Cat In An Aqua Storm

“Is he purring or shaking?” this female Dr. Death inquires, laying a bony hand upon my shoulders. I do not think much of her diagnostic skills. Any fool could see that the frigid air-conditioning is giving me an ague. This doctor doll reminds me of every villainous or supposedly expert human female known to man or tomcat.

"I doubt he has seen a vet before," Miss Temple hazards, rightly. "He is a stray I found. He used to be unofficial house cat at the Crystal Phoenix Hotel on the Strip.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Cruella flicks back my eyelid so that all I see is her hairless hand before my eyes, then pulls my jaws open and leans forward to inspect my teeth. "This big guy is lucky that he was not picked up and sent for a three-day stay at the Hotel from Hell—the animal pound.”

My tail lashes while I weigh the benefits of sinking a fang into the vet’s disgusting, white nose so temptingly within reach. Miss Temple Bar would no doubt find such behavior, however much an act of self-defense, embarrassing, so I restrain myself. I permit myself a low, warning wail, however.

"Eight, maybe nine years old, I would say.” Dr. Imelda narrows her eyes. "Nice shoes," she adds approvingly, glancing at my erstwhile friend's feet. She presses my palm until my digits spread. “Nails could use clipping. You ever do that?"

"Only my own,” Miss Temple answers.

“Well." The vet sticks a cold hand under my nether parts and pulls me to a standing position. I have never been so humiliated in my life. “He will need all his shots, of course. He is a bit old for declawing, but we could neuter him at the same time. Do you let him outside?”

“Actually, Louie lets himself out."

“Oh?”

"I leave a small bathroom window open. If I do not, he has been known to unlatch the French door to the patio.”

“Quite a talented scamp,” Dr. Frankenstein’s smarter younger sister says with a feeble laugh that I do not like. “And he will have to go on the latest scientific formula diet, of course. The out-of-shape senior variety."

I twist angrily out of her grasp and berate her with a few choice words, which she ignores as if they were Urdu.

Miss Temple Barr forlornly strokes my head. “I do not want to overwhelm Louie,” she says with the wisdom and sensitivity I have come to expect from her superior sort of person. “Just the shots and the food today.”

“But if he wanders, you cannot want him impregnating all the female cats.”

"No, but maybe he has slowed down.”

Fat, excuse the expression, chance.