Carole Douglas - Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

Oops. I hope it is not the real Other Side, like I cannot get back into the living world.

Even as I worry, I land like a bag of nuts and bolts on the cold, hard cavem floor.

Elvis has crumpled into a pale puddle, just like the Wicked Witch of the West went south in a dark pool of ickiness in The Wizard of Oz.

But where is Louise? I stand and call her name, turning in a circle. No answer.

And as I turn back the way I came, I see that Elvis is struggling to rise again. I leap upon his heap of congealing, ethereal atoms.

But Elvis is striking back. I feel the sting of wounds from beyond the grave and soon his jumpsuit is becoming a winding cloth. I spin round and round until I am swaddled and trussed like a turkey.

“Cut it out!" a voice orders.

A familiar voice.

Midnight Louise struggles out from the wadded fabric, which is only too, too solid. It is, in fact, not only material, but a cotton material common to work clothes.

“Here is your Elvis. One of the painter's jumpsuits. He must have been putting on the phosphorescent paint along the tunnel corridor and got it all over his white coveralls. So he left it hanging to dry down here. Everybody was too scared to come down and investigate."

“Great. I always thought this was a purely natural phenomenon. What would Elvis be doing down a dark hole, anyway? All we have to do is drag this suit down by the elevator, and even the dimmest bulb should be able to figure out what happened, just as we have."

“We. Right. Start dragging, Dad, and save some strength for the upward climb. I did hear you refer to me as your 'daughter,' did I not? When you thought I was missing?"

“I was, ah, calling for wa-ter. Not daughter. I thought you might have fainted."

“Yeah, sure. Well, at least your roommate will have seen the last of Elvis on all fronts. I would definitely say that Elvis has left the building.”

cannot disagree.

We set off down the long, dark tunnel to the elevator shaft. It reminds me of a birth canal, though I do not often think of things like that.

We are halfway there when my left ear flicks back to catch a distant murmur of "Thank you, thank you verra much.”

I glance at Louise, whose sour puss is pointed dead ahead, ears unperked.

Naw

Tailpiece

How a Cat May Look at the King

If you ask me, Elvis, the world's most famous draftee, may have been A-1 to the army, but he was 4F in life: literally crushed to death by fame, fans, floozies, and flunkies.

I have detected several similarities between the King of Rock 'n' Roll and my kind of cat, least of all our propensities to hang out in a streetlight in front of all and sundry and cut loose with sound, motion, and our natural erotic appeal to females of all ages, stages, and wages of sin.

First, we share very humble origins, but extraordinary pizzazz at making ourselves beloved by others. Elvis was never a street person like myself, but we were always loners with a vision of how we could rise far above our kind to become an idol and inspiration to millions. Okay, -thousands and thousands in my case, but I am not done yet.

Natural talent can be such a curse, always in danger of exploitation by others. Like myself, Elvis had touching trust in those who purported to assist him in his meteoric rise to fame and fortune. (Okay, so my rise is more mediocre than meteoric; close enough.) Elvis had his mysterious Svengali, a self-created illegal immigrant who put on a pseudonym and airs, Colonel Tom Parker. The so-called Colonel commandeered the King's career at an early stage and helped himself to a much bigger share of the take than a reputable manager would.

I have my so-called collaborator, Miss Carole Nelson Douglas, who signs our contracts and handles the purse strings and catnip dispersion. It is assumed I have no interest or aptitude for the distribution of my own wealth. In fact, I am treated something like an ignorant and minor child, who must be "managed" for my own good.

Although our associations with our respective "partners" have been necessary and good for us at the onset of our careers, as time goes by our Svengalis have exercised far too much artistic control of our high-energy brand of performing genius that requires constant challenge lest it become boring servitude. Elvis was indentured to films and concert tours. I have my books and book tours, although my front woman takes over even there.

And then there is our endless attraction to the ladies. We cannot help that. We were born with that, although Elvis helped it along by adopting my hair's own natural ebony coloration. So there we are: bigger than life, black, and beautiful. Add in our natural athletic ability and urge to take the spotlight, and you have a potent variety of catnip for dolls of all persuasions.

Speaking of nip, we even share the same failing. I too am mighty fond of a legally prescribed medicinal substance, which, if taken too intensely, can change my kittenish, lovable side so appealing to my friends and fans into cruel, predatory moods during which I lash out and bounce off the wall. I cannot help it any more than Elvis; it is a genetic predisposition.

Elvis always wanted to be a helpful authority figure. Early in life, he wanted to be a policeman, which accounts for his later habit of hanging out with the police and collecting badges—even via President Nixon, during one famous Elvis incident when he was pretty well smoked—and major personal armaments such as guns. Despite his own medication dependence, Elvis hated kids using street drugs and wanted to serve as an example to them.

I, of course, help homeless members of my own species through my Adopt-a-Cat tours. And I too am drawn to police work, although I walk the PI side of the legal beat, not being much of a dude for regulations, just like Elvis. Just like Elvis, I am often loaded with concealed side arms, only mine are of the edged variety.

In karate, which he loved for both its defense and mystical side, his fighting name was Tiger, and for a while he carried a cane with a ruby-studded head of a Big Cat.

Then there's our shared mystical side and penchant for Eastern religion. Elvis was interested in the Autobi ography of a Yoga and Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet and such. I am a follower of Bastet, an ancient and powerful goddess of the Egypt of the pharaohs, where the hot text is The Book of the Dead. We both have been ridiculed for exploring fringe religion, but the impulse is sincere, and that is all that is called for in religion. Unlike Elvis, I do not see any necessity for standing up and preaching, but then I have never had access to the amount of catnip he did. Personally, I prefer to keep the mysteries of Bastet just among us nonhillbilly cats.

Alas, I do not share Elvis's enthusiasm for motorized vehicles, although I will resort to them when I must.

Nor do I have a raft of former associates eager to leak every detail of my life and times. Miss CND is bad enough with the occasional personal eccentricity she will detail in

my fan publication, Midnight Louie's Scratching Post- lntelligencer. Did the world really need to know that Midnight Louie Jr. was taken for a girl when he first came to the shelter? This is a sore point with Elvis and me: we are both such gorgeous dudes that some envious types would use it to impugn our virility. This is nonsense! We also have been dogged by paternity suits and death threats.

I, of course, am completely innocent and still kicking. As for Elvis, anything is possible.

Very best fishes,

Carole Nelson Douglas Takes the E Train