Douglas Nelson - Cat On A Blue Monday

It came out cold at first anyway. As it warmed, he fed in some cold until hot, flaming swords of water flogged him and steam rose and hissed all around him, fogging the long mirror on the door and the square mirror on the medicine chest.

When he picked up the bar of soap from the built-in holder, he could have sworn that for a moment he smelled gardenias.

Chapter 40

Louie Dines on Crow

At last I have the old place to myself again, and can look forward to having my delightful roommate to myself, too. A gentleman needs the presence of a person of the female persuasion, especially if she is unrelated to him.

Miss Temple Barr has been gadding about a bit of late with Mr. Matt Devine, and although I am pleased at the absence of the troublesome Caviar, I am more than somewhat miffed when Miss Temple Barr comes home wearing a particularly sumptuous gown, whose full skirt would make a most pleasing bed, and rushes right past me without a word.

She does not even check the Free-to-be-Feline bowl, and I have been gracious enough to show my approval of my exclusive residency by actually gumming a few of the pellets down!

I repair to the bedroom to find her sitting on the bed. I would leap joyfully into that inviting lap, but Miss Temple Barr has her hands on her lap, which normally would not stop me--she can move them--but they are holding some sort of hair collar and affixed to it are two pale floral blooms that broadcast the most revolting odor I have ever encountered.

Miss Temple Barr shows no inclination to change her position or throw away the reeking growths. In fact, her olfactory faculties must have hit a down day, for she sits there smiling and actually raises the abominations to her nose.

I do understand that persons of her species are sadly lacking in nasal abilities, but this is ridiculous. To further add to my impression that she has become completely unhinged, she then gets up and goes into the kitchen.

I follow quickly, expecting some tender treat from the meat drawer in the refrigerator.

Apparently her eyes have also been affected by this strange malady, for she opens the refrigerator and puts the foul flowers inside. Then she closes it without selecting a tidbit for me.

I have not witnessed such irresponsible behavior in years. I am forced to express myself, at which she looks down at me with a fond smile.

"Louie," she says, as if seeing me for the first time, as if I have not always been there but jumped out of the refrigerator or something. "Are you happy now with Caviar gone?"

I would be happier with some caviar in front of me.

Miss Temple moves to the opposite counter and fusses with something. My hopes perk up.

She turns while emptying a thermos container into a tumbler. A dark, bloodlike liquid crests in the glass before she stops. Then she picks up the small box that plays music and returns to the bedroom--all the while without feeding me anything.

After a slow, shocked start, I race after her.

Miss Temple Barr is bending over the bedroom stereo machine, which she has not used since my arrival, although I see a dusty stack of Vangelis cassettes piled beside it that I suspect are among the last traces of the vanished Mystifying Max.

Instantly a blast of loud, rhythmic so-called music is pouring into the room. I am not against music, but I lean to improvisational jazz in an outdoor setting; indoors, I prefer something smooth and classic that aids the digestion, like harp solos.

This is not either. How is a dude to sleep with such a racket going on?

I can see that this is not Miss Temple Barr's worry. She is busy removing her garments, without bothering to remove herself from my presence, which is once again forgotten.

I turn my back, which courtesy she overlooks.

When I next see her, she is not wearing the usual Garfield T-shirt, which I abhor (that could be my kisser on every chest in America!). Perhaps she wishes to make amends, and I must say that this filmy garment will go far to accomplishing exactly that, and I am not of the same species even.

Miss Temple Barr sings along to the tape while she performs her evening ablutions in the bathroom. I never like to witness humans at the act of cleaning themselves. They make such a mess of it and use so many unnecessary implements when a good, long lick would do as well and is always available in every circumstance.

On occasion I attempt to demonstrate my methods to Miss Temple Barr, but she mistakes my grooming lesson for affection.

She turns off the lights and occupies the bed.

Under the cover of darkness, I leap up and decide to investigate what might have driven her slightly mad. Cautiously, I sniff along her arm and discern the lingering scent of the awful flowers.

I am not against greenery, being a connoisseur of the catnip variety, but these stinky pale flowers are dangerous.

I had hoped to hear a word or two dropped about the case, but will obviously hear no more than these lovesick wailings on the stereo. I am beginning to think that my, er, purported relative is right in the belief that a simple operation can remove many of the compulsions of the single life.

So I am left to muse on my own affairs, which recently included a visit and report to the landlady's companion, Karma.

I tell Her Sacredness that her predictions do not have much relevance. When I tell her the name and profession of the criminal, she interrupts me with an imperious mew.

"A lawyer, you say? It was in the Tarot."

"You mentioned all sorts of high-toned occupations: Empress, and this here Hierophant, but no lawyers."

"But I told you that Libra was a key. Do you not see? Libra's symbol is the scales."

"I like fish myself."

"No, that is Pisces, you fool."

"I thought the Fool was one of your fancy cards."

"It is. The scales that represent Libra is that metal instrument used to weigh goods--"

"Aw, why did you not say so in the first place? I have seen the like in several meat shops."

"And," she adds with a triumphant little tail shake that I do not find at all alluring, but

then, she is not my type, which is unusual as I am a pretty liberal dude usually in such matters. "And . . . the scales are used as the symbol of justice. So there is your lawyer predicted by the cards, if you were intelligent enough to see it."

"Your cards always predict what has already happened," I grumble. "What else do you claim?"

"Your account is full of Father Hernandez. I told you the Hierophant would be a key figure."

"He did not do that much, except hide out a lot and indulge in unpriestly behaviors, like drinking."

"Also the card of Temperance showed up. It is astonishing how much the cards tried to tell. They cannot be blamed if the recipient is deficient. Or simply deaf to the spiritual."

"The Tarot cards did not mention anything about me being bagged by a dude who wanted to turn me into a decorative wall hanging."

"The cards spoke. You did not listen."

Apparently, Karma is not too strong in the listening department, either.

I shake my head and slink off. I must admit, however, that I have been instrumental in resolving the fate of dozens of cats, as duly predicted. Had I not been sniffing around Mr. Matt Devine and the Tyler house, had I not been nabbed, who is to say that the murderer of Miss Tyler might have gone undetected and the money might not have finally come to its rightful inheritors--cats and Catholics?

As I work my way down two floors to my own abode, where I anticipate a fond reunion with Miss Temple Barr, I reflect on some disturbing words from my departing, er, alleged offspring.

Although I am much relieved to see the industrious Miss Electra Lark gathering Caviar's belongings into a pile preparatory to moving out the whole kit and kaboodle, my joy is short-lived.