Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit (36 page)

“
You have any idea how it got out of this area into
the
pool?”

He shakes his glamour-boy mane again. You would
think he was Fabio. "They kept the Conda under
glass, in a special area with tropical vegetation. I assume the
snake would have to wait for a keeper to come and free
it."

“
But you know nothing about yesterday aftemoon,
when
it would have been released?"

“
I was off for a canter with Domino." He nods
to the
distant dark form of a horse,
head bowed to the imported
grasslands.
"The tourists like to see us cavorting, you
know."

“
There are no tourists yet.”

'There will be.”

He
retums to his feedbag.

That is the trouble with these ruminant animals; they
think with their stomachs. And sometimes they have more
than
one.

So
I hop down and go on the lookout for dogs.

This whole field setup reminds me of those cheap sci
ence fiction movies where the small set in front is sup
posed to fade into a painting at the back that is intended
to depict the
surrounding countryside. Only you can see
the
brushmarks even from the back row of the Lyceum.

I frankly do not find this bucolic scene thrilling, but I
suppose Elfans who
have or have not been to Graceland
relish the country squire look of the place. I am rounding
the corner of the small barn when I come face-to-face
with a snub-nosed, bristle-ruffed, purple-tongued creature
that resembles an
unsanctioned union between a giant
radiator
brush, an Eskimo, and a wild pig.

A growl is the only clue that this sixty-pound critter is
merely a dog.

“Get
low!" a human voice shouts.

I do not need encouragement. I immediately dive be
hind
a bale of hay.

Sure
enough. A brown jumpsuit soon makes the scene.

“
What are you growling at?" she asks the
bristled pig
who had been accosting
me. "You know all the stock. Just
pipe down and don't scare the
horses.”

The creature backs off and the lady animal tender
moves
on.

“
I am glad the Jumpsuit warned me," I say to
all and
sundry who remain around,
which is Rising Sun, the head
of the
lovely Domino, who has now munched her way to
the stable area, and, uh, this Brillo pad of pale hair which
I discover is sitting right next to me. I have seen
wads of hair bigger than this removed from washing machine lint
traps.

But the wad tums to me and I spot a pair of beady
black eyes amid the permanent wave.

“
Nobody warned
you,
silly," the lint trap says. `The
keeper
was calling the chow-chow off.”

Okay. I have heard of chow you can eat and
ciao
you
can say "hello and good-bye" in Italian with, but I have
never
heard of a chow-chow you can call off-off.

Since the fuzzhead speaks with a funny French accent,
I
restrain myself, play the sophisticate, and merely reply, "Pardon,"
with the accent on the second syllable.

“Getlo
is the dog's
name,"
fuzzhead
says, "as mine is
Honey." With the
accent on the second syllable, I might
add.

“Getlo?
What kind of name is that?"

“
I agree. It is silly. But that was what Elvis
called his chow dog in 1957 until it died in 1975, and that is what this
edition must be called, as I am called Honey, after
Priscilla's poodle
that Elvis gave her.”

I am relieved to know what species I am dealing with,
I
was having my doubts.

`Thank you for the clarification,
Hon-eee."
(I
make her
name rhyme with
"Paree," with the accent on the second
syllable so as to sound French.) "Why did you not say that the
creature is merely a common chow dog? I am
familiar with that breed, or at least their reputation for
fierce guard work." I do not mention that they
also have
a rep for going off half-cocked.

`These working dogs are so serious about their roles
in life," she adds with a blasé sigh. "I understand
that my
role
is merely to decorate and entertain, hence do not
have
to throw my weight around like the savage Getlo."

“You
do not have much weight to throw around," I note.

Any dame takes that as a compliment, and this one
practically purrs. "I heard you nuzzling up to Rising
Sun.
Are you playing the
detective?"

“I
do not 'play' at anything," I say in a growl.

“
Oh, so serious. Do not bother asking those big
che
vaux
anything. They are too high off the ground to know
what is going on, particularly in regard to snakes."

“Oh? So what do
you
know?”

She plants her slender forelegs with the wide,
Persian-lamb cuffs emphasizing her delicate bone structure, and
tosses her curled and perfumed tresses. 'What should
certainly be sufficient for you,
mon ami.
How
are you
called?"

“I
am not called, as I do not come when called. But my
name is Louie." A rapturous squeal interrupts my spiel.
"Midnight
Louie."

“Louie!
So you are French!"

“
I am whatever nationality it suits my purpose to
be."
"A man of the world, no?"

“
I get around. Now. Did you notice any people who
were
not keepers creeping around here yesterday? Any
keepers acting odd? Did you see Trojan escape, or was
he removed
bodily?"

“
I did notice a flurry of activity among the humans,
which I attributed to the imminent
opening of our attrac
tion. More
importantly, I detected several alien scents. If
you like, I can lead you to Trojan's quarters and tell you
what
scents remain."

“Just
the thing. You go ahead. I'll follow.”

Well,
that was a mistake. The poor kid's tail has been
shaved to the skin, with only a ridiculous pompon sticking
on the end like a skewered mushroom on a
shish-kabob
tine.

But she puts her long, pointed French nose—leave ii
to the English and the French to sport the biggest noses
in the business, no wonder they do not get along with
each other—to the ground and soon we are in sight of a
huge glassed-in aquarium sort of setting, except it is all
bushes
and vines and only a little water.

Honey is making tiny circles all over the ground, calling
out scents as she goes: "Jenny the Keeper. Carlos
the
Keeper.
Stranger. Stranger. Getlo. Domino. Stranger.
Jenny.
Dennis the Keeper head. Stranger."

“I
make out four strangers. Just from yesterday?"

“
Hmm. And that is all you can tell from the trail?"

“
Unless I cross paths with any of
these strangers
again."

“
How do I, uh, break into this glass
menagerie?"
"That is your job."

“And I do not see the resident."

“That Trojan! He is very, how you say? Torpido. He is digesting
somewhere behind all the leaves."

“Seems like a snake that size should be more visible."

“
Oh,
he curls up like the big ball of yarn. It is so cute.”

I am not convinced, but thank her politely for her help
and check out the aquarium's perimeter for possible en
try.

The back wall is solid wood instead of glass, and soon
I find a nice little doggie door through which the staff
inserts Trojan's lunch, which is probably South American
rodents
about my size and in my condition, alive.

Naturally, the doggie door is just my size, and it is not
hard
to shoulder my way through.

It is still and humid inside the minijungle that forms
Trojan's housing environment. Amazing how a few tropical
plants can make the air so heavy it hurts to inhale.
For one used to the sere Las Vegas atmosphere, as high
and dry as a fine French champagne, this instant steam
room
is enough to dampen my fur and my spirits.

My first task will be to find my prey in this place so in
need of a
weed-whipping. My second task will be to convince my prey that I am not lunch,
despite appearances.
No, my second task will be to figure out a way to com
municate
with the prey so I can tell it I am not lunch.

A good thing I cannot sweat, because if I could this
hothouse air and my perilous situation would have me
dripping
like a leaky faucet.

First thing I notice is that the vines, trunks, and
foliage
in
this snake pit all have a lot in common with the
resident-in-chief. The vines and trunks are as thick as
the
arm
on a sumo wrestler, and the foliage is mostly green-
brown
and mottled.

I could be eaten by an errant leaf before I even
know
it.

Slinking
around in this primordial feeding station is too
dangerous. I decide on the bold approach, brushing my
way past
rubbery leaves toward the front display window.

On the other side I view the horses at their elevenses,
and the topiary-trimmed form of little Honey watching me
with
bright, avid eyes.

Behind me is the heart of darkness, the jungle as even
Elvis never knew it in his Jungle Room. There is a still,
heavy
silence holding Bast-knows-how-many-pounds of pulsating reptilian predator.

It
is a good thing I do not have a snake phobia.

Positioned now, plainly visible, I begin a low croon not
unlike the kind of blues us fellows like to improvise off
the
top of our fences
during mating season.

It is halfway between a growl and a purr, or a hum and
a howl. It is the blues like you hear it down every dark
back alley in every big city from here to who-knows
where. It is the St. Louie Blues, and the Las Vegas Blues
and the Appalachia Blues and the Harlem
Blues and the Globetrotter Blues.

My rear member begins to itch, then twitch, then beat
back
and forth like a metronome. Back/forth back/forth
back/forth tick/tock tick/tock and undemeath it all I keep
that eerie hum-croon going, with an occasional yowl
for
interest.

This
Hillbilly Cat is cooking!
I think Siamese and
Burmese and Tonkinese and Balinese and Javanese, so there's a little minor-key
Asian
wail to the tail-beat too. I
envision cobra heads swaying
in rhythm, rattle tails shaking up the
maracas in the back section, asps etching figure esses like Olympic skaters. I
envision Cleopatra and Little Egypt boogieing across the
tropical wallpaper. They both look like Cher if her
hair
were a Medusa-do of funky snakes.