Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

Midnight Louie

Has Issues

What is a self-respecting PI to do?

Here I thought I was off on a festive stag jaunt with the Fontana boys, and we end up surrounded by mad and murderous dames, and worse, rescued by dames.

There is no sanctuary for us manly dudes these days, not even at a notorious Nevada chicken ranch. And that is another thing. I do not get why they call these establishments “chicken” ranches. They are not ranches and they do not have any chickens I noticed hanging about the place. Besides, chickens are not usually notorious, unless they are running around telling everyone the sky is falling.

It seems to me that if the done-wrong bridesmaids wanted to make a point about being overdue for matrimony, or at least engagement rings, a bordello is not the logical place to do it.

Although I do understand the “last stand” notion of a bachelor party, in which lewd dudes drink and ogle and carry on, hopefully knowing when to stop, although some do not and that is when weddings are canceled.

Not this wedding. It was quite the classy event, I thought. Of course, me and my extended family (and, oi! it is ever-extending, all on the distaff side), are delighted to be guests and are always dressed in formal black to play key roles for such occasions. Miss Kitty saw to it that Miss Satin came along in a lacey off-white cape, and Midnight Louise managed to sneak Ma Barker in for the food line poolside, although the fireworks had her hackles at attention most of the evening.

The only black cat I am missing at this event—besides my old man out at Temple Bar on Lake Mead—is Mr. Mystifying Max.

And what is my esteemed collaborator doing on her own authority, putting him in dire circumstances in a far place?

That is cruel and unusual punishment for a poor guy who broke both his legs and misplaced his memory. That psychiatrist strikes me as highly suspicious. You will recall that the treacherous, or at least disloyal, Persian honey, Yvette, claimed to be French. And you see how she turned out. A little German on the father’s side is not going to cure the French part. Those French females are all femmes fatales.

I suppose I am going to have to nibble my nails over what is happening overseas, where I am not likely to go or be taken. This is a cheesy operation, if I say so myself. There are gambling mec-cas on the Riviera, in Bangkok and Macao, on cruise ships. Why could we not have the occasional holiday case there? Midnight Louie, Intercontinental Op.

My only consolation is that I can look forward to escorting my Miss Temple to her own nuptials. I have become resigned to domestic change. These human beings are terribly independent and self-involved and not trainable, and they will not listen to reason.

It is like herding lemmings.

I, and my millions of kin worldwide, still try our best to make them behave.

And so I will continue to do, as little as I am appreciated for my efforts.

Midnight Louie, Esq.

If you’d like information about getting Midnight Louie’s free Scratching Post-Intelligencer newsletter and/or buying his custom T-shirt and other cool things, contact Carole Nelson Douglas at P.O. Box 331555, Fort Worth, TX 76163-1555 or at www.carolenelsondouglas.com. E-mail: cdouglas@catwriter.com.