Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

time when kits of my ilk were tossed aside as unvalued throwbacks. Fortunately, we are coming into new favor and our more robust coloration is prized now, in the show ring and out of it.”
    “Hear, hear!” I say, eyeing Solange with new appreciation.
    There is a little bit of tabby in every cat, and particularly in every alley cat.
    Yvette has wandered away during my mutual admiration society musings with Solange.
    She is patting at something under a bush.
    I cannot have her disturbing my crime scene, so I rush over.
    Well, well, well. I will have to see that the Las Vegas CSI, the real-life ones, find this prime piece of evidence pronto. It is a can of Razor’s Edge shaving cream, lime scented.
    “Good job, girls,” I say. “Now huff your ruffs back inside. I will be sure to direct my associate’s attention to this useful clue.”
    “You must visit us and tell us what happened, Louie,” Solange manages to say as I hustle them toward the glass sliding doors where they can paw pitifully until admitted.
    “Where will I find you?”
    “Lavender Wing, with the judges and Team Queen members.”
    With that I return to the deserted pool area and the too-obviously abandoned shaving cream can. This job must have taken several cans. Where are they?
    I sit and regard the empty can. I wonder what the CSI will make of the pad prints amid whatever human traces remain. Which is likely nothing. This can is a message, not a clue.
    I picture the cops “fingerprinting” the Divine Yvette and Solange when their presence at this overall crime scene is detected.
    Then they will be “soot foots” indeed!
    I am very glad that I will not be wielding the inkpads on that occasion.
    Ouch!



Hanky Panhy

    Temple and Mariah huddled in their room that night, comparing notes on hastily scrawled pages they tore up and packed away.
    As befitted a ‘Tween ‘n’ Teen Queen competition, half of their shared notes concerned the rules of the contest, the rituals of competition, psyching out the judges, and a keen awareness that their every word and gesture could be recorded.
    The other half concerned the skullduggery.
    Skullduggery. Temple liked that word but Mariah adored it.
    She was her mother’s daughter, though the very expression would have made Mariah howl. She was so into being “not Mother” at the moment.
    For a final consultation, they huddled in the bathroom for a fast five minutes, shower running full blast and steaming up the mirrors, the air, and possibly parboiling any electronic bugs and cameras. Such devices weren’t allowed in the bathrooms anyway.
    Still, that was the underlying paranoia of reality TV. One could never be sure.
    So their conversation was as veiled as the air.
    “What if that shaving cream had been acid?” Mariah theorized, “and all of us had been lying there exercising and trying to get tans and burning our skins off?”
    “You have a morbid imagination.”
    “Thanks. Whatcha think?”
    “Thanks for asking. I think it was a stunt to get attention, which worked. And I don’t know if we really have a stalker among us, or if it’s the producers trying to throw the contestants off-balance, or—”
    “Or a crazy killer?”
    “Right. Like there are a lot of sane ones.” Temple leaned her arm past the shower curtain to crank the water force up the last notch. “Hand me that razor, please.” Mariah did, looking a little jealous that Temple was so proficient at shaving her armpits. Hey, this was Feminine Hygiene 101. She should be a pro.
    “I don’t think my mother shaves,” Mariah said glumly. “Are you sure?”
    “No, but it doesn’t seem like something she would do. You’re really good at it.”
    “Thanks.” Temple tore off a hunk of toilet paper and put it on the nicked shin that had happened when Mariah had opined that she didn’t think her mother shaved. Only her mustache!
    “Those drawn-on tattoos are cool.”
    “Tattoos are cool when they’re temporary. When they’re permanent, they’re a problem waiting to happen.”
    “Why?”
    “Well, we always reinvent ourselves as we toddle through life. We should aim to be a blackboard, not a pincushion with no expiration date.”
    “Huh? Oh, I get it. You’re funny.”
    “I hope so, because this situation is getting less so every day.”
    “It’s like boot camp.” Mariah picked at the dead skin around her big toenail. She sounded ‘tweenage sullen again. Temple found herself suddenly sympathetic toward Carmen Molina.