Cat In An Aqua Storm

And still the dames in  high heels come and go, talking of feathers and furbelows. Then, while crouching nonchalantly underneath a camera tripod (nobody faced with a camera ever looks down), I find my heart doing a double axel. A piquant feline face haloed in rhinestones is nose-to-nose and toe-to-toe with yours truly. One inhalation and I know that fraud is afoot. This vision exudes an odor of well-worn Dr. Scholl’s instep liners. I see that the shining eyes and sleek body, the tail so cunningly curling up like smoke, add up to a mere satin doll. Like the faux Baker and Taylor, my nearby vixen is a dummy: a shoe masquerading as a fabulous feline. It turns in its sassy tracks and minces on.

I proceed to make my weary way around the crowded room. By now the many scents pleasant and not-so have merged into one overpowering human stink. I retreat in my staccato way, from chair to chair, avoiding the sudden roll of equipment over any of my extremities. One chair proves my undoing when it becomes the center of a flurry of activity.

"Here,” booms a deep male voice, picking up my shelter.

I run along under it and just miss having my rear foot punctured when the chair is suddenly slammed to carpet again. I hunch beneath its shelter, ears and eyes alert for any other sudden dislocations.

"You can sit here, Miss Ashleigh," the same loathsome voice announces.

Ashleigh? What a sweet sound. A swirl of floral fabric tents me with blessed concealment. A pair of pearl-embedded Lucite wedgies come to a prim stop before my nose.

“Thank you, luv," a purring contralto voice says. “Where is my margarita—?"

“Here,” a female voice answers with a quick, oncoming shuffle of ballet-slipper flats.

Feet dance attendance on the occupant of my chair, Savannah Ashleigh herself.

I contain my own purr of satisfaction.

“Ah,” Miss Savannah Ashleigh allows. The retinue holds a respectful silence.

“These are, of course,” says the loudspeaker man, "tech rehearsals to familiarize the crews with the routines."

A camera doilies over like a hungry mechanical mongrel. I sense Miss Savannah Ashleigh sitting up straighter, even as her voice burbles on.