Cat In A Flamingo Fedora

Chapter 30

Could Louie Die for Love?

The life of a TV star is not to be envied.

Here I sit, still a bit wet behind the ears and between the toes after having given my coat a thorough tongue-lashing from stem to stern and from tip to tail. I do not believe that I have even been so wet in my entire vagabond life as I was when Yvette and I were dragged dripping from the Mirage lagoon.

Not that I have not been showered--(oops, wrong word)--provided with all the creature comforts.

Miss Temple Barr has ensconced me in the bed, heaping the covers around my recumbent form, and has moved my food from the kitchen and my litter box from the spare bathroom to the bed's foot. (As if I would set paw in makeshift indoor facilities, or sink a fang into a pile of unadorned Free-to-be-Feline if I did not have to.)

Although I sneeze now and then from my underwater outing, I am fine. People always think a wet dude is in need of succor. What he really needs is a bit of catnip to take the edge off.

So, once my little doll is out, I am up and stretching. Then I scratch in the box until I have removed enough litter to make a pretty sand painting on the carpet. I next walk through it in such a way as to leave a message: will be out until later. Read my feet. Unfortunately, humans are not used to interpreting messages spelled out in spilled litter, and they miss a lot that way.

Finally, I bury the Free-to-be-Feline with a few swift kicks of litter over the loathsome army-green pile. I am not being rude, just expressing myself in the most direct way I know.

Before you can burp up a cricket, I am climbing my favorite route to the spare-bathroom window and eeling out into the wide world. Within twenty minutes, I have leg-rubbed my way into the Goliath Hotel and taken a ride in a linen trolley up the freight elevator. Now I stand, dizzy but triumphant, outside the Divine Yvette's closed hotel-room door.

Here I must wait until some human or other decides to go in or out. (And they call my kind indecisive about which side of the door we wish to be on!) While waiting, I clean the litter from behind my nails and generally put the Ritz on my topcoat. A neat appearance does a lot for a gentleman with notions of a romantic nature. I figure that having played the hero and saved the Divine Yvette's life, she should be ready for a very hot reunion. And this time no Midnight Louise lurks to put the kibosh on love and the other facts of life.

At last a maid's cart clatters down the hall. I dash over while the maid is inside a room, and stow away behind stacks of extra toilet paper. As color goes, toilet paper is not the ideal hideaway for me, but it is also stored so low that the maids reach down for a roll without really looking.

I spend an idle hour or two on a slow boat to delight, batting toilet-paper rolls toward the maid's reaching hands, until we are back to Yvette's door. With the turn of a passkey, the maid is in. Behind her back, Midnight Louie is busted out and at large.

I have already explored this public terrain from beneath Miss Savannah Ashleigh's dressing gown, so I streak for the bedroom where the Divine One hangs out. No one is at home but my darling, and she is not in her carrier! My heart and other romantically motivated parts of my anatomy quicken as I leap upon the bed beside her.

Her little pink nose is cherry-red. I detect a pathetic sniffle.

" Ma cher, are you indisposed?" I ask with sinking heart and other parts. "Have you been in a blue mood?"

"I am always in a blue mood lately, Louie," she confesses. "I do not know what is wrong.

When my mistress took me to the veterinarian yesterday, they did all sorts of nasty tests. My mistress was very upset. I heard her in the vet's private office. I am afraid I might have contracted some dread tropical disease from that phony lagoon. And I am so tired after that dreadful dunking yesterday. It has ruined my hair!"

I see that despite some quick licks and a human attempt at combing, the Divine Yvette's fur still has a shopworn, bedraggled look. Those Persian coats are murder to keep up! I am often glad I wear a close-cropped, plain old American alley-cat coat. Just a shake and a damp-down keeps it glossy and styleable.

"Your hair is lovely," I lie. That is what guys do when the light of their life is growing dim over a hangnail or whatever. "I have heard that the Mirage puts only the purest distilled water in its lagoon, and distilled water was used for bathing in the time of the Egyptians."

"Cleopatra bathed in milk, I heard."

"For her, milk. Yes. But for the queen of our kind, only the purest distilled water."

The tiny black vertical frown lines on my beloved's forehead crease. "Does not distillation take engines and machines and such? Did the ancient Egyptians have all that?"

I can see that she wants to believe me, but needs more reason. "Tut-tut," I say. "The Egyptians did brain surgery. These humans used to be a lot smarter than they look. And, now, if I may just lick a lock of your ruff into place--"

"Lou-ie," she answers with a short purr of forbidden delight. She coils into a kittenish comma, curling her forelegs, in their pale gray striped stockings, against her chest. What a living doll!

I can see my moment coming. For the fact is, in my species the female is not exactly enthusiastic about certain natural acts. She is often not in the mood. Even when the stars and hormones are in conjunction, she is tricky to approach. She is not disposed to let any of the male sex behind her, will even hiss and bat a suitor away, no matter how sincere. Sometimes it is necessary for the male to declare his superiority by taking the bit into his teeth: he nips a bit of skin at the back of her neck and forges ahead, ignoring all yowls, scratches and protests.

I do not know why it is so difficult. But I have never known the male of any species to have an easy time persuading the lady of his choice into the position of his need.

Pardon me, there was one male who apparently had solved the conundrum of the ages: Darren Cooke, by all repute. And you see what happened: he is dead.

I am now licking the Divine Yvette's long silver ruff into order and working my way downward. She twists and turns with delight, I will soon be in a position to . . . well, this is not a how-to book. Suffice it to say that all my dreams will come true in a nip and a tuck.

In fact, I have made so much progress without protest that I am not prepared for the scream when it comes. It is a doozy. I look up to see what has gotten into the Divine Yvette, but her eyes are wide open too, and her little pink mouth is firmly shut.

Then I realize that the scream is inhuman, but that it is coming from a human.

Savannah Ashleigh is standing in the open bedroom door, her purse a heap on the floor, surrounded by its spilled contents, her hands fists of fury.

"You worthless alley cat!" she screeches in my direction. "You ugly, nameless prowler!

Rapist! You're the one who made my poor, darling Yvette pregnant!"

I look at Yvette. She looks at me.

Obviously, no one has seen fit to inform either of us.

"Who--?" I begin.

But I have no opportunity to question the only one who would know.

Miss Savannah Ashleigh swoops toward me in her flapping black cloak. Now I know how poor little Toto felt. If there were a yellow brick road leading from this chamber, I would take it.

If a twister funnel were making like an eggbeater outside this twentieth-story window, I would leap into its eye without a qualm. If there were a dumbwaiter in the suite, or even an empty elevator shaft, I would plunge into it and take my chances.

But there is none of this. There is only one way out, and Miss Savannah Ashleigh, screaming like a banshee, is blocking it.

I jump off the bed and then slither underneath it.

The springs groan as Miss Savannah performs a flying tackle.

I try to skitter to the bedroom door, but she Is across the room like a bullet, kicking It shut with one spike-heeled foot. I dodge the needle-sharp heel that aims at my brain and take cover under the bed again.

Trapped. I know it.

All is quiet beyond the dust ruffle. I wait, then hear a zipper being shut or opened. Can Miss Savannah be calming down and undressing?

I stick a few whiskers out from cover. I see nothing ahead of me. No shoes, no legs. I twist my head to look above. Nothing leans over the bed's edge.

I ease out. The door is still closed. I am ready to take cover again, when a big pink cloud descends on me like a flock of flamingos. I am smothered in pink, and turn over, wrestling the cloud. In a second my weight overturns it, and I hear a zipper straining shut. Bet Miss Savannah has put on a few pounds, heh-heh. Lying on my back, I kick at the pink cloud with both back feet, shivs out.

They bounce off sturdy canvas as I finally realize what has happened.

The zippers I heard were not in Miss Savannah Ashleigh's clothes, but in something else, something inescapable. I have been scooped up in the Divine Yvette's pink cat carrier. Miss Savannah Ashleigh grunts in a most unladylike way as she struggles to set the carrier upright. I do not give her any help.

"Got you, you molester! Ruin my beautiful, innocent purebred, will you? She was destined for a champion Persian stud. They would have had beautiful babies, instead of the mongrel spawn my poor baby now will have to labor to deliver. Those offspring will go off to the pound as soon as they're old enough, do you hear? As for you ..."

I see her legs scissor back and forth in front of me. I have heard the anger in her voice and seen the madness in her eyes. Poor Yvette. Her mistress has gone over the serrated edge. She is loony for real this time.

"I have had it with your gender, buddy." She stops to lean her face way down to the mesh side of the carrier. "First that jerk Darren makes it pretty clear that he considers me over the hill!

Me! I am almost young enough to be his daughter, yet I am 'too old' for him. And now you. You will never see Yvette again."

I hear an anguished mew from the bed, very faint.

Miss Savannah Ashleigh hears nothing but the madness of her own heart beating.

"What to do with you that's vile enough? The pound would be too easy. Someone might find you, or even adopt you. No, I need something permanent, a punishment that fits the crime --"

Inside the carefully applied black eye makeup, Miss Savannah Ashleigh's eyes are bloodshot and deranged. They suddenly squinch almost shut with an idea.

Her face vanishes as she stands. I feel a jerk on the carrier handle, then am lofted a full four inches from the floor. "I am going to take care of you, Mr. screw 'em and leave 'em to have kittens on somebody else's bed. I am going to fix you forever."

I yowl the entire way down the elevator to the parking garage, but people in the elevator, people we pass on the way out, only shake their heads.

"Does not like to travel?" they ask, smiling.

"He will get over it very soon," Miss Savannah answers grimly. Every time.

In front of the Goliath she hails a cab and gives an address on the professional side of town.

Not a bad neighborhood at all. She places the carrier on the cab floor. Her toe kicks it every now and then, keeping time while she sings a little song about boots made for walking, stomping all over you.

I do not believe that there is a rodeo in town at the moment, so she cannot mean to throw me into the bull ring. Of course, there are greyhound training stables, and illegal pitbull fights, where she could also import me at great risk to my handsome hide.

There is no doubt in my mind. Miss Savannah Ashleigh is in a killing fury, and I am completely under her control at the moment.

It will take an act of Bast to save Midnight Louie this time.