Detective Barnaby—though the humans insisted on calling him "Biscuit"—had a case to solve. Someone had drunk from the forbidden water bowl (the toilet), and he had three suspects.
Suspect One: Mr. Whiskers, who'd renamed himself "The Shadow" after watching exactly four minutes of a noir film. He spent most of his time practicing dramatic entrances into rooms, which mainly involved falling off countertops.
Suspect Two: Princess Butterscotch, an orange tabby who'd convinced herself she was descended from Egyptian royalty. She demanded tribute (treats) every hour and had somehow trained the humans to obey. Barnaby suspected dark magic.
Suspect Three: Kevin. Just Kevin. A calico who'd been named by the humans' five-year-old nephew and had never recovered from the indignity. Kevin coped by knocking things off tables and pretending it was an accident. He wasn't fooling anyone.
The investigation hit a snag when Barnaby realized he'd also drunk from the toilet that morning and couldn't actually remember if it had been him. But a detective never admits such things, so he pressed forward.
"The evidence points to... SQUIRREL!"
Barnaby bolted to the window. False alarm—just a leaf. He returned to find all three cats sitting in the exact spot where he'd been standing, somehow having materialized there instantly, wearing expressions of pure innocence.
"Gentlemen. And lady," he nodded to Princess Butterscotch, who yawned. "One of you is guilty."
Kevin sneezed.
"AHA!"
"That proves nothing," The Shadow emerged from behind the curtain—his dramatic entrance only slightly undermined by the curtain rod falling down.
The tension was broken by the sound of running water. All four rushed to the bathroom to find the humans filling the bathtub. The case was immediately forgotten. This was a Code Red situation.
They formed a emergency committee at the bathroom door. Princess Butterscotch moved that they all hide. The Shadow suggested psychological warfare (knocking the shampoo bottle into the tub). Kevin said nothing but his eyes screamed chaos.
Barnaby, however, had a different idea. If he jumped into the bath voluntarily, the humans would be so shocked they'd never try to bathe anyone again.
It was a terrible plan.
Ten minutes later, four soggy, betrayed animals sat wrapped in towels, having learned that the humans had war crimes-level coordination when motivated.
The toilet water incident remained unsolved. Honestly, they all knew it had been Barnaby.