Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

Louie Puts Up

a Red Flag

Can you believe that I, Midnight Louie, must come up with a scheme to draw attention to myself?

Me, who is usually bigger than life and as hard to disguise as the MGM lion?

Having assistants at hand during this case has permitted me to hang back above the battle and remain out of sight while I deploy my operatives. It has permitted my three female operatives to assume at various times the identity of Satin, the house cat, and be taken for granted and totally ignored while collecting information like a trio of furry, black, mobile, eavesdropping “bugs.”

Now I need to step up to the plate my own self and lead the many befuddled humans in the house to the lurking perp at the perimeter. I return to the back screen door of the kitchen and proceed to sharpen my shivs on the mesh, making a nerve-wracking rending sound.

But the kitchen radio is playing and the assembled bridesmaids are doing their nails in the courtesans’ bizarre and glittery colors.

I yowl.

Finally, one yawns and shivers. “Listen to the coyotes.”

“It sounds like it is right on top of us,” another comments.

They never even glance toward the back door, not even Ms. Shoofly who is not only a guilty party, but presiding over a huge, noisy fry pan of sizzling bacon and scrambled eggs at the stovetop.

Not one of my ninja trio is in the kitchen at the moment.

I want to scream like a catamount. This case is next to closed, and I am shut out and ignored.

In desperation, I amble outside to prowl the bordello’s perimeter, finding a way up to the first-story roof via the courtesans’ bedroom annex. I am forced to blunt my shivs on stucco before I manage to scramble onto the roof’s asphalt shingles.

Panting, I approach the dormers for the guest bedrooms. All are draped, or shaded, or blacked out. I finally am able to claw a ripped screen open. The broken edges currycomb my sides as I eel through, cutting a pad on a loose nail.

By now I am panting, bleeding, and furious.

I must head-butt a heavy Roman shade aside until it slips its bottom moorings. I plummet to the wooden floor inside, not landing on my abused feet. I do not know which is worse: more foot trauma or knocking my teeth on some thick circle of leather embedded with spikes.

Eek! My own black facial leather has touched a recreational dog collar! Spitting out the awful taste, I box my way out of the room in the darkness into the hall.

Luckily, it is lined with night-lights even during the daytime, a touch I am sure the Sapphire Slipper clientele much appreciate both coming and going.

I find my way into another room, this one decorated more like a bedchamber than a doggy discipline school. I jump back when I glimpse a black cat in the mirror.

Oops. That is me, but my hair is a mess. I look almost as ragged as Ma Barker.

Now. I gaze around as my eyes adapt to the dim light.

I need a signal. Something like a white flag of surrender. Something that will draw every human eye to my form and will sufficiently intrigue someone in this mob of guys and gals and my usual associates to follow me to where the criminal is hiding out.

It certainly will not be a canine collar!

Something bright catches my eye. It is light, small, but memorable.

Just the thing!