AN: More Basil and Marco Polo because it's cute.
"How…" Pant. "In the world…" Pant. "Did you…" Pant. "Talk me into this!" Pant.
Marco Polo was many things. He was a Siamese for one, a breed to be pampered and adored (which he was). He had a remarkably wonderful voice, being a castrato. He was also a member of high feline society; he and Bustopher Jones, the undisputable toast of the town, were on a single name basis.
He was most certainly not a mount for a mad detecting mouse.
"I hardly predicted this, old chap!" Basil protested although he sounded rather excited as he held on for his life to the fine Italian leather collar. He glanced over his shoulder. "Oh my… They're gaining on us! Can't you pick up the pace?"
"Says the one not doing the running," Marco Polo grumbled to himself, noting the neighbourhood. At least he had a plan. With one long jump, he cleared a picket fence, scrambling to the backyard.
The huge, snarling tom that had been chasing them did the same, following them. He was deterred, however, when a massive German Sheppard came tearing from the doghouse, deep growls sending it scurrying away like a bat out of Hell.
Marco Polo, still panting, looked up at the dog affectionately. "Thanks, Duchess."
The dog, owned by one Michael Abbot, gave a happy bark.