Fitz Molly (2)

I’m finally coming to terms with the fact I can speak to animals, even though the only one who ever talks back is the crabby tabby I’ve taken to calling Octo-Cat. What I haven’t quite worked out is how to hide my secret…  Now one of the associates at my law firm has discovered this strange new talent of mine and insists I use it to help defend his client against a double murder charge. To make things worse, I kind of have the hots for this Charles Longfellow, III.  And even worse than that? Octo-Cat can’t stand the guy and not-so-lovingly refers to him as “Upchuck.” Ugh! Despite none of us being happy about it, we’re a team now, which means it’s up to us to find out who committed the crime our client is being blamed for.  Throw in a spastic Yorkie who hasn’t figured out his owner is dead, and oh boy… How is this my life now?

I was just your normal twenty-something with seven associate degrees and no idea what I wanted to do with my life. That is, until I died… Well, almost. As if a near-death experience at the hands of an old coffeemaker wasn’t embarrassing enough, I woke up to find I could talk to animals. Or rather one animal in particular. His full name is Octavius Maxwell Ricardo Edmund Frederick Fulton, but since that’s way too long for anyone to remember, I’ve taken to calling him Octo-Cat. He talks so fast he can be difficult to understand, but seems to be telling me that his late owner didn’t die of natural causes like everyone believes. Well, now it looks like I no longer have a choice, apparently my life calling is to serve as Blueberry Bay’s first ever pet whisperer P.I while maintaining my façade as a paralegal at the offices of Fulton, Thompson & Associates. I just have one question: *How did Dr. Doolittle make this gig look so easy?*