Cat In A Leopard Spot

“You are both beautiful and noble,” I say, “but what makes you think this foreign interloper stands a chance of replacing you? I will refuse to work with her if they try anything!”

“Now you are being noble, but you may not have an opportunity to put your sit-down strike into action. I hear that this upstart’s trainer favors Maurice as a partner. Not you.”

“No! Obviously I miss a lot by not being near the scuttlebutt along Rodeo Drive. So we both are to be put out to pasture.”

“They only put horses out to pasture, Louie. We will be put out to sleeping on sofas watching the Home Shopping Network.”

“No!” Personally, I prefer QVC.

“It is true. I have seen it happen in my mistress’s career. And now, with this hussy on the horizon—”

“You mean the foreign feline the Allpetco people are supposedly considering for the spokescat slot?”

“Precisely.”

“Pardon me for being obtuse, but what does any alien female have that you do not have?”

The Divine Yvette shrugs wearily. “New face, new hair. Younger.” She pauses to tidy her whiskers. “I have heard this upstart has some martial arts abilities. Apparently, underage females who can kick-box are the target media consumers these days. And she is the ‘right’ ethnic group.”

My blood is beginning to thicken in my veins.

“This candidate is Asian, by some chance?”

The Divine Yvette’s almost undetectable sneer draws her luxurious vibrissae, aka whiskers, into a dismissive arch of truly noble proportions.

“Siamese,” she hisses in disdain. “One of the new breed that is so narrow it looks as if it has been run over and then peeled off the street.”

I nod, I know the look, and I am afraid I may even know the dame in question.

“She is apparently appearing in some cheesy cable sci-fi series.”

I gulp.

“Something about Khatlords,” the Divine One continues, “although, despite their promising name, they are people, not felines.”

“This Siamese is not called Hyacinth?”

“I do not know her name and do not wish to. All I know is that this kung fu feline is being pushed for the next set of Á La Cat commercials. My mistress is worried white. So white that she has purchased a plain white-cotton martial arts gi for me…for me, who has only worn satin and velvet before. I fear that the fashion in feline fatales has changed from sweet and fluffy to sour and stringy.”

I am so horrified by what I have learned that I have neglected to soothe the Divine Yvette’s injured ego promptly enough.

“Louie! Have you nothing to say of this interloper of inferior breed who threatens our livelihood, and that of our nearest and dearest?”

I shake myself free of unhappy thoughts.

“Only that the Allpetco people would be insane to replace you with an Oriental shorthair like a Siamese. Your aquamarine eyes are infinitely superior to their blue eyes, which are often crossed, I hear. As for coat color, your fiendishly subtle hues of white, silver, and black have a classic art deco sophistication that no other breed can match.”

The Divine Yvette is not only purring by now, she is rubbing back and forth against me like I am a magic lamp with a genie inside. Ah, bliss. I sense a close encounter in the air. Then I have to go and talk a little bit too long….

“Compared to your sublime tones, that common Siamese camel coat accented with the mouse-turd brown trim breeders elevate by the name of lilac points is something from the Goodwill….”

“Louie!” The Divine Yvette has pulled away, something like lightning from Mount Olympus in her heavenly aquavit orbs. “How did you know that this usurper was a lilac-point Siamese?”

“Just a lucky guess?” I begin.

Before I can insert more of my feet into my mouth, and I have several—feet, that is, not mouths—the curtain behind which we shelter is jerked open, spilling a blast of light and noise into our hideaway.

“Yvette! Louie!” our significant others cry in tandem, united in the search for our missing selves. Their long-nailed hands reach for us.

We are between a concrete wall and a wail of people in full cry.

There is nothing to do but crouch down and allow ourselves to be plucked up from the floor and into our so-called owners’ arms.

Miss Temple has a much harder time of it than Miss Savannah, who huffs off immediately with the Divine Yvette, muttering of genetic contamination.

“Louie, you bad boy!” Miss Temple pants. “I’m just glad the judge is still in chambers and didn’t see you running away like a guilty party. You are the sinned against, not the perp. Act like it.”

She stomps back to the set with me clasped to her bosom. It is not the triumph in court I had envisioned, but I know enough to act docile and maintain radio silence.

Chapter 17

Judgment Day

The judge’s ill-tempered squint was more pronounced when she returned from viewing Temple’s tape of Louie’s and Yvette’s commercials and reviewing the documents in the case, which were all Temple’s.

She glared first at Savannah and Temple, and then at Louie and Yvette.