Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

scent: a sweet, fruity one. Could it be a trace of the Razor’s Edge shaving spray that clung unnoticed to a shoe sole? They put some awful fragrances in human toiletries, possibly because most people do not take daily sponge baths as we hipper cats do.
    I seem to be alone in these passages now but I sniff the presence of plenty of people coming and going. In fact, as I turn a corner I spot a faint light.
    I am not pleased to see it because that means that someone might see me in this oversize air-conditioning vent.
    When a faint sound comes from around the next bend I freeze like an ostrich. There is no hiding place in this purely functional conduit, not even the huge veiling spider webs beloved of horror films. I unlatch my shivs and practice snapping them in and out, in case I need to resort to a kamikaze attack.
    As I hunch there, ready for epic battle, the sound that I hear begins to take on an air of familiarity. In fact, it is a song half-sung under the breath. “Suspicious Minds.”
    Well, that fits this place to a T.
    The mutterer in motion rounds the half-lit bend and I view a human figure all in white, glowing like a ghost.
    I am not a superstitious fellow, despite my breed and color. It takes but three seconds for me to recognize the Elvis impersonator judge who has been drilling the singing candidates for their big debut. (Miss Kit Carlson is handling the acting coaching and I am all atwitter over what my Miss Temple will come up with in the persona of Xoe Chloe.)
    Anyway, the faux Elvis spots me and stops cold.
    “Well, hello there, little fellow. Anything I can do for you? Need a new Cadillac?”
    Only for sharpening my shivs on genuine leather.
    This is not the first time I have encountered the likeness of Elvis Presley in this town. On some occasions,
    I was even convinced I was seeing the real thing.
    So I amble over and rub my nose on the brass studs decorating the bell-bottoms on his jumpsuit. This is better than a sisal rope scratching post, let me tell you.
    The costume, and the leg beneath it, are completely solid, by the way.
    “You better git while the gittin’ is good,” the ersatz Elvis advises. “This joint will be jumpin’ with bad mojo pretty soon.”
    I manage to meow plaintively. I hate to meow plaintively! It is the resort of cowards and kept cats! However, at times I must play dumb.
    Elvis bends down and scratches me behind the ears, as if I were a hound dog. Red-neck dudes are always more dog people than cat people. Their loss.
    “I am tellin’ you, cat. You better whiplash your ass outa here. Things are gonna get ugly.”
    Now what does Elvis know about it?
    I pause to stretch low and long, doing a floor-dusting belly touch. Then yawn wide enough to swallow a Chihuahua.
    Then I amble along past the dude and around the corner he rode in on.
    It is suddenly darker there. I have to wonder why the light was following Elvis. Was that the real unreal thing? The ghost of rock ‘n’ roll? Or was it a pale imitation?
    Either way, I do not like my recent dance in the dark with an ambulatory Elvis one little bit. The moment my vibrissae sense a stir of fresh air, I take a sharp running right in that direction... and fall three feet down onto a hard surface.
    That does not give even a ninja a lot of time to do a double axel and land on his feet, spraying wood shavings like Tara Lipinski sprays ice splinters. Float like a butterfly, land like a lummox.
    I barely manage to turn myself upright before I must dig my shivs into a wooden roof.
    Which then plummets below at a speed fast enough to give my ears a Bing Crosby pin-back.
    Landing is the bone-crunching shock I had anticipated.
    I cripple my way over the edge and flip upside down again, hanging by a half-torn nail sheath.
    Even upside down I can see Miss Midnight Louise in the night-lit glow of the kitchen where she is one with the black marble floor except for the cynical gleam of her old-gold eyes.
    “Could not resist a midnight raid on the icebox, eh, Dad? Do not bother apologizing. There is some very nice kipper a passing guest was kind enough to dig out of the Sub-Zero for me. And did I manage to dig up some dirt on the murder vie. Lose the death grip on the silent butler, come on down, and we will chew the fat. Yours, I hope.”
    What can I say? Nothing. So I do not.
    And thus I learn what my Miss Temple and her roommate Mariah were up to in the Teen Queen Castle while I was communing with Elvis in the attic.



Filing