Cat In A Leopard Spot

While we all wince in common pain, my two henchthings whimper.

Sounds of an ominous nature occur behind our backs: the scrape of claw on concrete, a soft growl that never ends, heavy breathing. I feel hot breath on my spine.

I turn, resigned to laying down my life in defense of the wimpy.

Although I have also been resigned to the fact that the canine species, no matter how ridiculous, is gifted with superior sniffing power, I discover that my prime sense is the most useful now. By the all-seeing eyes of Bastet I observe that the impenetrable darkness is not quite impenetrable.

As my legendary night vision adapts to the situation, I discern a life-saving fact: bars.

Then I discern the nature of the awesome feline muscle behind those sweet bars: a Big Cat whose silhouette is a negative of the night. A mirror image of myself magnified about twenty times.

Finally the gent gives up the growling and shows his teeth. I survey the Rocky Mountains of feline dentures and cannot help noticing that both Midnight Louise and I would fit fine in there, along with the Yorkshire constabulary.

A paw the size of a dinner plate thrusts through the bars.

I am afraid the dinner plate is out here, and we are sitting on it.

“Back! Back!” comes a falsetto cry.

Golda has leaped to my side and our defense with an ear-splitting yap.

“Back, back!” seconds Groucho, now pressing against my other side.

Half-pint courage is all well and good, but not when you are facing about forty quarts of snarling predator power.

Our opponent’s jaws spread wider.

I expect to hear a Fee, fie, foe, fum any second now, as this giant gets ready to grind the bones of whoever is dumb enough to stand up to it.

Then I hear something crack, and close my eyes. Bye-bye, bitty dog!

But the fluffballs bracketing me have not been snagged by the exploring mitt, and my eyes widen as I see the grin of death before me turn into a…yawn.

Another impressive jawbone crack, and superfeline smacks his fangs. “You. The runt cub in the middle. I saw you in my cage the other day, making off with part of my lunch.”

“Me? No, sire. I mean, sir. I was in Las Vegas doing my nails at the time. This is my first visit to Rancho Exotica. I swear it on my mother’s vibrissae.”

A growl again, but it sounds like a chuckle. “You do not look big enough to have whiskers, Cub, but maybe your mother might.” The huge eyes blink at my bodyguard. “Usually visitors bring rodents along only if a snake is in residence, and there is none on the premises now.”

“Snake.” I have visions of a boa constrictor big enough to swallow the Ritz Hotel. “Rodents. Oh, you mean my, uh, muscle. These are not rodents; they are miniature dogs.”

“Dogs.” The big dude yawns again. “They are lucky they feed us well here.” The broad brow furrows. “All except the theatrical guy from the New Millennium Hotel. Him they did not feed well. But he did not stay very long. Our population keeps coming and going, I am not sure why.”

I am not about to tell this dude the facts of life at Rancho Exotica. No use upsetting the natives when they might develop a nervous appetite in response.

“Yeah, well, I am a private investigator operating out of Vegas, and I am here to find out why some of our best cats are disappearing.”

“Vegas?” The big guy almost grins. “I hear that town is filled with disappearing cats. I am from Provo myself. I was a roadside attraction at a reptile ranch until the authorities confiscated me. Then I did time at an animal rehabilitation ranch until the management had a big spat over the donation money. We ended up being shipped hither and yon. And this is my hither.” He yawns again. “It is not a bad life, no worse than any other place I remember, but somewhat boring.”

I hate to tell him it will go from boring to fatal in short order.

“They call me Midnight Louie,” I introduce myself. “I would appreciate your not eating my bodyguards in a reflex motion. They are small but occasionally useful.”

“What a coincidence,” the big guy answers. “They call me Midnight. And Ebony. And Inkspot. It depends on where I land and how much imagination the two-legs have. But you can call me Butch.”

“So how long have you been doing time here, Butch?”

“I am a senior resident. About as long as it takes a fat moon to get skinny and back again.”

“And Osiris, how long was he here?”

“You know the theatrical dude! Why did you not say so at first? He was a little peeved and a lot panicked when he was here, but I cannot say that I blame him. They had him on rations so short they were invisible.”

“So you said. For how long?”

“Several suns. Then they took him away one dark time, and he never came back. That happens, though, like the waning of the moon and the swelling of the sun each day. We are always being brought and taken away.”