Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (56 page)

But . . . now I hear voices. In the short hallway lead
ing to our domicile.

Very low voices. Nice of them to worry about not
keeping anyone up when I have been wearing out my
pads with pacing!

A key in the door. I go to sit by it, assuming a stern, accusing posture. She could have left a note.

The door swings open a hair but no further.

I still hear murmurs.

I insert my head silently into the opening, assuming
a put-upon look. I have not had a treat spooned over
my Free-to-be-Feline since we left for the Teen Queen Castle. I am hungry!

My Miss Temple is leaning against the door frame
with her hands braced behind her like she has all the
time in the world. She looks half asleep. Correction:
she looks like she is half dreaming.

Mr. Matt has leaned a hand on the doorjamb above
her head. At least he is not neglecting her.

Miss Temple jams the toe of her purple silk sandal
into the wooden hall floor, looking down. He is looking
down on her shockingly blonde head.

“
You could come in," she says, a strange slow, reluc
tant, warm, inviting tone in her voice, like she means it
and is afraid she does mean it.

No!
I am waiting impatiently for a long-delayed
spread of oysters and shrimp over my Free-to-be
Feline! Enough palaver!

Apparently, Mr. Matt agrees, for he drops his hand
from the door frame and catches her hands tight be
hind her back and . . . well, his other hand lifts up her face and he does something totally unfeline and quite
unfit for the youthful eyes of my species.

It is a good thing I have been around humans during mating season, for I shut my eyes in time to avoid witnessing something we would all prefer that I did not.

And then my Miss Temple is in the room at last, a
silly sort of shawl trailing off of one shoulder, bringing
with her a suffocating floral scent as well as the
dreamy attitude.

The door is closed and we are alone at last! I howl
my anxiety and indignation.

“
Louie! So glad you made it home safe," she says.
So I could say.

“
I will get you something," she adds.

But she doesn't. She turns back to the closed door
and presses against it. Almost pulls it open again.
Stops. Paces in the tiny hall. Goes to the living room
and picks up her cell phone. Holds it to her mouth as if
it were a flower.

Speaking of which, I wish she'd ditch the wrist cor
sage, which I have determined is the source of the
noxiously sweet odor. I have had enough of them in
this case.

She paces some more. Counts to fifty under her
breath, then dials a number. And listens. And paces.
And listens.

“
What?" she demands of the room in general. "He
has to be there by now!" Pacing.

And I thought my species had that down.

She kicks off the high heels. And paces some more.
And then redials.

She stops suddenly to regard me as if seeing me for
the first time. But not to proffer food or even a welcom
ing caress.

“Cold shower?" she asks me.

She hurls the cell phone to the sofa. Why is she mad? She is like, really angry.

She retrieves the phone and hits the redial button
again.

People are so predictable with their toys. I suppose it
is somewhat entertaining to watch them cavort with technology.

Then she stares at me again and bends down to
swoop me up in her arms.

First of all, I do not "swoop.”

Second of all, I weight almost twenty pounds so I am quite a bundle of bones for her to hoist.

Third of all, she is wearing this dress with only a hal
ter top, so I have nothing but warm bare flesh to wrap
my legs around. Ick! It takes all my considerable self-
control to keep from latching on to her with my shiv tips.

Perhaps that is why she has goose bumps on her
arms.

She carries me to the French doors leading to her
petite balcony, opens one, and walks out into the finally cooling night.

Below us lies the serene blue rectangle of the pool
and, on the other side, the parking lot.

She gazes out, idly stroking my chin and throat.

All right. This is better. I think about rewarding her
diligence with a slight purr.

Suddenly, she stiffens. All over. Her hand on my
throat almost throttles me.

I look down to see that Mr. Matt has strolled out tc
the pool. He is far more clothed than usual in that area.
and he too begins pacing!

My Miss Temple's grip tightens.

Mr. Matt sits on one of the lounge chairs and pro
ceeds
to remove his shoes and stockings! Well, I have
always felt that humans were way overdressed. He
looks like Tom Sawyer by the riverbank, I think, having
lounged on a lot of library books in my time. (One does
pick up things.) Miss Temple edges, barefoot too, to the edge of the balcony.

I, of course, am carried along with her, unwilling. I
have definitely revoked the purr.

He stands up, lays his jacket on the lounge chair,
and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

My Miss Temple is as still as a stalking cat. I did not know she had such skills in her. She watches. I can
practically feel her whiskers twitching, her pupils slitting. (These are figures of speech. She is not so ele
gantly accoutered as me and my kind, alas.)
But she is as alert as any alley cat, which is high
praise from me.

Mr. Matt's instincts are nothing to spit at tonight either. He suddenly looks up.

They see each other.

My Miss Temple does not move
a
muscle, except
that her heart revs up.

He looks at her. She looks at him.

He keeps undoing buttons on his shirt. Then it is on
the lounge chair.

He begins on the trousers—silly convention! He
stops at the underwear, which is dark and understated,
at least.

My Miss Temple's fingernails are starting to seri
ously impinge on my musculature, which is almost in
as admirable a state as Mr. Matt's.

What is the big deal? She has seen him in his swim trunks before.

All I can say is the night is strangely charged until hedives into the deep end of the lit aquamarine pool and begins swimming laps back and forth.

Some spell is broken. Miss Temple mutters under
her breath, and incidentally into my ear, "Well, I sup
pose it's the equivalent of a cold shower. For
him.”

She sounds terminally angry with our esteemed
neighbor and I chance a small
merow
in her ear.

“Poor Louie!" she says, back to normal and paying
attention to me again. "Are you hungry? Was bad
mommy away too long? Bad, bad mommy.”

Well, I loathe the "mommy" stuff, which my MissTemple has never resorted to before, but I cannot
complain about the tins of sardines, shrimp, and oys
ters she piles over the ugly green, dry foundation of Free-to-be-Feline in my bowl.

I settle on my haunches to dispense with it bite by delicious bite.

Thank goodness things are back to normal around
here and I can lie back, digest everything, and relax for
a
while_

Tailpiece

Midnight Louie ,

Paterfamilias

People! They are forever fixating on fatherhood. I sup
pose that is because of capitalistic materialism. They
not only have territory to defend but property to inherit along with genetic traits.

Me, I find fatherhood incontinent, irrelevant, and immaterial.

I am like that Greek goddess who gave Zeus such a
headache that she was born from his brain. She never
had a mother and therefore gave Orestes his walking papers when he was up for Murder One for offing his mother. Mother offing is a big no-no even in the natural
world but this Athena chick did not see it as any big
deal, as she never had a mother, only a very powerful father with a headache.

Anyway, we street cats only know our mothers and
they are pretty darn good to us until the hormones
wear off and we are on our own. So fathers are no big
deal. Even if we did run into one we would probably
have to fight him anyway.

So I am mystified by all this brouhaha about Mr. Matt
finding his father and little Miss Mariah's father finding
out he is one. Miss Midnight Louise appears to have
been infected by this human obsession also. She
should understand that the way of our kind is serial fa
therhood. It is not that lady cats are what humans
would call promiscuous. They are just designed to en
ter the sublime state of heat, unable to say no. Natu
rally, there are all sorts of dudes out there with the
same problem. So a single litter may have four different
fathers. And who knows which kit is due to which fa
ther?

So why sweat it? In my case, Ma Barker made it
clear to me that Three O'Clock Louie was my sire. And
that is fine with both of us. We do not need to tread on
each other's toenails but neither do we need to hang
out and sing sentimental songs together once upon a midnight clear, or drear.

Humans are also ridiculous about the mating game.
Here they have the option to have all the fun and pretty
much ensure that no unforeseen consequences come
along later causing them to look up innocent dudes as
if they were criminals. Yet they keep subjecting their
most basic instincts to intense negotiation, not to men
tion recrimination. Why bother!

I muse on these matters because it is clear to me
that my MissTemple is contemplating wandering in the
congenial feline direction when it comes to matters of
the heart and other organs.

I cannot say I am surprised. Mr. Matt was bound to
outgrow his artificially extended adolescence one of
these days and become a young tom with a lot of
wasted time to make up for.

I cannot agree with those who do not much like Mr.
Max Kinsella. He is one cool cat in the street or between the sheets, from my observation, with obliga
tions to protect the world at large that few can
understand. Rather like myself. But he has other terri
tory to guard at the moment and when the cat's
away ... the mice will play. And someone will pay. This
is Las Vegas. Bet on it.

Very best fishes,