Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

Tailpiece

Midnight Louie Bites the Hand that Feeds Him

I am not often invited to address a captive audience, unless it is lunch. So how can I resist finishing off the foregoing literary exercise by unmasking its so-called author? At least the subtitle got it right: “A Midnight Louie Mystery.”

There is no mystery about this novel. I say straight off that this Douglas dame owes it all to me. I teach her everything she knows, and then some. Her father was a Pacific Northwest salmon fisherman, so she had one thing going for her from the first. And I am pleased to add some genuine class to her act through this sort of telepathy that we have had since Moses was knee-high to a Munchkin.

We first met during her sixteen-year stint as a pencil- pusher for the local rag in St. Paul, Minnesota. That was the seventies, when she was a mod young thing and I was ... ah, in my usual prime. I caught her eye right off—it took three inches of tiny type to list my many attractions in the classified “Pets” column. From the start she saw that I was meant for bigger things than ending up as a birdcage liner, so she called to check out my vital statistics: eighteen taut-muscled pounds, catnip-green eyes, raven-black hair and lots of it; a well-manicured four-on-the-floor and fully equipped from the factory.

Naturally, she does this big story on me, and I end up on a Minnesota farm, doing time with the moo concession. Meanwhile, my partner in crime-to-come is finding journalism confining, since little dolls are not considered promotional material in that racket, where little has changed since The Front Page days.

So this Douglas doll writes these twenty-three novels all by herself. I sneak a peek during a pretend-snooze on her bookshelves and find she writes about history, mystery, fantasy and science fiction, and even romance. That is okay by me. Louie’s I’amours are legendary. (I often get myself into risqué positions. I love danger.)

Happily, those of the feline persuasion make frequent guest appearances in her fiction, like that snaggletoothed Felabba in Six of Swords and her Sword and Circlet trilogy. (A Samoyed dog named Rambeau gets the leading furred role in her new Taliswoman fantasy trilogy: I am all for equal rights and animal rights et cetera, but am glad she is back on track with my solo gig in these here mystery books. It is my exploits on mean streets that will really bring in the Bacos around here, if you ask me.)

As for this author doll, what is to say? She leads a dull life compared to mine. She now hangs out in Fort Worth with the same husband, Sam the "D” (as in Douglas), she’s had since they met acting in some play in St. Paul. He is an artist who makes unique acrylic kaleidoscopes. Ho-hum. If I want to see something colorful running around in a circle, I would prefer a spray-painted punk gerbil. This writing doll also collects dainty vintage clothes, which are not good for anything but running my nails through, at which point she gets hysterical for some reason.

Unhappily, I am not the sole feline in her life; also count two alley bozos, Longfellow and Panache (sixteen and fifteen pounds respectively—no threat to my heavyweight title), and a pair of platinum Persian purebred dolls, Summer and Smoke, who are more than somewhat luscious, but have undergone this awful involuntary operation and pay me no mind at all. Their loss.

But there is only one top cat in Las Vegas and in this Douglas dame’s books. Remember that, and I will refrain from reminding you by initialing your epidermis.

Very Best Fishes,

Midnight Louie, Esq.

If you’d like information about getting Midnight Louie’s free Scratching Post-intelligencer newsletter by mail or email-attached color PDF, contact Carole Nelson Douglas at PO Box 331555, Fort Worth TX 76163-1555. Email cdouglas@catwriter.com, or visit www.carolenelsondouglas.com and wishlistpublishing.com.