Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

set.
    Of course, being employed by Miss Savannah Ashleigh would immediately encourage any nearby male to elude her obvious toils and focus on the more refreshing and innocent of her gender.
    I cannot help thinking, though, that they all have been lulled into the calm before the storm. That the juvenile dirty tricks going on are camouflaging some serious mischief that is brewing.
    So I prowl the perimeter, looking for signs of anything amiss. I suffer camera close-ups, and attempted molestations by the herd of blondes. I poke my nose into odd nooks and crannies, and follow any more of those sinister hidden passages I can find.
    I begin to find secrets to follow, such as Crawford Buchanan’s odd special entrée to ringmistress Beth Marble’s office.
    I whisk right in with him, knowing that the ladies always have a welcome mat out for a suave and continental guy like me. They are suckers for a kiss on the hand and I am a past master at that art, having spent years studying Tantric grooming, so I am as versatile with my tongue as Mr. Mick Jagger or Mr. Gene Simmons of KISS. And you know what those dudes are. International rock stars.
    Life is so unfair! I could have given them both a run for their groupies and their millions if only I had been born a lot taller, with access to a semi-thorough body-Wax job.
    But I ankle over to Miss Beth Marble and make with the ankle rub, which soon has her purring.
    “What a disgusting alley cat,” my pal Crawford comments.
    A mistake. When push comes to shove, many a lady would take a cat over a mere man anytime. And why not? We are genteel but sheer steel under our satin topcoats. We are discreet. We can keep a secret, or dozens of them. Mum’s the word. We will never grow mustaches suddenly. We have all the attributes of a fur coat without the angst of politically incorrectly offing other creatures, plus a nice baritone purr much like certain sensual aids advertised for big money in the back of Cosmopolitan magazine. Our company and affection are free. We keep their feet warm. We do not ask for custody of the children, or the car. We are invariably neat. We never miss the toilet unless we have a serious point to make. We are always willing to eat out.
    What is not to love?
    I feel the tendons in Miss Marble’s heels tighten at Buchanan’s slur.
    “He is harmless,” she says.
    Erroneously. That is what I love about little dolls. They are so sure they know what is what. So what would they do without me knowing better?
    “Anyway,” the Crawf goes on, sitting so carelessly in the chair opposite her desk that even I hear something on his person scratch leather.
    I cringe in tune with Miss Marble’s entire frame. It is not her leather chair, merely a loaner for the length of the show, but she takes responsibility for all that occurs at the Teen Queen Castle. Boy, is she in trouble!
    I murmur sympathy under her desk and resume massaging her ankles. Let the Crawf do his worst (and he has plenty of that). No one does ankles better than Midnight Louie!
    “Anyway, what?” she asks.
    I stiffen. She is starting to rebel. Any fool or feline could see that. Not the Crawf.
    “I have kept the unsettling events here off the air,” he whines on. “That gives me access to the tape recordings, as we agreed.”
    “We agreed that you would not release them before the end of the show.”
    “Right. But... things have changed. I need something lively to keep my exclusive coverage syndicated. Gossip. Cat fights. Dirty tricks. I want the last batch.”
    “Mr. Buchanan.” She makes the title and name sound even more despicable than I could manage with my most dismissive spit and hiss. “I cannot say I understand your influence with the producers, but ultimately I am responsible for the ethical operation of this program. We are halfway through, only a week to go. Î submit that you can wait.”
    She stands, forcing me to jump aside to preserve my second most valuable appendage. If she has forgotten my presence she is one miffed little doll!
    I leap upon her desk, fangs bared, backing her up. She strokes my back and, urn, upright member, which is fluffed out like a radiator brush, should anyone alive still remember that useful tool.
    “You are upsetting the cat,” she tells Pukecannon. “Whatever hold you have on the producers, the show is almost done now and I no longer need to kowtow to your demands. You already have extorted far more scoops than any of the legitimate media. You will