Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

a silly sort of shawl trailing off of one shoulder, bringing with her a suffocating floral scent as well as the dreamy attitude.
    The door is closed and we are alone at last! I howl my anxiety and indignation.
    “Louie! So glad you made it home safe,” she says.
    So I could say.
    “I will get you something,” she adds.
    But she doesn’t. She turns back to the closed door and presses against it. Almost pulls it open again. Stops. Paces in the tiny hall. Goes to the living room and picks up her cell phone. Holds it to her mouth as if it were a flower.
    Speaking of which, I wish she’d ditch the wrist corsage, which I have determined is the source of the noxiously sweet odor. I have had enough of them in this case.
    She paces some more. Counts to fifty under her breath, then dials a number. And listens. And paces. And listens.
    “What?” she demands of the room in general. “He has to be there by now!” Pacing.
    And I thought my species had that down.
    She kicks off the high heels. And paces some more. And then redials.
    She stops suddenly to regard me as if seeing me for the first time. But not to proffer food or even a welcoming caress.
    “Cold shower?” she asks me.
    She hurls the cell phone to the sofa. Why is she mad?
    She is like, really angry.
    She retrieves the phone and hits the redial button again.
    People are so predictable with their toys. I suppose it is somewhat entertaining to watch them cavort with technology.
    Then she stares at me again and bends down to swoop me up in her arms.
    First of all, I do not “swoop.”
    Second of all, I weight almost twenty pounds so I am quite a bundle of bones for her to hoist.
    Third of all, she is wearing this dress with only a halter top, so I have nothing but warm bare flesh to wrap my legs around. Ick! It takes all my considerable self-control to keep from latching on to her with my shiv tips.
    Perhaps that is why she has goose bumps on her arms.
    She carries me to the French doors leading to her petite balcony, opens one, and walks out into the finally cooling night.
    Below us lies the serene blue rectangle of the pool and, on the other side, the parking lot.
    She gazes out, idly stroking my chin and throat.
    All right. This is better. I think about rewarding her diligence with a slight purr.
    Suddenly, she stiffens. All over. Her hand on my throat almost throttles me.
    I look down to see that Mr. Matt has strolled out to the pool. He is far more clothed than usual in that area, and he too begins pacing!
    My Miss Temple’s grip tightens.
    Mr. Matt sits on one of the lounge chairs and proceeds to remove his shoes and stockings! Well, I have always felt that humans were way overdressed. He looks like Tom Sawyer by the riverbank, I think, having lounged on a lot of library books in my time. (One does pick up things.)
    Miss Temple edges, barefoot too, to the edge of the balcony.
    I, of course, am carried along with her, unwilling. I have definitely revoked the purr.
    He stands up, lays his jacket on the lounge chair, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
    My Miss Temple is as still as a stalking cat. I did not know she had such skills in her. She watches. I can practically feel her whiskers twitching, her pupils slitting. (These are figures of speech. She is not so elegantly accoutered as me and my kind, alas.)
    But she is as alert as any alley cat, which is high praise from me.
    Mr. Matt’s instincts are nothing to spit at tonight either.
    He suddenly looks up.
    They see each other.
    My Miss Temple does not move a muscle, except that her heart revs up.
    He looks at her. She looks at him.
    He keeps undoing buttons on his shirt. Then it is on the lounge chair.
    He begins on the trousers—silly convention! He stops at the underwear, which is dark and understated, at least.
    My Miss Temple’s fingernails are starting to seriously impinge on my musculature, which is almost in as admirable a state as Mr. Matt’s.
    What is the big deal? She has seen him in his swim trunks before.
    All I can say is the night is strangely charged until he dives into the deep end of the lit aquamarine pool and begins swimming laps back and forth.
    Some spell is broken. Miss Temple mutters under her breath, and incidentally into my ear, “Well, I suppose it’s the equivalent of a cold shower. For him.”
    She sounds terminally angry with our esteemed neighbor and I chance a small merow in her ear.
    “Poor Louie!” she says, back to normal and paying attention to me again. “Are