Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Aqua Storm

I admit that I am playing more here than the love-stricken swain. In the back of my mind is a notion that I may have an opportunity to get a better look at Black Legs. Given the demise of the lissome lady in the ballroom while wearing an ensemble, such as it was, that paid tribute to my breed, I am more eager than ever to cross paths with this murderous abuser of little dolls, be they human or feline.

As I await the arrival of my feline friend, I recline on and under the ruffled train of a Flamenco skirt, inhaling an unhealthy attar of powder, sweat and mothballs.

Such contemplative times are my favorite. I picture myself tracking and cornering Black Legs in the fatal dressing room. I see an admiring circle of humans agape at my exploits. Miss Temple Barr sheds tears of remorse and promises never again to take me to the House of Dr. Death.

There will be another photograph in the local rag, of course: tiresome, and hard on the peepers, but I am so photogenic. Perhaps also a small reward—a goldfish, say. Or several. And the lovely Yvette standing by, unnoticed by the applauding police and officials, her big blue-green eyes beaming with pride and adoration.

I hear the night maintenance man shuffle out. Other occasional footsteps come and go. My ears prick and flatten at each advance and retreat of shoes. High heels clatter past twice, but not in the rhythm favored by Miss Savannah Ashleigh (arrogant, yet languid) or my own Miss Temple Barr (brisk and snappy). Softer footsteps come, An odor of chemicals pushes past the ajar door to my sensitive nostrils. My whiskers twitch, then my back. I shut my eyes at this noxious smell. Miraculously, it blends with the other unpleasant scents and becomes a background note, sharp but less shrill among the many others.

At last! Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s sullen steps. She stumbles outside my lair and mutters a rude expression. I wince to think of the Divine Yvette’s pink-and-silver ears flattening at the sound of such language.

Her mistress clatters and curses on, toward the dressing room they share. All is quiet for a time. I rise, stretch until my belly touches the floor (contrary to the impression of some, this does not happen without my making a special effort) and amble to the door.

Other voices murmur from the farther dressing room, the very location in which Miss Glinda North went West and I first encountered Black Legs. I detect the sound of makeup jars being unscrewed and an ongoing family argument. The sweetest sound of all is that of Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s heels scraping along the concrete as she retreats up the stairs.

Alone at last. I am halfway to the dressing-room door before you can say “Puss-in-Boots." Luckily, theatrical sorts do not close dressing-room doors behind them, always expecting a hurried return. Also, they are not much on privacy unless they are up to something of a naughty nature.

So I throw myself casually against the door just below the doorknob, and my weight pushes it open enough for me to enter without cramping my midsection.

First I sniff. The Divine Yvette is a victim of air pollution as well. Some odious drugstore perfume poisons the air. I carefully avoid a gleaming slick of spilled powder and walk to the loveseat. There, beside its white wicker legs, rests the soft-sided cell containing my lost love.

She has long since sensed my arrival, and is waiting with round, limpid eyes at the mesh window to her cell. I must silence her welcoming cries with a quick lash of my tail. Who knows when her mistress wilt return?

The Divine Yvette accepts my admonition gracefully. She is, she tells me with a tender purr, happy to see me again so soon. Miss Savannah Ashleigh has been most trying of late, as nervous, in fact as a cat in a Doberman kennel.

"Speaking of which,” I tell her, “it is high time for me to attempt what I came to accomplish.”

What, she inquires sweetly, is that?

I explain that I am here to bust her out of this sissy cell.

At first the black-tipped hair lifts along her spine, sending shivers down mine. The Divine Yvette protests that she must not leave the carrier, that she is not "safe" outside of it

“Bullfinch feathers!” I answer. I tell her that she has been sold a bill of goods. Besides, with me here, she could not be safer.

She lowers her head to lick nervously at her ruff, a soft silver collar that shimmers with an unearthly glimmer. Then she bats her silver eyelashes and agrees with me.

I lift up to examine the carrier's fastening—a long pink-painted metal zipper that takes two right turns before it stops. This is Miss Savannah Ashleigh's fatal mistake. Had she purchased a trap with a paw-proof closure—say. one of those blasted doorknobs—my goose liver would have been cooked. (Not that I mind a little warm food from time to time.) But a zipper is kitten’s play. Since I encountered the Divine Yvette’s pink-canvas house, I have been practicing, in fact, on a few of Miss Temple Barr's dresses in the privacy of her closet

I lean over the pink metal tab on the operative end, hook an incisor in the convenient hole, and pull with all my nineteen-point-eight pounds so thoughtfully revealed to me at the House of Dr. Death. The sweet metallic squeal of zipper teeth parting is my reward. Despite some trouble at the corners, between my tooth and its teeth, we make tracks together to the end of the line.

Yvette, who has been straining to watch me achieve this feat, pokes her adorable little face up through the pink canvas flap. I cannot restrain myself from a long nose-to-nose encounter, followed by billing and cooing of a feline nature. It does not behoove a gentleman to go into specifics, but let us say that I am no slouch with what you could call hot licks.

The Divine Yvette confesses that she has never been so transported.

"You see, this is better than a cat carrier any day,” I point out. When I look into this flimsy cage while preparing to assist Miss Yvette out, I notice a pile like a pink angora mouse in one corner.

Oh, says Miss Yvette with a soft little trill, those are my beauty supplies.

I paw through them, never having seen the like, and overturn a steel-tooth comb and a powder puff (the erstwhile pastel mouse) with a satin ribbon on one side on which is written the ineffable name, Yvette, in silver script.

I flip this frippery over again. “Do you mean to say that Miss Savannah Ashleigh powders you? For fleas?"

Oh, no, Miss Yvette answers, shocked. Miss Savannah Ashleigh powders her, she tells me, so that her hairs will be clean and fluffy and smell good.

I can attest to the efficacy of this beauty regimen as I push the front of the carrier flat, the better for Miss Yvette to step out An almond-scented wave of fur brushes past.

I am about to take matters in their foreordained direction, when my alert senses detect voices growing louder in the hall. I have not been forewarned by the sound of nearing shoes, a puzzlement that immediately becomes an annoyance.

“Quick!” I hiss at the Divine Yvette, slapping the empty carrier farther into the shadows and pushing my companion rather rudely underneath the sofa.

Not a moment too soon. A trio of feet enter, two bare but painted with the gaudy color of the twenty-four-carat trim on a Cadillac Seville, the other wearing black sneakers. No wonder I heard no approach. Beside me, Yvette's airy whiskers tremble at the dust we have bestirred beneath the sofa, but I clap a paw over her nose before she sneezes.