Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Leopard Spot

“Well, later on, Your Honor, it did. But at the time…besides, I know my Yvette would never participate willingly in such an event.”

“Wait a minute. We are talking cats here. Female cats who are not neutered—and the evidence is clear that Yvette was not and still is not neutered—do go into heat, don’t they? You do know what heat is, don’t you, Miss Ashleigh? Haven’t you portrayed a human variation of that condition on film often enough?”

“Your Honor has seen my films?”

“Seen them? I’ve had them presented in evidence.”

“Surely not as evidence of violating the ratings system? They are clearly marked ‘R.’”

“No, Miss Ashleigh, I’ve seen them as evidence of fraudulent filmmaking. Some investors said the films were made with no intentions of being distributed, but merely to divest them of their money. But that was a while back, when I was a Hollywood judge, not a TV judge. Luckily”—the judge showed clean white teeth but did not smile—“I am not hearing that kind of case anymore.”

Temple was trying to keep herself from jiggling up and down in triumph, even though it wouldn’t have the gelatinous effect of Savannah Ashleigh’s jiggles. Things didn’t sound good for the Tinseltown floozy.

Judge Jones swept all the papers and Temple’s videotape into a pile. “I’ll adjourn to view all the evidence and then return with the verdict. “Ladies. Control your…cats.”

The admonition was well deserved. Both Louie and Yvette, unobserved by their distracted human chaperons, had each come to their separate table edges and now leaned over the brink of space that kept them apart, sniffing futilely at the unkindly air that separated them.

“Get back in your carrier, you sssshaded ssssilver sssslut!” Savannah hissed. “Issssn’t one mongrel litter enough?”

“He’s fixxxxxed, thankssss to you,” Temple hissed back. “And poor Yvette isssss only a victim in all thissss. She would have never chossssen Maurissse over Louie.”

The kindly silver-haired bailiff stepped into the space between the cats.

“Ladiesssss, pleasssse,” he hissed so that the microphones wouldn’t pick up the catfight.

They each grabbed a peacefully purring cat and moved them back to the center of their tables, as if separating enemies.

The judge’s “few moments” for the viewing audience was twenty foot-tapping, nail-nibbling, cat-herding minutes for the combatants.

The biggest problem, Temple found, was trying to keep the two cats apart. Louie and Yvette, that is.

Chapter 16

Hissy Fit

What an exercise in frustration.

Not allowed to testify on our own behalves.

Treated like nonpersons—okay, this is not new.

And kept apart like rabid monkeys.

I do not think much of human justice!

So I decide to take matters into my own mitts.

While Miss Savannah Ashleigh is busy inventing stage business for the camera, huffing and puffing and tapping her tiny toe and pushing her fat hair off her shoulders, she has neglected to fully zip shut the Divine Yvette’s carrier.

I glance at my Miss Temple. She is fussing over her various papers, no doubt looking for the key piece of evidence she forgot to give the judge. She obviously is counting on me to be the little gentleman I have been for the past hour or so.

She should know that an hour is too long for the average cat to remain docile and obedient. As for an above-average dude like myself, I am ready to bust out of this low-rent trial-by-television.

In one graceful leap I am airborne and land on the opposition’s tabletop.

With a swift flourish of my front fang, I hook it into the hole in the carrier zipper tag and rip the teeth apart, a maneuver I have performed before in less public circumstances.

My darling’s adorable face pops into plain view, although nothing about the Divine Yvette could ever be called plain.

“Louie!” she mews with delight. The dames can never resist a swashbuckling kind of guy.

I assist her out of the collapsing pink canvas, ignore shrieks and admonitions from two sides, and urge my little pet into a leap to the floor. A quick flight through the onlookers creates a stir in our wake, but too late to impede our progress.

Then it is out the imposing double wooden doors (mostly painted plywood) and into the great concrete space that houses the technical set.

We speed over welts of black cables snaking across the floor and into the shadows behind the curtains used as room dividers in the massive space.

I can hear human footsteps and voices and consternation all over the place, but we snuggle down next to a cooler and are instantly alone on our own desert isle.

“Oh, Louie.” Yvette sighs. “You are très unpredictable. Such a merry chase we have led them. I was feeling so cramped in my carrier.” She catches her breath with a little gasp. “Oh! I am not used to such a sprightly romp since I first contracted my unfortunate condition.”

“And how are the little stripe-heads?” I ask, feeling it necessary to bow to the maternal instinct.

“Gone to the neighbors, one by one. I cannot say that I cared to be reminded daily of the criminal proceedings that led to their birth.”

I murmur sympathetically. I would not wish to be reminded of Maurice’s ugly mug either, even if that likeness was now adorning the faces of my own offspring.

“I am glad that they have found good homes.”

“Oh, yes. Unlike my mistress, her neighbors find having the offspring of Yvette and Maurice, the cat food mascots, quite a plume in their tails. They do not care about pedigree, as my mistress does.”

“And who are her blue-blooded antecedents, I would like to know?”

“Perhaps that is why she so prizes my own,” the Divine Yvette notes in a flash of perception and loyalty that is especially touching coming from one born and bred to think only of her pedigreed self.

Perhaps I have been a good influence on her.

“Will we ever work together again, I wonder?” I say.

“Will you ever see my sister, Solange, again, you may be wondering too? Do not deny it, Louie! You are as weak as any of your gender when it comes to those brassy blonds.”

“No, my sweet. You know that I prefer platinum blonds.”

That remark permits me to rub cheeks with the Divine Yvette as a purr of satisfaction ripples through the luxurious fur ruffling her shoulders and chest.

“I am sorry, Louie,” she says instantly. “I am in a bad mood because some foreign hussy is muscling in on my Á La Cat deal just as I was recovering from my…incapacitation and getting ready to resume my career. And the scandal had died down until your roommate gave it a kick-start again with this silly suit.”

I grit my teeth. I cannot tolerate my Miss Temple being criticized, but neither can I condone any actions that put the Divine Yvette into a less than flattering spotlight.

“I am sorry also,” I say. “There is no stopping these humans when they get a flea in their bonnet, or a bee in their ear, or whatever.”

She nods sadly, biting her shiny little black lip with one pearly fang tip. “I cannot excuse my mistress. I had no idea how harshly you were handled by her. Kidnapped! Falsely imprisoned! Operated upon without permission. Altered inalterably! I am tempted to leave Pretty Paws litter all over my mistress’s satin sheets the next time she is entertaining a gentleman friend.”

“Ah, your commiseration is welcome, my dear, but I must quibble about one point. I was not ‘altered’ in any crucial way. I am unable to sire kittens, but certainly am able to go through all the motions needed for that end. And then some.”

“Then why do anything?” she asks with touching innocence. “I cannot say that the actual act is anything to write home about. And, on top of the painful unpleasantness, one is labeled a naughty girl for doing what one did not even wish to partake of in the first place.”