Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Chapter 31

Short Stuff

Much as I loathe treading in Crawford Buchanan’s footsteps, he makes a good cover.

He has now buttonholed a lady wearing an outfit my vintage clothing–loving Miss Temple would give the Revival Stamp of Approval: plaid Bermuda shorts and crisp light blue shirt with rolled-up buttoned sleeves. Then again, this lady may have just bought from Lands’ End classic mail-order catalog.

Her sensible navy canvas boating flats are refreshingly odor-free, but I can’t say the same for her boon companion, whom she has released from a canvas doggie tote to the arid ground and swift perusal from my world-class sniffer.

This critter is so small, the dogdom bit is questionable. However, it has the intelligent and sturdy look of the noble and industrious sled dogs known as huskies.

I confess myself confused.

“Hey, shorty,” I greet this ambiguous animal.

I am answered by a round of yapping, which settles the species question.

“No offense,” I say after another long inhalation of its essence. Hmm. Attar of taco sauce. “I gather that you are familiar with the ruins called ‘Calix-tla-hua-ca.’ Pardon my accent, but my breed is not geographically centered, as yours is.”

“Whowho Whoareyou? Whadayoudoinghere? Iguardmyhuman. Iwillchewoffyoureartips.”

Manx, that is one territorial Chi-hua-hua! Fierce little fellow. I sense a story here, and they are a talkative breed.

Meanwhile, above me, the Bermuda shorts lady is enlightening Crawford Buchanan far more than he wishes to be.

“Why are you and your TV station making a mockery of this event?” she demands. “Alien visitation is no joke.”

“Ah, no, madam.” Buchanan’s feet do a little jiggle as his mind seeks to catch up with her challenge. “But … people saw this thing land. Including you? Miss—?”

“My name is Penny, and this is my dog, Rens.”

I hear echoes of Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and his dog, King. I am most fond of vintage TV.

“I do not know,” she goes on as if she is sure that he does not know, “if you realize that our age’s greatest scientific mind has warned that our incessant search for life beyond our planet may have unanticipated results. If they are smart enough to be ‘out there’ and find us, we may not want to be found by the likes of them.”

“Aw, yeah? ‘Our greatest mind’?”

“Surely, even you have heard of Stephen Hawking.”

“Aw … sure. The guy who wrote The Stand.”

“Not Stephen King. Stephen Hawking. And I’d bet you haven’t a clue about string theory.”

“String theory? Ah … yo-yos?”

I hear a huge sigh above me. “Yo-yos, yes. Like you.”

“What did this Hawking guy warn against?”

She leans close to the mic and articulates every syllable. “Watch out what you wish for. The aliens we are searching for may be out there, all right, looking to take us over. The human rider from that spaceship is dead, isn’t he?”

I comment off-camera to my new compadre. “She may have a point. What do you think?”

“I think there are a lot of food stands around here where the pickings are dropping to the ground and free for you and me.”

I always bow to the superior sniffer. With one chomp, I pull the tongue of leather on his collar through the metal buckle and Rens and I are off on a culinary scouting mission of our own.

We know our moments of freedom are few. Our respective associates will soon be tracking us down. Miss Penny will not remain deeply engaged with the shallow Crawford Buchanan for long, and my Miss Temple will not appreciate my cavalier ways with her convertible top control.

Meanwhile … free food!

Our loving ladies mean well, poor souls.