Timmy Failure: The Cat Stole My Pants
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are either products of the author’s
imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2017 by Stephan Pastis
Timmy Failure font copyright © 2012 by Stephan Pastis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted,
or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means,
graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and
recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2017
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number pending
This book was typeset in Nimrod.
The illustrations were done in pen and ink.
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A six-toed cat stole my pants.
On an island called Key West in Florida.
It happened when we were touring the
house of a famous author.
Who I know nothing about.
Other than that he is dead.
So when my mother made me dress up for
the tour, I knew it wasn’t to impress him.
I also didn’t know that the interior of
the dead guy’s house would have no air-
conditioning. Causing me to sweat so profusely
as to be medically unsafe.
Which is probably what killed the author.
But I am the detective Timmy Failure.
And I am harder to kill than an author.
So when the heat of the house becomes
overwhelming, I leave my mother with the
tour group and walk back outside.
Where I do what any sane person would do.
And remove my pants.
But my cool pants-less respite is cut short
by the sound of my mother’s voice calling to
me from the upstairs windows of the house.
“Timmy? Where are you? Timmy?”
So I grudgingly return inside and stand
amidst the tour group.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she
whispers, pulling me to the back of the group.
“Saving my life,” I answer. “So I don’t end
up like the dead guy.”
I point toward the author’s picture on the
wall.
“Timmy, you are standing in a public
place in your underwear.”
“It’s my Mr. Froggie underwear. So people
will think it’s a fancy bathing suit. And
besides, why do I have to dress up anyway?
Everyone else here is in shorts.”
Before she can say anything else, we are
interrupted by the old man who is our tour
guide.
“Folks, next we’re gonna go see the room
where Mr. Hemingway wrote.”
“I don’t know who that is,” I reply as I
shuffle past him in my underwear.
“Ernest Hemingway. You’re standing in
his house,” he says, then pauses. “You’re
standing in your underwear in his house. Son,
could you please put on some pants?”
“I am so sorry,” says my overly apologetic
mother as she rushes me out of the upstairs
bedroom we are in and onto the wraparound
verandah.
“Timmy, where did you leave them?”
“Who knows? Maybe next to the foun-
tain outside. The one the cats were drinking
out of.”
“You stay here,” she tells me. “Don’t
move.”
So I stand outside on the verandah beneath
a large ceiling fan and stare at the pudgy tour-
ists below.
And that’s when I see him.
The cat with six toes.
“Polydactyl,” says the tour guide, peer-
ing out of the double doors that lead onto the
verandah. “That means he has more than the
usual number of toes. Like the kind of cat that
Papa owned.”
“They’re like giant mittens,” I reply. “And
who the heck is Papa?”
“Ernest ‘Papa’ Hemingway,” he says. “Or
‘the dead guy,’ as you call him.”
And as he says it, I hear my mother’s foot-
steps rushing back toward us on the verandah.
“Your pants are not on the fountain, Timmy.
They’re not anywhere.”
“Of course they’re not,” I reply. “Because
they’ve been stolen.”
“Stolen?” she says. “Who would steal
pants?”
“Him,” I say.
“The cat,” she says.
“Yes,” I answer. “With giant mittens for
paws. Could walk off with half the furniture in
this house if he wanted to.”
“Timmy, that little cat does not steal
pants.”
“He’s never stolen my pants,” the tour
guide interjects. “And I’ve been here fifteen
years.”
The tour guide smiles at my mother. She
does not smile back. He slinks back inside
the bedroom and rejoins the departing tour
group.
“Timmy, I want you to focus. Where did
you see them last?”
“I told you already. By the fountain.”
“Yeah, well, as I told you already, they’re
not there.”
“So talk to Mr. Mittens over there,” I
answer, pointing again at the cat. “It’s a genetic
mutation. We learned about it in science. God
or Charlie Darwinian or somebody gave that
little cat a thumb so he can grab things. And
unfortunately for us, he has chosen to use that
skill for evil ends. Namely, the theft of my
pants.”
Mr. Mittens meows.
“Cats do not wear pants,” my mother
answers in that unique motherly tone that is
half whisper and half scream.
“Correct,” I answer. “Which is why he
probably sold them on the kitty black market.”
She opens her mouth to once again lecture
me but is stopped short by a man’s voice.
This one from beneath the verandah.
“Are you guys gonna come down here or
just stay up there talking all day?”
So my mother peers over the railing.
“Tell that nosy tour guide to mind his own
business,” I say to her.
My mother looks back at me, and suddenly,
the anger is drained from her face, replaced by
something else.
It is as though she has seen the error of
her ways, perhaps owing to a glimpse of Mr.
Mittens absconding with my pants.
“It’s not the tour guide,” she says.
“Is it a cat wearing pants?” I answer.
She shakes her head and reaches out her
hand to take mine, pulling me toward the
railing.
Where I peer down at the man. Who I don’t
recognize.
“Papa,” she says.
I stare back inside at the picture of the
white-bearded man on the wall, and then back
toward the younger man beneath the verandah.
And they look nothing alike.
“Not the writer,” she says, reading my
thoughts.
Pausing briefly to squeeze my hand.
“It’s your father.”
Many years ago, a zillion desperate people—all
seeking a better life—escaped from a country
called Cuba to a place called Key West, Florida.
Many years later, one desperate boy—also
seeking a better life—escaped from Key West,
Florida, to Cuba.
“Timmy, get back here so I can put lotion
on you,” says my mother.
“I’m almost to Cuba,” I answer.
“You’re two feet from the shore,” she says.
“In Florida.”
“Google says that Cuba is only ninety
miles away. I can swim that in an hour. And if
I don’t like it, I’ll swim right back.”
“Timmy,” she says, yanking me out of the
water by my arm and slathering sunscreen
across my face, “I want you to come back to
where we are on the beach, and I want you to
play with Emilio. The poor kid’s just standing
up there waving at you.”
“But look at him, Mother. Wearing his
little ducky thing. It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s not embarrassing, Timmy. Stop mak-
ing life difficult.”
“Well, I didn’t want to come to stupid Key
West in the first place.”
“What did you want us to do? Leave you at
home? Leave you for a week with some baby-
sitter we barely know?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“No,” she snaps back. “Dave and I would
have just worried about you. That would have
ruined our entire honeymoon.”
Honeymoon.
A word that the Merriam-Webster diction-
ary defines suchly:
Which reminds me.
The first thing I’m going to do when I get
off this remote island is write to Mr. Merriam
or Mr. Webster or Mr. Merriam-Webster
and tell them all to update their stupid
dictionary.
Because:
1) This trip is a far cry from pleasant; and
2) My mother is not married.
Well, she would say she is married. But
there is no proof.
Because somebody named me fainted dur-
ing the ceremony.
And so I witnessed none of the
unpleasantness.
Which brings me to the whole Emilio
thing.
Emilio is the nephew of my mother’s so-
called “husband,” Doorman Dave.
Doorman Dave was once our doorman.
But then my mother decided to marry him.
So now Doorman Dave is So-Called Husband
Dave.
And Emilio is here because—well, I’ll just
let my mother explain that one:
“We thought it’d be nice for you to have a
playmate.”
A playmate.
As though I’m a toddler sipping milk
through a swirly straw while stacking my
alphabet blocks.
And my mother’s comment is made dou-
bly offensive by the fact that I already have a
companion.
My former business partner, Total.
Who is a polar bear.
And a fast swimmer.
And is by now already in Cuba.
“I am the founder, president, and CEO of
Failure, Inc., the best detective agency in the
state, probably the nation, perhaps the world,”
I tell Emilio. “Write that part down.”
Emilio writes it down.
“How many detective agencies are there in
the world?” he asks.
“What does that matter?” I answer.
“Well, how do you know if you’re the great-
est if you don’t know how many there are?”
I reach over and draw an X in Emilio’s
notebook.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“A demerit. You’ll get one demerit every
time you ask an inappropriate question.”
Emilio writes that down, too.
“And you will be my intern.”
“How much does that pay?” asks Emilio.
“It doesn’t. So technically, you will be my
unpaid intern.”
“But why should I do it for nothing?”
I glare at Emilio. He writes an X in his
notebook.
I pace the long wooden dock we are stand-
ing on. At the end of it is a gazebo that now
serves as the temporary global headquarters
of Failure, Inc.
“Emilio—” I pause. “What is your last
name, Emilio?”
“Empanada.”
“Isn’t that a food?” I inquire.
“Yes,” he says. “They’re quite tasty.”
“Emilio Empanada,” I continue. “You
will not be doing this for the money. Because
money comes and goes.”
He writes that down.
“You will be doing it for the glory. Because
glory lasts forever.”
A tear rolls down his cheek.
“I see you’re moved to tears,” I tell him.
“That is not an uncommon reaction.”
“No,” he says as he rubs his eye. “I wear
contact lenses. And I just got sand behind the
lens.”
I ignore the emotional Emilio Empanada
and continue.
“Normally, I would not hire someone as
inexperienced and emotional as yourself. But
being that I am stuck with you, through no
fault of my own, I have chosen to make the
best of it.”
He raises his hand.
“Yes, Emilio Empanada?”
“I overheard you saying something to your
mother about a polar bear. Why is that?”
I remove a torn piece of notebook paper
from my pocket.
“Yes,” I answer. “His name is Total. And
everything you need to know on that subject is
in this document. Do not share it with anyone.”
Emilio reviews the confidential document.
“You have a polar bear who eats people?”
he asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “And given your last
name, you’ll be especially vulnerable.”
“I’m bigger than an empanada.”
“Size is relative to a polar bear,” I explain.
He doesn’t write that down.
“Now you’ll need detective supplies,” I
explain to him. “Like secret microphones and
brass knuckles and fingerprint kits. And you’ll
need a bulletproof vest.”
He doesn’t write that down, either.
“Why aren’t you taking notes?” I ask.
“I’m just wondering,” he says, scratching
his head. “Where is this polar bear? Because I
don’t see him.”
I point past the end of the dock toward
the aqua sea that stretches to the horizon.
“Somewhere out that way. He is seeking politi-
cal
asylum in Cuba.”
“I don’t know what that means,” says
Emilio.
“You don’t have to. All you need to know
is that he is seeking a better life. And if you
ever see a fifteen-hundred-pound furry beast
arrive back on these shores, you are to run
as though your life depended on it. Because it
does.”
Emilio stares at me, shielding his eyes
from the sun.
“What now?” I ask.
“I don’t believe that you really have a
polar bear. I think that you’re just making that
part up.”
I grab the notebook from his hands and
make an X on every one of the remaining
pages.
“And you’ll need a new notebook,” I tell
him.
“I can’t work with him,” I tell my mother on
the porch of our rented Key West home.
“It’s only for a week,” she says.
“He asks inappropriate questions. He has
no respect for the detective business. And he
fails to understand the reclusive nature of
polar bears.”
“You’ll just have to teach him all those
things.”
“Teach him? He barely understands that
he’s an intern. An unpaid intern!”
“Not so loud, Timmy.”
“Why? Where is he?”
“Inside. He’s taking a shower.”
“And that’s another thing,” I add. “That’s
like his third shower today.”
“Well, it’s hot here. Maybe he sweats a
lot.”
“And why does he hang his pants on a
hanger?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to wrinkle them.”
“And while we’re at it, why does he have
to tuck a stupid napkin into the top of his shirt
when he eats? It’s absurd.”
“Maybe he likes to be neat. Or maybe he
just has nice manners.”
“Yeah, well, he’s in the wrong business,
then. Detectives pride themselves on getting