Cat In A Topaz Tango

I have no doubt that both the masked attempted murderer and our own Mr. Matt have the impression that they were dueling mano a mano all over the Dancing With the Celebs set. And quite a thrilling, but lamentably unfilmed, contest that was.

But no, the contention was mano a gato in some respects. (“Gato” is the Spanish word for cat.)

I keep a keen eye on all the Circle Ritz folks at this shindig and happened to be sniffing around the company buffet table backstage during the very wee morning hours, hunting clues about the mishap involving Mr. Keith Salter. Okay, he ate separately, but you never know. Not that I was copping a free meal, although I was not loath to lap up any unclaimed crumbs from said spread for a Midnight mid-night nosh.

Be that as it may, or may not, my sharp olfactory senses can pick up what humans overlook even without a supersensitive canine nose. I did find crumbs of things I would rather die than eat, such as cranberry muffins, but nothing that I could die from if I ate it.

So it is the wee-est hours on the deserted set when I hear footsteps and decide to widen my area of inquiry.

I am there when Mr. Matt blunders in, searching for Miss Tatyana.

Any other investigative dude would suspect him of making an unlawful romantic rendezvous. I, however, know Mr. Matt is already uneasy enough about his unsanctified hanky-panky with his own fiancée and my dear sweet roommate, so I doubt he would be canoodling with a hot-tempered Russian fireball.

At that point, I am as innocent of suspecting lurking menace as he is and am merely curious about this after-hours rehearsal. Perhaps Miss Tatyana thinks she can draw out more of his secret Latin soul with late-night sessions. He was not Antonio Banderas material until he did that righteous paso doble the other night.

I myself, on the other hand, was born with dark, Latin good looks, masculine grace, and cojones (and I kept them despite now being politically correct for my species in the reproduction department).

As I was saying, I was born with the brunet swagger to stomp and slither about the stage intimidating the ladies into swooning at my feet. All four of them. Feet, I mean, not ladies. Though I am not averse to social quintets.

I expected to have some merriment watching Mr. Matt trying to go Latin lover again in the tango, and then Zorro shows up.

I see instantly that Mr. Matt is outmatched.

I see instantly that the only dude here who can fight Hispanic fire with Hispanic fire is a longtime alley shivmeister.

So while Mr. Matt does his best to sidestep the unexpected weapon, I am playing the cape in this lethal pasodoble for dudes.

This means I must hurl my much outweighed self into the fray.

Alas, the cameras are not rolling.

They would see my agile, unbooted toes doing a fierce flamenco with the unnamed dude in black’s high-heeled boots. Any stomp that I failed to elude would break all my shivs, not to mention my toes.

It is very close. Only my lithe full-body twists keep me from death by stomping.

The dark dude is as fast as his rapier work. I dodge both boots and sword-point, seeking two vital goals. One is keeping Mr. Zorro from spearing my roommate’s current beloved (okay, I cannot yet forget Mr. Max, who is a dude after my own parts). The other is attempting to mark the masked man’s hide with my four-on-the-floor: the wide track of my shivs that will identify him later if I can but manage to install a full house of claws to the epidermis.

I must say that Mr. Matt is surprising both the attacker and myself. He is faster on the draw—and the withdraw—than I expected. And what is any dance but drawing closer and retreating farther, much like human relationships.

In fact, I must admit that my own amatory adventures are a continual process of advance and retreat.

Perhaps this attack is a far, far better dancing lesson than Miss Tatyana could administer, if she had truly been hoping a late-night challenge would unleash Mr. Matt’s deepest emotions. Which at this point would be to live, now that he has finally attained the hand of my lovely roommate in marriage.

Recognizing what is at stake for me and mine, I hurl myself at our opponent without regard to life or limb. I am an unseen shadow tripping his every step, leaping to catch and capture his sword arm on every blow.

At times the flurry of steps catches me in the staccato enemy fire of his boot heels and I go rolling over the darkened dance floor, my torso caught in the crossfire and beaten and bruised.

I have not been in such a rumble since I was a young blade. So it is Zorro versus gato. Fox against cat. We are both sly and agile creatures, which is not exactly how I would describe Mr. Matt, splendid fellow that he is.

He needs his shadow ally and I rise to the occasion, literally leaping into the billows of Zorro’s cloak, rending as I fall, ripping it to shreds. But I am outweighed.

My ribs are bruised, and my breath heaves in and out like a bellows.