Cat In An Aqua Storm

Having expressed herself, she proceeds to disrobe while I take a gentlemanly clue and turn myself to face in another direction. Miss Temple Barr's dramatic return, and dislodging of myself, has reminded me of my own trauma of the morning.

I picture my discreet arrival at the Goliath via the rear service entrance. The approach is the most delicate maneuver. My sable silhouette shows up to great advantage against the pale, sun-washed exterior. I pause in the shadow of a Dumpster and watch the door with narrowed eyes. Legs come and go, and finally one pair comes out followed closely by a linen trolley. Before you can say “Nostradamus,” I am darting past the racket of the wheels and merging into the interior shade.

My feet have pounded most of the Strip's hardest and hottest pavements, but they are not too jaded to appreciate a cool expanse of vinyl tile. I pussyfoot down the hall, my nose for news leading me past the clattering hotel kitchens and into the guest areas. Here my already silent steps are buffered by plush, well-padded carpeting in a pattern I can only describe as “Hairball Revisited” or “Goliath Buffet Regurgitated.” It is a good thing that my breed is not fussy about colors (except in the instance of choosing flattering backgrounds), or I would be seasick and add to the psychedelic ambience underfoot.

No one notices my presence. I am a past master at darting into the dark side of a cigarette stand, into the shadowy underside of a potted palm, around the nearest corner.

The unmistakable blurt of an audio tape and stop-and-go chatter of human voices leads me to a ballroom filled with scattered folding chairs, enough tangled industrial-strength electric cords to give Indiana Jones a snake attack and more long bare female legs of the human sort than have been seen since Busby Berkeley choreographed thirties musicals. Most of these unappealingly hairless gams are upheld by shoes of such skyscraper ambitions that my little doll’s collection looks like London flats.

I dart from the safety of chair to chair, pausing only to sniff the smoke and sweat-perfumed air for a scent I will never forget: the faintly powdered pheromones unique to the Divine Yvette.