Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

colorful language, laid out one letter and/or punctuation mark to a mat, has melted enough that the b in “bitches” looks more like a sideways IV. The authorities have to take the witnesses’ word for it as to the original intention.
    I, however, have to take no one’s word, and never do. That is why I am such an ace detective. I am incorruptible. I must admit, though, that the whipped cream was a temptation too yummy to leave untasted. I was alone on the scene then. My Miss Temple, aka Xoe Chloe for the nonce, had been shepherded indoors to await the police, along with everybody else. Human, that is. Or what passes for it on reality TV. The show security staff, i.e., bronzed gods in loin cloths, were arrayed along the doors to the pool area, facing inside to keep twenty-eight agitated candidates and assorted staff members from messing up the scene of the culinary crime.
    So I was free to explore on my own.
    The first thing my shameless taste test discovered was that the whipped cream was not even beaten. It was, in fact, a particularly soapy shaving cream, one that offered a full-bodied texture and a risqué and amusing hint of mint.
    Not my vintage, thank you. And I thank Bast that I am not required to shave. It would be a full-time job.
    My unstunted white whiskers—vibrissae to the cognoscenti at the vet’s office—were double-dipped in fluffy white after my explorations, so I paused under a bush to wash off the evidence.
    Yuck! No wonder people wash out the mouths of their sassy kits with soap. I would not even refer to a female dog by the proper term after a close encounter with this stuff.
    I am clean-shaven as far as my kind is concerned but fighting residual nausea when I notice that a couple of curious cats have whiskered in on my action.
    Before I can throw my weight around and order them away, I realize that both are of Persian extraction, and one is of the sublime shade of platinum blonde known as “shaded silver.”
    I drop my laundry mitt and stand at attention with every muscle in my body.
    Although the sight of her personalized carrier told me the Divine Yvette would be on the premises, her personal presence is still a potent form of shock and awe. Not to mention also encountering her kittykin, for the fulsome blonde of blended apricot, gold, and cream shades is her shaded golden sister, the Sweet Solange.
    No one told me the Shaded Sisters were part of the deal.
    I leap out from my place of concealment but naturally must play the brusque (though noble) crime scene guardian.
    “You there!" I cry as they are about to dip their dark little tootsies in the c of the word formerly known as “bitches.”
    “Desist.”
    Aqua-green and moss-green eyes circled in black mascara regard me with calm surprise and no hint of obedience.
    Seeing the pair of them side by side is the human parallel of viewing a Jaguar XKE next to a Lamborghini. Where is a guy to look first?
    I should mention one of the most unusual and charming aspects of the shaded Persian breed. Pale as their silver and golden coats may be, the leather on their persons—nose, eye surrounds, pads—is black, as are the hairs on the bottoms of their feet, which is why I call them “soot foots.” Purely to myself, you can imagine. No Persian worth her pedigree would answer to such a lowly description.
    I trot over to enforce my order, for the females of my kind are not the docile and downtrodden type. Au contraire.
    Hmmm. I see the Divine Yvette’s presence is the usual bad influence already. I am starting to think in French.
    “Bon jour, girls,” I say.
    “Hssss, les flics,” the Divine One says, which is the French equivalent of “Cheese it, the cops!”
    (I should also make clear that the Divine Yvette is not the slightest bit French, unless rubbing shoulders with teacup poodles on Rodeo Drive makes her so. But she likes to think that others think so. And they both bear French names. Why people attempt to social climb via their animal companions’ names, I cannot tell you.)
    Me, I was born nameless, and the street people gave me my moniker, Midnight Louie. Fine with me. I think every male on the planet is secretly a Louie, only they just do not know it. Yet.
    “Ladies, ladies.” I have arrived, panting slightly, whether from haste or another, less conscious cause I will not say.
    “Louie! I did not expect to see you here.” The Divine Yvette blinks her aquamarine orbs as if doubting the message they are sending her.
    Miss