Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

From Here

to Urbanity

Even long, lean Fontana brothers, Las Vegas’s own Magnificent Ten, have to disembark from the Rolls onto the desert sand when we arrive at the party destination in the dark of evening.

Wait a minute. Desert sand?

I am not the only one befuddled, although I am the only one who is licking sand grains from between my unshod toes.

“Hey,” says one plaintive voice. “This isn’t the strip club, is it?”

By now three rounds of champagne have sloshed in the gathered glasses, except for Mr. Matt’s and mine.

That extra-dark tint on the Rolls’s windows may have been disorienting.

“Naw, that must be the place,” Emilio announces, gesturing with his still-full champagne glass.

Indeed, amidst the Stygian darkness that surrounds the party we can see the illuminated glitter of a large entrance canopy.

(This Stygian darkness is like super-dark shades and refers to some ancient place underground, like a cave. Or a wine cellar. Or a tomb. Even now I do not quite grasp our situation. And I am the only one in the party fit to grasp anything, except for Mr. Matt, who is starting to frown just before the Rolls headlights go out and we are all truly in the dark.)

The sound of leather soles grinding on sand guides me forward. Mr. Matt and I have been abandoned to trek along behind the brothers ten and Uncle Mario.

By now I have been noticed, and, in fact, had about six toasts made to my unexpected presence en route to the bachelor party. That is why I and Mr. Matt are sober and surefooted, and all the Fontanas are lurching along like hail-fellows-well-met.

I am starting to feel the hairs on my spine stiffening and standing upright.

It could be the cooler night air.

It could be the off-key chorus of “O Sole Mio,” that is drifting back on the desert air.

It could be the fact that the convivial singing comes to a sudden halt on the warm, lamp-lit threshold before us all.

I, of course, was born to see in the dark, so I swagger into the lead. That is not hard to do. The brothers Fontana are already swaying instead of swaggering. I have never known them to be the tipsy sort, but this is a landmark occasion.

I gaze into the light, my pupils slitting to laser-sharp focus long before the humans in the party can stop blinking blindly.

And a little cat shall lead them. . . .

I march into the glare, having spotted all the hallmarks of bachelor bliss awaiting our party: several human little dolls of the leggy sort, attired in skimpy wisps of sheer fabrics decorated with sequins and rhinestones and (my favorite) mounds of marabou feathers.

Let the games begin!