmes, and then Mosey took me to a museum wearing his name on Baker Street. The thing is, I couldn’t find 221B. Not even 221A! It’s like it disappeared.
I felt like a failure. But if I wanted to be a Master Detective I couldn’t give in to failure. I had to deduce like Holmes. What would he do if the address he wanted either seemed to have vanished… or didn’t exist in the first place?
I shook Mosey awake. “Let’s go investigate that museum.”
A crowd had gathered at the entrance with a guard at the door. He seemed like he knew stuff, so I asked him, “Where is the 221B address? I checked all the shops and it doesn’t exist.”
The guard laughed. “It’s a mystery even Holmes himself would struggle to solve.” Read More
Previously on Sherlock Herms Master Detective – Part 1.
Mosey shivered, then quivered. And then he shook like a wet dog, all the while bouncing around my office. As the nylon tunnel glowed in the attic’s shadowy darkness, I watched it grow bigger … or maybe I was shrinking. Either way, Mosey rolled toward it.
“Haalllp!” Dori screamed, still determined to say her lines. “He’s being eaten!” And then she was gone. And Opie and Jack were gone. So was my desk, my interrogation corner, my piggy bank and collection of trucker magazines.
My ears hurt from the wind-whooshing sound that surrounded me, and the dazzling button lights on the control panel captivated me unlike catnip or any feathery toy I’d ever played with. But I now knew better not to stare. I got yelled at the first time.
As Mosey rocked and rolled from side to side, then flipped upside down, then right-side up, I hunkered under my mint chip cushion to ride it out. I wasn’t afraid. I felt exhilarated! I was going to meet Sherlock Holmes who would hopefully teach me to be a Master Detective just like him.
I just hoped Dr. Watson didn’t get upset and think I was trying to replace him as Holmes’ sidekick… although I wouldn’t say ‘no’ if Holmes asked.
Eventually the sound around me changed from whooshing to sucking, kinda like I was being squeezed from a tube of Laxatone.
When Mosey stopped shaking I threw aside the cushion to see we were rolling along a smooth pavement with dark shops lining the otherwise empty street on either side. It was nighttime, and the air smelled damp and foreign with a lingering odor of stinky fish. Read More
My name is Sherlock Herms. It is my business to know what others don’t know. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure my business is all in my head and I might be borderline schizo. I have no idea what’s going on.
As I lay in the dark on my attic office sofa, my mind replayed what I had to assume was a nightmare.
I’d dreamed we’d lost our home when I allowed a teevee celebrity ghost hunter named Ghost Guy into our house and he’d summoned enough demons to force us to flee. Okay. It was really Dori who did that, but I accept the blame. I could have scratched the dood and sent him on his way, but I didn’t.
We’d moved north to a town called Welcome Home located in the Mitten State. There I met a pretty ghost named Dottie Kiss who loved to wear polka dots and had been murdered by her sister Patty who buried her in a grave with their grandmother, Violet. When confronted with proof Patty retaliated by setting our new home on fire.
“This is your fault, Sherlock,” Dad had snarled at me in my dream. “If you hadn’t poked your pink nose into Patty Kiss’s business, our home wouldn’t be on fire. You’re responsible for this.”
“You took playing detective too far,” Peaches said and Chauncie Marie added, “What a failure you are, Herman.”
I’d buried my face in my paws while all around me were the sounds of my life going up in flames. “I never meant for this to happen,” I’d cried. “I didn’t want to be a purranormal detective, but everyone said I had to help Dottie.”
“You’re a failure,” Frank growled. “Because of you we are now homeless!”
Dori howled. “We are homeless. All because of yoo, Hwermie. All because of yoo!”
“All because of you, Herman,” Mom said, her voice heavy with grief. “All because of you!”
Sobbing my little heart out, I ran to my Guardian Angel, Charley Feeble. “The h-house is b-burning and everyone blames me,” I’d wept in my dream. “I didn’t know Patty would b-burn the house down. I didn’t know.” I pawed away my tears to look into his eyes, but what I saw wasn’t the kind squinty Charley eyes I’d come to know and love. Now his eyes were hard and angry.
“It is your fault,” he told me. “You messed up. You put your family in danger.”
“But I didn’t mean to,” I yowled, heartbroken that my mentor had also turned on me. “Oh Charley. Not you too. Everyone is mad at me. Nobody loves me any more.” As my family and Charley surrounded me with mad faces, I’d hid my face in my paws. “This is a nightmare! A horrible, horrible nightmare!”
I felt a kick to my shins and with a gasp I stared into the squinty eyes of my sweet little sister and partner in the Wonderpurr Detective Agency. “Just like hoomons…you dissy-point me, Hwermie.” Dori kicked me again, and punched my arm. Even in my dream she packed a wallop. “Yoo did a bad thing, Hwermie. Bad, Hwermie!”
As I watched her prepare for another roundhouse punch, I gasped and fell backwards. As I fell, I realized that I was falling into a deep dark pit, about six feet deep. There I lay looking up at the stormy sky at the top of the pit. As the faces of my family crowded around the opening, I realized I was not alone. I was inside the grave with Violet and Dottie, and both were wearing mad faces. Read More
Hi Pals! Well, summer hiatus is over. Thank Cod! It was a long n hoomid summertime and frankly, I’m happy to wave buh bye!
My next Sherlock Herms Purranormal Mystery adventure will debute Friday, September 22nd. In past cases I’ve been plagued by self doubt and insecurities that I can ever measure up to being a master detective like Sherlock Holmes or a hardboiled detective with grit in his blood like Sam Spade. But no more! I’m taking control of my destiny–kicking tail and taking names!
For those of you who spent way too much time at the beach and had your memories singed by the sunshine, I’ve posted the final chapter from my last adventure below. It’s a cliffhanger…without the cliff. Although it’s got a scary grave in it somewhere.
Anyway! I’m looking forward to seeing all of you next Friday. Until then…
Have a Wonderpurr Week!
Previously on Sherlock Herms in Feral Informants.
Sherlock Herms in… Where There’s Smoke There’s Fire
Mom sighed as she disconnected her phone. “This ghost hunting career of yours has turned dangerous,” she said to me. “And I’m mad at myself that I’ve been too distracted setting up this bed and breakfast to notice what’s been happening right under my roof.”
“I’m getting out of the purranormal biz. At least I hope to,” I reassured as I led her downstairs and out the front door where Dori sat on the porch steps. “What did you find?”
Dori swiped a paw across her weepy eyes. “Nacho led me to Violet’s grave. He said Dottie is buried there, too.”
Mom abruptly went back inside. I wondered if she was nervous about what I’d asked her to do and needed to pee, or was backing out of our plan to trap Dottie’s killer in a confession. But then she returned with scissors and a large shopping tote that smelled like bread. As she snipped several yellow Julia Child roses from the nearby bushes she said, “Crawl inside the tote, under the bread loaves. Patty Kiss claims to be allergic to cats. She won’t allow me inside her home if she sees you.”
I pushed aside the crusty loaves to settle at the bottom of the tote. Dori climbed in beside me. As Mom carried us to the house next door, I whispered the plan to Dori. She seemed uncharacteristically subdued. “Hoomons can be so dissy-pointing.” I couldn’t agree more.
I heard Mom whisper, “It’s show time!” and ring the doorbell. A moment passed before the door opened and I heard Patty Kiss say to Mom, “What a surprise.”
“I was on my way home from the store,” Mom told her, “but when I saw how pretty my roses were, I cut a few for your home.”
“Thank you,” Patty said. “My grandmother planted those bushes years ago. But she never shared them with me.”
“Cuz yoo is a bad lady,” Dori whispered inside the tote, and I told her to Shhh. Read More
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