Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Yes, frequent fishing expeditions in the Crystal Phoenix koi pond, marathons down the Las Vegas Strip avoiding overbuilt guard dogs, bouts of rappelling down the handy palm tree at the Circle Ritz. All this is fine “conditioning.”

I slip through the open elevator door with her. Her finger pauses over a floor button high above my head. “But where do you belong? I do not know every pet owner in the building.”

Hmm. I will have to come up with a Stupid Pet Trick to communicate with a stranger. What would David Letterman do … or applaud? I turn around. Once. Twice. Then sit and cock my head like Fido.

“Two? Floor two?”

I circle again, twice more.

“Four.”

Two more circles add up to …

“Six? Oh, pussycat, I must get off at five. I cannot send you up all alone in the elevator car. Who knows what might happen to you?”

Not boredom in just one floor.

I have imparted my message. I hold my place and sit tight. She will either send me on to floor six, or not.

Her forefinger hits a button and I wait to see what she has decided. Which floor she has selected is a mystery to me. If she insists on bringing me to her own place, I will do the gigolo bit, dine enthusiastically, pretend to be perfectly enamored, and sneak out first thing in the morning never to be seen again.

“Here we are. Floor six. I hope you were not simply annoyed by vermin when you kept turning around.”

I step out without commenting on that slur and sniff along the hallway until I have reached the right door. How do I know it is the right door? I always leave a hint of mint on every exit wherever I am likely to be locked in. We of the superior breed may not be as finely tuned for following scent trails as the ordinary dog, say, but we are adept at leaving our extraordinarily individual colognes on surfaces.

My new escort pauses to shake her head, then knock.

I wait. I know the small round fish-eye hole in the door will allow inspection of my companion. She strikes me as the ideal pickup: a totally respectable lady of a certain age.

The door opens.

“Is this yours?” my companion asks.

It takes a moment for Miss Krys to interpret the woman’s hand gesture and look down.

Her eyes and mouth both make cute O’s of surprise.

Her head turns over her shoulder as she broadcasts to those within. “Call off the dogs and the police. That damn cat is back from the dead.”

I am not displeased by my dramatic introduction, but I am sure that poor lady at the door has been badly shaken.

Chapter 24

A Tale Untold