Cat In An Aqua Storm

She returns, often with a granola cookie. This I keep strictly between her and me: a lady’s nighttime habits are no one’s business but her own. I must admit that I do not relish crumbs in the bed, especially when they are the sort I do not personally find consumable, but I understand my little doll's need for comfort after her attack, and at least she has not yet imported any crumbs of another sort entirely to her—and my—California king-size bed. There is only one King of the Hill here and the name is Midnight Louie.

Of course, it is because of a dude before my time that Miss Temple was so rudely interrogated by the pair of hoods in the Goliath garage. His name at least I approve of: the Mystifying Max. His game was okay also: magician. What was wrong with him was that he vanished—permanently, and without bothering to tell Miss Temple. I would not do such a thing to a little doll like her unless I was road kill, which I fear is one of the theories that is bothering my lovely roommate about her missing ex-significant other.

To tell the truth and speaking from my own experience around here, I cannot understand why any dude in his right mind would walk out on Miss Temple Barr, who has hardly any faults except for her addiction to certain health foods, including a preparation called Free-to-Be-Feline.

That is her only lapse in taste, and the Mystifying Max could have put up with it. After all, he did not have to eat anything worse than granola. I have managed to ignore the Free-to-Be-Feline for nearly a month now, with the result that I am getting a superb class of delicacies ladled over the top as a temptation: smoked oysters, baby shrimp in Creole sauce and other appetizers that add up to a full-meal deal, as they say on the television.

Perhaps there is one tiny incident I am not fond of, although it is understandable. After the attack on Miss Temple, her helpful neighbor, Mr. Matt Devine, stayed the night. I hung around long enough to see him ensconced on the living-room hide-a-bed. Then I comforted my little doll in the bedroom until she drifted off to a Tylenol-3 sleep before I skedaddled on errands of an investigative nature. All right, in this particular case I had a personal interest—my lost ladylove, the Divine Yvette, had witnessed the first stripper murder.