Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

It occurs to me that this is the narrow far end of the mighty Trojan. I flash my shivs across Chatter's knuckles. "Did you not see the signs outside? DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS. Which is what you will be doing if you continue to toy with Trojan's nether regions.”

With a shriek, the chimp desists, going to crouch against the glass.

I remain in the middle, caught between two highly erratic animals.

“So, sir," I conclude, addressing Trojan respectfully, which is the only way to talk to a twenty-foot-long garrotte. "Your accidental dive into the pool had no bearing on the life or death of the poor dude—man—who shared your natatory endeavors?"

“Sssssay what?"

“Never mind. We will be leaving now. Is there anything we can do for you?"

“If you encounter anything edible besides yoursssselvesss, sssshove it through the door assss you leave.”

I look at Chatter. It is tempting, but I still need the overactive little Elvis throwback. No wonder I would dearly like to throw him back to Trojan. Another day, perhaps.

Chatter is bouncing beside me as soon as we exit single file through the food door.

“Can see more, Louie? Huh? Huh? Huh? Look up skirts? Huh? Huh? Huh?"

“Sorry, kid. Dames do not wear skirts like they used to. You will have to get another hobby." I do not mention that I took a peek for Miss Priscilla's garter belt just before entering Chatter's storage closet a couple days ago. That was purely investigational.

I lead the way to my former hangout, the Medication Garden.

I have to stop the action right here to say that I do not understand the great contempt in which Elvis is held for liking a mood-altering substance. My kind has a similar weakness for a little herb called catnip in our honor. It is true that when we indulge in catnip we are transported to moods beyond our normal range. We become kittenish and clown around and roll around and generally cavort around, to the amusement of all and damage to none. Apparently the nip that Elvis used was less innocuous. Perhaps if he had tried catnip, he would have had all the enjoyment and none of the ill effects. Instead of "just say no," perhaps humans should just say "hello" to catnip. What could it hurt?

“Have you been here before?" I ask Chatter, not hoping for much in the way of lucid reply.

He takes a lope around the pool, those disgusting knuckles brushing the pavement all the way around. He stops, sits, and shimmies the lower half of his face from side to side, as if sniffing the air.

“No," he finally says.

I gaze around, disappointed. This was where Crawfish Pukecannon—as I renamed him long ago in honor of his disagreeable personality that begins to smell three minutes after you meet him—met up with me last. Or do I mean three seconds? Anyway, where C. B. is lurking I smell a rat. It would help my little doll no end if I could do the dirty work and dig up this rat without her mussing her dainty little high heels.

I admit to being disoriented in this garden. Someone has seeded the place with attractive but stinky plants. It smells like the respiratory infection remedy shelf of your local discount pharmacy.

I mean, menthol and mint, lemon and licorice, and not a snippet of catnip.

I am not at my best when getting a sick headache from innocuous medicinal herbs.

But does this atmosphere bother the affable Chatter? No way.

He bounds around, jumping from the top of one see-through plastic coffin to another, gazing at the garish suits within and shrieking with laughter.

I cannot blame him. Compared to the modestly jeweled jumpsuit he is wearing, these laid-out ones are over the top and around your block. They shine under the artificial dome light, a shifting sky of white clouds that take on the faces of the principal players in the Elvis Presley saga . . . Mama Gladys, Daddy Vernon. Baby brother Jesse Garon is a cute little unformed fluffy cloud attached to Mama and Daddy, I guess. There's a big blue thunderhead that is either Colonel Parker or the three Memphis Mafia members who wrote the first tell-all book, Red and Sonny West and Dave Hebler, all melded together to look like Colonel Parker, another villain of the piece. There is a Priscilla cloud, an all-white thunderhead that must be all hair, and a whole bunch of babe clouds who are pretty fluffy in all the right places.

Of course, this is a subtle effect, and I do not spy LisaMarie's cats among the heavenly cavorters, although I spot a few horses.

Chatter has been silent for a while now, so I get my head out of the heavens and back down to earth. And I do mean earth.

In the two minutes I have let my attention wander, my chattering charge has been up to major mischief. I gaze aghast at the ground.

This is the damage the unfettered opposable thumb can do.

Chatter has worried at the ground opposite the tasteful Elvis funeral suit display, tossing foul herbal plants aside like weeds (I cannot blame him for that) and uncovering something buried just deep enough to need a demented chimpanzee to unearth it.