Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

I know that I see pure red as the reality of my situation impresses itself upon me; mostly it is the grille that is impressed upon my body hair as I turn frantically in the cramped space. I also express my opinion in words not fit for the company of a lady, but then Miss Temple Barr’s entrapment scheme is less than ladylike.

“Hey, don’t growl, Louie. It will not be so bad.”

My portable cell is swooped aloft to the accompaniment of Miss Temple's anguishedOoof” Then I am swaying helplessly beside her as she trots into the condominium, pauses to grab her tote bag and car keys, and vamooses out the door. Some say that ocean voyages produce seasickness. I say that bouncing about like a captive clapper in a molded plastic swinging bell is worse.

At last I am slung onto the sun-warmed front seat of her Geo Storm. I feel like last week’s refuse being heaved into the belly of the trash truck. Miss Temple Barr hops behind the wheel and starts the car. Moments later the air-conditioner grilles spurt a stream of hot air directly into my big green peepers.

I sigh, turn my posterior to the door of my cell, and settle onto my stomach, which has now joined me in making soft, intermittent growls of protest. The aqua Storm darts through the early-morning traffic like the winged insect known as a darning needle. It was a knitting needle that iced the book dude, I recall as I contemplate using that weapon on Miss Temple Barr. Is this the thanks I get for solving the ABA murder and getting her fat (what little there is of it; she is more than somewhat petite) out of the fire?

At last the car stops and Miss Temple Barr leaps out. I am extracted in my cage and taken into a low building that smells of disinfectant, indiscretions of a liquid nature and dogs. I cannot believe my nose! I have been returned to Death Row, although the betraying scents seem muted now.

“Oooh, he's a hefty one,” a feminine voice chirps as I am flung atop a counter, case and all. “A real heavyweight."

“Yup," Miss Temple Barr admits with little concern for my feelings and the truth. I am solid, it is true, but that is all muscle and bone.

"What is his name?”

“Midnight Louie.”

“Cute. Is he black all over?”

“I think so. I have not looked everywhere.”

"Then you do not know if he is fixed or not."

“Er... no.”

I have never heard my little doll sounding so uncertain, and a trifle guilty.

"Last name?” the chirpy chick prods.

“His... or mine?”

“Yours is his now.”

"Oh. Barr. But Midnight Louie Barr doesn't sound right.”