Cat In A Quicksilver Caper

Midnight Louie Mourns

the Status Quo Vadis

The decent thing would have been to warn me that the human misbehavior in this book would erupt to such an extent that it would threaten my happy home.

My Miss Temple and I have had a mutually agreeable working and living arrangement: I was the alpha male on her premises, but would allow her SO, Mr. Max Kinsella, visiting privileges if he did not hog too much of the California king size. I would tolerate off-campus activities with Mr. Matt Devine if my Miss Temple could ever get him off the celibacy shtick.

But I would remain first and foremost in her domestic sphere, i.e., our shared digs at the Circle Ritz.

I cannot honestly say I enjoyed Mr. Max’s midnight visits. They disturbed my beauty sleep, but I did recognize that he was here first, even though he blew his residency by going AWOL before I ever came on the scene.

Nor did I mind my Miss Temple consoling herself for Mr. Max’s growing absence and distance with the far more reliable and nearby Mr. Matt.

But now I have heard this Awful Word bandied about: marriage. What is wrong with unofficial cohabitation? It has served my species well for thousands of years. This official monogamy that humans keep trying has all sorts of evil offshoots.

It causes the couple to contemplate shared quarters. Will it be his? Hers? A new place entirely?

Do you see a comfy niche for Midnight Louie, Esq., in this rush to unification? I thought not. Oh, I am sure I would be accorded some ratty old pillow in a corner of some other bedroom somewhere.

But what if Mr. Matt, being the late-blooming sort, objects to witnesses in the bedroom, even if they are the silent type? I do not cede territory to any male without a fight.

What am I to do at this late date? Move in with dear old dad on Lake Mead? Go begging like a homeless old duffer for quarters back at the Crystal Phoenix from my apparent daughter, Midnight Louise? I would rather be fish bait! Koi, come and get me!

I am not about to throw myself on the mercy of my collaborator either. If she cared a fig or a flying flamingo about me she would not have let these unruly characters mess up my life (not to mention theirs) so much.

What is the use of being an author if you cannot control characters and events? I have long felt the literary game was a sham and a delusion and now that I am in danger of becoming homeless again, I am certain of it.

I just did not expect my very own partner in crime to sell me out to raging hormones.

(Of course, I cannot really say how I feel about all this for publication. I have an image to project . . . I mean protect, and I may also harbor some secret, soul-stirring issues that I cannot share with anyone, not even my Miss Temple, not even my Miss Carole.)

You, Dear Readers, however, are an exception. Yet we can only communicate through the cryptic means of literature. Litterature in my case. The moving finger, or claw, writes. On the wall or in the sand. And moves on. And on.

Surely things cannot be as dire as they look! Not if I have anything to write about it.

Midnight Louie, Esq.

If you’d like information about Midnight Louie’s free Scratching Post-Intelligencer newsletter and/or T-shirt and other cool things, contact him at P.O. Box 33155, Fort Worth, TX 76163-1555 or www.carolenelsondouglas.com or at cdouglas@catwriter.com.