Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

I explore my new base of operations while she snoozes in the bedroom. Not a bad pad; I discover several choice corners that are not really corners, more like angles. This appeals to my sense of humor, not to mention self-defense. And the patio outside the living room windows is on the second floor, making it a handy perch for tidbits of an avian nature.

Yes, Midnight Louie could do all right in this joint, and nowhere do I sniff the trail of a yammering human creature who is wet behind the ears and in other more unmentionable places and does not have the inbred good manners or sense to shut up and use its tongue for basic hygiene.

My own natural demands, I admit, compel me to explore the roaster pan, which Miss Temple has wisely tucked behind the guest bathroom door. This is a cheesy aluminum affair—talk about “Tin Pan Alley”—full up with the worst excuse for sand that I have ever seen—dusty, coarse nuggets of no earthly value whatsoever. When I give them an exploratory paw, a cloud of dust clogs my sinuses and cakes my freshly groomed top coat.

I am even more chagrined when I realize for what purpose this pathetic dish of gravel is intended. I am, however, a good citizen and no litterbug except when forced to it, so I avail myself of the opportunity to mark my new digs.

Later, I slip into the bedroom (I am very good at this sort of maneuver also, and have always been an “upstairs man”) and allow my little doll the honor of a warm body to curl up next to. This is not an unpleasant arrangement, especially when she wakes up and makes little manipulations with my ears, my favorite egregious zone. I cannot keep the ladies off me, to tell the truth, and have never been so crude as to complain about this turn of events.

But then, all of a sudden-like, Miss Temple Barr sits bolt upright, as if she has just taken a stroll down Nightmare Alley.

“Oh, kitty!” she says.

I cringe, which is hard to detect in the dark. No one calls me “kitty” except tourists; even though some twenty million of them mill around per year, I see as little of them as possible. Miss Temple Barr is not fully house-trained as yet, so I forgive her gaffe.

“Oh, kitty,” she coos again, like I say. "What a brilliant idea! You are going to help me defuse this murder thing!"

Now she is talking!