Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

And the gleaming goldfish pond,

Born to run with nimble footwork,

Heart and mitt that move together,

She shall run upon my errands,

Midnight Louisa, laughing mocker …

Okay, the scansion on Miss Louise’s name does not quite work, but she is no Minnehaha, unless she is laughing at me. She would not be laughing now.

My vibrissae snap to immobile attention. I have spotted a familiar black hummock.

Midnight Louise is here on her home turf! Safe and stuffing her face. And here I was worried… .

Unfortunately, that still-crouched form is worshiping at the white-shod feet and medically white-clothed figure of Chef Song, arms folded on chest, the usual meat cleaver clutched to defend the precious foreign-named and fat goldfish from any interloper, like me.

I realize a delicate celadon green rice bowl sits between the kitchen god and worshiper, filled with fresh … shrimp or salmon perhaps, or tender slices of beef, or caviar, or octopus.

Preparing to make an end run to snag her attention, I watch the furred one sit up to perform after-meal ablutions. What, no warm, wet rolled-up towel? For shame, Chef Song!

By then the chef is turning away to gather goods to refill the bowl.

The diner strolls off into the canna lilies to finish his grooming. It is that big old lazy galoot of a purported father of mine, Three O’Clock! One would think the Glory Hole Gang’s test kitchen would suffice for his snacking.

While I eye him contemptuously, another black humped form is now worshiping at the about-to-be-refilled bowl.

Chef Song straightens. “You are hungry today, honorable cat.”

It is then I notice that he wears a pair of glasses that has slid down his nose, given all the serial kowtows he is making to my kind.

There is no chance even I would assume this latest bowl customer to be Miss Midnight Louise. She is more petite and curls her tail left when eating, and this bozo has a short, stumpy tail. I recall Ma Barker had promised to send some ninjas to patrol the Crystal Phoenix.

Pushing one’s face into a full rice bowl is not patrolling.

I can barely contain my impatience. I need to betray my position and go over to interrogate Three O’Clock without the looming, armed presence of my longtime foe, Chef Song. I am astonished he would lavish his bounty on all comers like this, when I am persona non grata.

I should snag a koi on the principle of it, while he is fawning over these street-gang strangers. The current customer also rises, flourishes his vibrissae, and ambles off to cleanse them in the canna lilies’ shade.

Before I can make a move, another black dude has appeared before the bowl, and while the now-vision-impaired chef is bent over watching the food vanish as if by magic, the dude is taking his turn. This is too much to bear.

If Chef Song cannot tell a senior citizen and a street tough from the dainty Miss Midnight Louise, he probably cannot distinguish me as his bitter enemy.

I strut into the open sunlight, stinging my footpads … ouch.

Nevertheless I march right up behind the current foodaholic. I will either join the chow line or I will bust it up.

Chef Song straightens as he spots me. With that tall, poofy white hat, he is as formidable appearing as a white Persian with its tail in full battle fluff. In other words, he and his meat cleaver do not scare me.

However, I am apparently so singular I am immediately ID’d.

“You!” he says. “You koi snatcher. You no longer resident. Get away from my private feeding station and pond or I will make minced shallots of your tail.”

Our set-to has spoiled the appetite of the latest freeloader, who hisses, spits, and runs for the canna lilies. Good. My posse is on their feet and ready to leave the luncheonette for the real scene of the action.

While Chef Song switches to uttering his own challenges in Chinese, I return full measure of hiss and spit, then show him the business end of my tail root and duck into the thick plant-stalk jungle.

Aaaah. Cool dirt between my toes, even though it will get stuck in my shivs.

“Okay, you worthless chowhounds,” I tell my now-assembled troops. “We have a mission. First, Three O’Clock, where is Midnight Louise?”

“I do not know. I just ambled over from the Glory Hole Gang’s test kitchen for some real food. Spuds Lonnigan is whipping up his specialty, potatoes, and I am not a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. Meat, yes. Tater Tots, no.”

“You have not seen Miss Midnight Louise, either?” I ask the other two, while a singsong of imprecations continues above our heads and far, far away from our current concerns.

“Bast no, boss,” one says, with gratifying respect.

“Not since this old freeloader showed up at our new headquarters,” the other adds, indicating Three O’Clock with a quick flick of his shivs.

That is bad mews. Miss Louise should be long back here by now.

“Cut out that palaver,” the old boy orders me and his ex’s legmen. “I am washing my whiskers. The younger generation has no respect for the civilized formalities.”