Cat In A Leopard Spot

The Yorkies pitter-patter up the dune, pocking sand with birdlike tracks as they go. I am not sure that they are not really a species of kangaroo rats, so well have they adapted to desert warfare.

Their desiccated noses scent the arid air, still effective despite the lack of lubrication.

“The prey awaits ahead, mon Capitan,” Groucho announces in a sandpapered voice.

“Good,” croak I. “And water?”

“Nothing near,” Golda says with a forlorn headshake. “I could use a bath and an air-dry and a comb-out in the worst way.”

“Be of good cheer,” I counsel the troops. “Once we return to civilization you can return to all the comforts of home.”

I am lying through my dehydrated teeth, of course. It is called keeping up morale.

We resume our course, the Yorkies in the lead, noses to ground unless an impoliticly placed cactus has caused a deviation.

The morning shadows have shortened like clock hands before we are within sight of the distant buildings.

We pause to pant again, aware that water must await in the oasis before us.

I so tell the troops. “Water must await in the oasis before us.”

“It is an oasis, all right,” Golda agrees, sitting on her tiny haunches with her forelegs in the air, sniffing. “An animal oasis.”

“What gives you that idea? Your overeducated nose?”

She shakes her bow in a southeasterly direction. “The sign says so.”

I blink and look.

Indeed.

The little bowhead still has sharp eyesight as well as nostril power. A huge sign sits near a gravel road, and it reads “Animal Oasis.”

“Another hunt club?” I wonder aloud.

Groucho sniffs the wind. “I smell lions and tigers and bears. And antelope, deer, and rams.”

I shake the sand out of my claws for the umpteenth time, and point to the sign. “Furward!”

In no time flat, or flat-footed, we are slinking around the smells and signs of civilization again.

The diminutive dogs are sniffing circles, confused by the profusion of animal life, and the overwhelming scent of fresh water.

I give up and let them lead us to the water bowls first.

In minutes our three lips and tongues are plunged nostril-deep in an ample pond of fresh water.

In only another minute, we sense a large engulfing cloud that has shadowed our private pond. I look up.

Amazing how clouds will take on the shape of earthly beings. I could swear the Lion King himself is looming over us.

Oh.

“Hello, Mon Majesté.” I salute. “We are weary travelers from afar and athirst, seeking succor at your royal claws. Er, paws.”

Leo lays himself down, almost crushing the Yorkshire constabulary. They yip and dance away, their whiskers dripping purloined water.

Leo yawns, displaying a feline Himalayas of dental peaks. “Are these sand fleas?” he asks me.

“Compared to Your Royalness, yes.”

“And you are—?”

“The name is Louie. Midnight Louie. I am an investigator out of Vegas.”

Leo laps lazily at the pond that has been our salvation, almost licking up the Yorkies in the backwash.

“What can I do for you?” the lion asks politely.

Well. The Yorkies flutter to my side while I sit down, wring my whiskers free of excess water and make my presentation.

“We are on the trail of a dude who has something to do with the murder at the hunt club over yonder.”

“Hunt club?” Leo looks cross-eyed at a fly on his majestic nose, frowns, and swats it to Kingdome come. His flyswatter is the size of a pizza pan.

I decide right then and there not to tell him too many of the nefarious goings-on next door, so to speak. Might agitate the local wildlife.

“Murder?” Leo repeats again, yawning while the dislodged fly darts into his maw by mistake. “What is murder?”

I forget that these big guys, however domesticated, are serious predators without my fine-tuned and human-oriented sense of right and wrong. Leo would probably consider a dead big-game hunter a case of anything but murder.

“A human was killed and no one can tell who or what did it.”

Leo nods sagaciously. How could one not look sagacious with a head that big, wearing a wig reminiscent of an English judge with a blond dye job?

“You hunt the hunter,” he says.

We nod agreement for once.

“You are a little small for the job,” Leo notes.

I shrug. I refrain from pointing out that I am big enough to get by without needing an “Animal Oasis.”

Groucho is emboldened to squeak. “We are looking for a feline party, name of Osiris.”

“Oh, the little guy.” Leo nods again. With his head of flowing blond hair, he reminds me of a somber Fabio, the romance-novel cover dude. “I wondered why he was set apart. He does not look like a man-eater, but then it does not always show, does it?”

We nod. Truer words were never growled.

“I have never seen a man-eater,” Leo goes on, grooming a foreleg the size and shape of Florida. “I begin to think it is a mythical beast. I do not like stringy limbs and haunches myself, and I have not had to fend for myself, so cannot say much about this type.”

“Well,” I say, glancing at the pond, “thanks for the drink. We will mosey on down the line and have a chat with Osiris in person.”