Cat In An Aqua Storm

When the lady in question peeks out of her sanctuary behind the costume rack some time later, I am still reclining on the countertop, having given the abandoned Black Russian a couple licks in the dereliction of all human personnel. I am not worried about the caffeine content. Even Miss Temple Barr has granted me the right to come in as late as I like.

Yvette lofts atop an empty chair and regards me with dewy eyes.

Even now every sentiment she expresses rings In my ears as if it were an endless yesterday. “What a hero,” she informs me with a heartfelt sigh.

I offer her a taste of the dregs of the Black Russian, but she wrinkles her perfect pink little nose. "No, Louie. I do not need any more stimulants—’’

“Alcohol is a depressant,” I growl with my usual prescience.

I can see who Is going to get depressed here already.

"I must return to my mistress.” The Divine Yvette pushes a long silver whisker back from her gleaming black lips. Her eyes grow round and sorrowful. “I must admit that these have been the most... piquant days of my life, but I am not happy on your level, Louie, trodding the common pavement until my soft pink pads grow coarse, pushed hither and yon by whomever would brush against me. I am used to a life of international travel, to seeing sights uncluttered by grime and graft. I am used to the haven of my carrier, and the attentions of my mistress.”

I have not the heart to argue. I could protect her from all she finds too crude, but she will not believe me.

“It is for the best, Louie,” she tells me, her sad eyes growing greener by the minute. “My mistress is in a career slump. With my returned presence, she may manage a comeback. I am all she has. Return me.”

It Is not as if Miss Savannah Ashleigh is about to discover a cure for cancer, much less feline leukemia. I shake my head sadly. Some might misinterpret the gesture as an attempt to dislodge a flea. The only flea in my ear is the plea of the Divine Yvette.

“Louie, Louie,” she purrs poignantly. I recall a popular party song of that title, but am in no mood for partying. “Even though I must go, you must remember this: we will always have the Goliath.”

I growl an answer. At such times, I am not articulate. Then I remember our stolen hours on the premises, the three a.m. glide on The Love Moat, the scent and sight of her opalescent powder in the almost-dark of the cavern, when we exchanged more than whispers. She was always afraid of water, of motion under her own power, of independence.