Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

I frankly do not find this bucolic scene thrilling, but I suppose Elfans who have or have not been to Graceland relish the country squire look of the place. I am rounding the corner of the small barn when I come face-to-face with a snub-nosed, bristle-ruffed, purple-tongued creature that resembles an unsanctioned union between a giant radiator brush, an Eskimo, and a wild pig.

A growl is the only clue that this sixty-pound critter is merely a dog.

“Get low!" a human voice shouts.

I do not need encouragement. I immediately dive behind a bale of hay.

Sure enough. A brown jumpsuit soon makes the scene.

“What are you growling at?" she asks the bristled pig who had been accosting me. "You know all the stock. Just pipe down and don't scare the horses.”

The creature backs off and the lady animal tender moves on.

“I am glad the Jumpsuit warned me," I say to all and sundry who remain around, which is Rising Sun, the head of the lovely Domino, who has now munched her way to the stable area, and, uh, this Brillo pad of pale hair which I discover is sitting right next to me. I have seen wads of hair bigger than this removed from washing machine lint traps.

But the wad tums to me and I spot a pair of beady black eyes amid the permanent wave.

“Nobody warned you, silly," the lint trap says. `The keeper was calling the chow-chow off.”

Okay. I have heard of chow you can eat and ciao you can say "hello and good-bye" in Italian with, but I have never heard of a chow-chow you can call off-off.

Since the fuzzhead speaks with a funny French accent, I restrain myself, play the sophisticate, and merely reply, "Pardon," with the accent on the second syllable.

“Getlo is the dog's name," fuzzhead says, "as mine is Honey." With the accent on the second syllable, I might add.

“Getlo? What kind of name is that?"

“I agree. It is silly. But that was what Elvis called his chow dog in 1957 until it died in 1975, and that is what this edition must be called, as I am called Honey, after Priscilla's poodle that Elvis gave her.”

I am relieved to know what species I am dealing with, I was having my doubts.

`Thank you for the clarification, Hon-eee." (I make her name rhyme with "Paree," with the accent on the second syllable so as to sound French.) "Why did you not say that the creature is merely a common chow dog? I am familiar with that breed, or at least their reputation for fierce guard work." I do not mention that they also have a rep for going off half-cocked.

`These working dogs are so serious about their roles in life," she adds with a blasé sigh. "I understand that my role is merely to decorate and entertain, hence do not have to throw my weight around like the savage Getlo."

“You do not have much weight to throw around," I note.

Any dame takes that as a compliment, and this one practically purrs. "I heard you nuzzling up to Rising Sun. Are you playing the detective?"

“I do not 'play' at anything," I say in a growl.

“Oh, so serious. Do not bother asking those big chevaux anything. They are too high off the ground to know what is going on, particularly in regard to snakes."

“Oh? So what do you know?”

She plants her slender forelegs with the wide, Persian-lamb cuffs emphasizing her delicate bone structure, and tosses her curled and perfumed tresses. 'What should certainly be sufficient for you, mon ami. How are you called?"

“I am not called, as I do not come when called. But my name is Louie." A rapturous squeal interrupts my spiel. "Midnight Louie."

“Louie! So you are French!"

“I am whatever nationality it suits my purpose to be." "A man of the world, no?"

“I get around. Now. Did you notice any people who were not keepers creeping around here yesterday? Any keepers acting odd? Did you see Trojan escape, or was he removed bodily?"

“I did notice a flurry of activity among the humans, which I attributed to the imminent opening of our attraction. More importantly, I detected several alien scents. If you like, I can lead you to Trojan's quarters and tell you what scents remain."

“Just the thing. You go ahead. I'll follow.”

Well, that was a mistake. The poor kid's tail has been shaved to the skin, with only a ridiculous pompon sticking on the end like a skewered mushroom on a shish-kabob tine.

But she puts her long, pointed French nose—leave ii to the English and the French to sport the biggest noses in the business, no wonder they do not get along with each other—to the ground and soon we are in sight of a huge glassed-in aquarium sort of setting, except it is all bushes and vines and only a little water.

Honey is making tiny circles all over the ground, calling out scents as she goes: "Jenny the Keeper. Carlos the Keeper. Stranger. Stranger. Getlo. Domino. Stranger. Jenny. Dennis the Keeper head. Stranger."

“I make out four strangers. Just from yesterday?"

“Hmm. And that is all you can tell from the trail?"

“Unless I cross paths with any of these strangers again."

“How do I, uh, break into this glass menagerie?" "That is your job."