Carole Douglas - Cat in an Alphabet Soup

Certainly it would be tastier than the gray-brown swill that is dolloped into my bowl twice daily. There is not enough of this stuff to keep a mid-size hamster going, but I will not touch it anyway. This may be why I am falsely accused of growling by passing attendants who hear the involuntary complaints of my stomach.

I use every opportunity to figure an angle out of here. At least yesterday some would-be animal adopters were trotted through. These folks are mostly in search of kittens, however. We of an enviable maturity attract the occasional window-shopper, but it seems I am considered a hard case and a bad risk for adoption.

For one thing, they carp about my age, which is none of their business. Secondly, they lament the fact that I have not had a certain distasteful procedure performed upon my person. When I hear of this, I shudder, which encourages the onlookers to conclude that I am suffering from some loathsome disease. In fact, the attention I attract is when an attendant points to me and says “This one sure is big. Ever seen one that big?”

“No, indeed, we have not,” say the happy browsers. “Sure must eat a lot.”

Not for long.

Baker and Taylor get their share of curiosity seekers. Although they have the desired (by some) surgical history, they also suffer from maturity, with funny ears to boot. So I get to keep an eye on them day and night. This is not a pleasant task.

For one thing, they communicate in the most awful mishmash I have ever heard. It makes the caterwaulings of Nostradamus, my Brooklyn-born bookie, sound euphonious. (This euphonious means musical and has something to do with the symphony, I believe.)

‘‘Weel, Baker,” I hear Taylor gabble in his Aberdeen burr, “we dinna hae much time left. This wee burrow is less commodious than the fine castle prepared fair us at the ABA.”

“Och,” flutes Baker, “ 'tis true. At least we canna complain that we air not thegither to the last. A shame that our namesake company maun be so wasteful of its funds for naught.”

And so on. The dialogue puts me in mind of a road company Brigadoon , not my idea of entertainment for my last wee hours on earth. However, I put my paltry time to good use and manage to extract some verra interestin’ news from the twit-eared twa from the Highlands, no thinks to them. I begin to plan a breakout for us all.

Then, as the sun pumps out its hottest wattage preparatory to taking its last bow and disappearing behind the mountains, an intruder enters our torpid quarters. It is the attendant I call Jug-ears, accompanied by a well-padded doll of no particular pulchritude but with a kind face. I would have at one time (yesterday) described her as enjoying her middle years, but have become sensitive about such labels.

"I cannot believe it,” this indeterminate-age doll trills to Jug-ears. “I have been wanting a pair of cats for my shop—more businesses should have on-site cats; it amuses customers, controls varmints and saves the cats from a life of crime upon the streets. But to think that you have the very kind I want—”

“Right ’cher." Jug-ears stops before Baker and Taylor. "They are growed, though.”

"Oh, I could not handle kittens in my place. These darling fellows are perfect! I cannot believe someone just dropped off a pair of purebred Scottish folds."

“Too old for most folks,” says Jug-ears, who by my reckoning is fifty if he is a day. “We get lots of adult purebreds. Not cute anymore. Say, we are about to close. Can you hurry it up?”

“How long did you say they have been here?”

Jug-ears grins viciously, but she does not seem to notice. “Almost sixty hours. They was ready for the needle.”

"Do you know who brought them?”

Shrug. Jug-ears is not eloquent. "Name is in the book up front. You want me to unlock the cage or what?”

“Of course I will take them. It is incredible; they look just like the Baker and Taylor on the posters. Of course, they are purebreds, so you would expect them to all look alike. The real Baker and Taylor could not be here, of all places.”

“Ma’am, we gotta close. Got work to do back here.”

Here, I swear, the man turns to gloat in my direction, even though my sixty hours have a good thirty to run. I can count. For the first time I notice that he has a squint and a hunchback. And a mouse-dropping-size wart on his chin. With a long black hair growing out of it.

“Can you carry one?” the woman asks. She has a warm, kindly face, as I say before, and cradles Baker upon her warm, kindly bosom.

Jug-ears takes Taylor and shuffles to the door.

“I am absolutely delighted,” the woman croons, patting Baker’s runty ears as she leaves. "I run the mystery bookstore in town. You will never know how appropriate to the shop these two are. I am so glad that I took time off from the ABA to come in. That stuffed Baker and Taylor exhibit convinced me I could not live without more cats.”

Off they go, my motive for being in this predicament. I find myself in the same state of disbelief as Miss Maeveleen Pearl, for it is obviously she, the capo of the Thrill 'n' Quill Bookstore, who has rescued B and T from their imminent demise on the business end of a hypodermic.

Some might think that B and T's salvation is worth my forthcoming personal sacrifice. I do not. My bacon now rides solely on the ability of Miss Temple Barr to think of looking for me in this den of death and dogs. Only the thought of another's misfortune is enough to cheer me up for a fleeting instant.

That snooty Ingram will not be pleased to share a shop with Baker and Taylor.

21

Alone at Last

A BA attendees werestreaming from the convention center’s front entry as if five-thirty p.m. were a Cinderella deadline when Temple cruised the Storm past the Rotunda’s flying-saucer-shaped dome. She always expected the robotic Gort from The Day the Earth Stood Still to issue from the entrance, but only ordinary earthlings ever did. She had to credit the ABA-goers for being a well-ordered, obedient crowd—with the single, startling exception of murder.

Even the rear employee parking lot was a checkerboard of empty spaces. The Storm’s air-conditioning fan whooshed full blast as Temple pulled into a slot, blowing the short red curls off her damp forehead.

Bud Dubbs bustled out the back door into the 100-plus, his seersucker sport coat hooked over a finger.

“ Where’ve you been, Temple? That Lieutenant Molina called for you several times.”

“I’ve been trailing the elusive Baker and Taylor. Any message from an Eightball O’Rourke? What about Midnight Louie, anybody see him?”

Bud did a dime stop and a double take. “Not that I know of. Eightball O’Rourke? You playing the horses these days? Valerie might have taken a message from O’Rourke. Forget that stray cat. Check your desk. God, it’s hot. See you tomorrow.”

Bud dived into the front seat of his Celica and punched on his air conditioner.

An uncommon quiet inhabited the center’s back halls. Most of the exhibitors must have cut out on the stroke of five-thirty, too. Temple quickened her pace. The security people wanted as few staff as possible around after closing. If she didn’t decamp by six, there’d be only one exit door that wasn’t on the alarm system, and that would be guarded.