Cat In A Leopard Spot

She was the third wave of TV judges: first came Judge Wapner, a WOM (white old man). Then came Judge Judy, a JOW (Jewish old woman). Now it was open season for judges of both genders and every ethnic background, although they all tended to be in the sunset of their careers. Judge Geraldine Jones was half-black, half-Asian, and all cranky. Of course the number-one qualification for the job was disposition. TV judges had to be traffic cops of the personal relationship highways: ever ready to overtake, lecture, and punish offenders against common sense.

People watched live courtroom shows for the same reason they kept The Jerry Springer Show in the talk-show top three: they loved to see somebody else get chewed out.

The announcer had already blared out the opposing position:

“Temple Barr is a Las Vegas publicist who says her cat, Midnight Louie, was abducted and forcibly sterilized by Savannah Ashleigh, star of stage, screen, and a major cable shopping network, the owner of a female Persian cat named Yvette making a television cat food commercial with her tomcat. The Hollywood actress says that the Las Vegas publicist’s cat got her cat pregnant against her will. The publicist says the actress “fixed” her cat against his and her will. Who will win The Case of the Castrated Cat?.”

So many thumps came from inside Louie’s carrier at the end of this public announcement that the container sounded like it was demon possessed, to carry the Exorcist analogy even further.

“This case is an exploration of the fine points of the civil law,” the judge pronounced, staring over her reading glasses at Temple’s hip-hugging luggage. “Not an expedition to the far Himalayas. Do you need help from the bailiff?”

“No, ma’am,” Temple grunted, finally reaching the table, atop which she could heft both burdens like sacks of flour.

The judge blinked at the twin thuds. “I sincerely hope you don’t have any bodies in there.”

“Just bodies of evidence,” Temple rejoined.

The judge flipped through the papers littering her desktop. “This case does indeed involve alleged rape, impregnation, abduction, and mutilation. My, my, my. These bodies have been busy enough for a soap opera, even though they seem to be feline.

“Since you, Miss Barr, are the complainant, you’ll go first.”

Temple whipped out a sheaf of papers from her tote bag and opened her mouth.

“But first, I advise you to keep it brief.”

Temple shut her mouth. Just how brief was “brief”?

“My cat, Midnight Louie,” she began.

“Wait a minute.”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“Does this Midnight Louie happen to be in one of those two pieces of baggage?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Well, bring him out to meet the people.”

“He may not, uh, be feeling cooperative.”

“Is he always hard to handle?”

“Well, he isn’t called ‘castrated’ over a loudspeaker every day.”

“I’m afraid you can’t libel a cat, Miss Barr, so don’t go trying to add to the charges against Miss Ashleigh.”

Temple darted a glance at her opponent, forbearing to shoot back that you couldn’t libel a Savannah Ashleigh, either, because anything bad you could say about the woman would be true.

But Temple’s wrath was distracted by Louie, who actually bounded out of the carrier into the bright glare of the television lights like Milton Berle racing to a female impersonator session.

“Well,” said Judge Jones. “He is one big, good-looking guy. I can see why a lady cat might be partial to him, even bowled over.”

“Bowled over and assaulted,” Savannah interrupted. “My little Yvette was defenseless.”

“I will look at your ‘little defenseless Yvette’ in a moment,” the judge said, “but first you will kindly keep your comments to yourself until it is your turn to complain. Oh, all right! Bring on your wronged cat and then we’ll have a pair on the table.”

Savannah tossed ashy bleached locks teased into something resembling burnt meringue over her bare shoulders. She unzipped Yvette’s bag with the flair of a magician unveiling an illusion.

When Yvette’s piquant Persian face, a symphony in silvery white fur, peeked over the pink rim, the courtroom oohed as one.

Temple felt like the owner of plain-marmalade Garfield, the comics cat, up against Nermal, the world’s cutest kitten. Yvette was a sophisticated confection of wispy whiskers, perfectly round aquamarine eyes, and ears so delicately tinted pink they looked lavender through the thin down of silver fur that covered them.

Then Savannah, a ham actor who couldn’t resist piling on the honey glaze, cooing adoringly and lifted little Yvette to her cheek, all the better for the judge and the audience to eyeball the petite charmer.

Yvette squalled like a demon infant. She flailed her dainty feet, lashed her plumy tail, and sank her tiny claws into Savannah’s naked shoulder.

Savannah squealed.

Temple stroked Louie’s back and tail as he paced and turned in front of her, a perfect gentleman.

At Yvette’s uproar, he moved to the table’s edge and directed a disapproving growl at Savannah.