by Fin J. Ross
'Cripes! Two months and you haven't figured out anything yet. Glad I wasn't in a POW camp with you! You'd still be thinking about getting out six months after armistice was declared. Let me tell you in the last joint, they all called me Houdini, coz there's nothing I can't escape from,' Raffles boasts.
Something doesn't ring true to me. 'So how come you didn't escape from the last place you were in?' I ask.
'I did. I did! I got almost all the way home and then thought, d'oh, the deuxjambs aren't going to be there to feed me, so what's the point.'
'So what did you do? Did you go back?'
'Hell no. Why would I go back when I was so desperate to get out of there? Actually, and I'm a bit embarrassed to say so, but while I was sitting on the side of the road just minding my own business and thinking about what to do, up rolls a deuxjamb all dressed in green, grabs me in a net, shoves me in a cage and carts me off to the AFAQS. And if I'd thought AlCATraz was bad, well the AFAQS was worse. I'm shoved into this tiny little dark cage, barely enough room to turn around and I'm surrounded by all these feral feelis who'd sooner spit at you than give you the nod.'
'Ohh, so you were in AlCATraz too? We were talking about that before, it sounds terrible,' Maharani says.
'Yes, just awful,' Raffles agrees, 'but, as I said, not as bad as the AFAQS'.
I confess I'm a bit bewildered. 'What's the AFAQS?'
'D'oh, it's the Abandoned Feelis and Quiffos Shelter of course.'
'Oh, of course,' I nod like I should have known that.
Zsa Zsa pipes up. 'So what happened then?'
'Well I was there for a day or two and I'd just figured out how to blow the joint. I had it all planned, when suddenly my deuxjambs turn up and bail me out.'
'But how did they know you were there?' I ask.
'I dunno. Maybe it was the device that was secretly implanted in my neck a couple of years ago. They thought I didn't know it was there, but I knew I wasn't paranoid when the greencoats waved their telephone over me and it beeped. Clearly my deuxjambs like to keep track of my movements.'
'Hmm, you're not the first feeli I've come across who thinks they've had something implanted? This sounds like a conspiracy to me,' the Colonel says in a low thoughtful voice.
'Anyway, the one good thing is that at least my deuxjambs know that AlCATraz isn't escape proof. So I guess that's why they've brought me here this time,' Raffles says. 'But I'm sure I'll be able to figure out a way out in a day or two.'
Suddenly Rabbit interrupts. 'Psst - okay whose deuxjambs drive a dark blue sedan?' he calls out.
'Not mine. Not mine. Mine neither,' a chorus of voices rings out.
'Oh, oh must be someone coming to look then. Okay everyone, assume pussano positions, quick,' Rabbit advises.
'What's happening?' I ask. I obviously still have some protocol to learn.
'Just sit and look happy and appealing because if they like the joint, we might get to meet someone new before long,' Rocky whispers.
'Oh, okay,' I say obligingly as I wander back up the ramp and start pronkledonking my bed.
'Maybe, when they're gone, we can get back to our drama lesson,' Zsa Zsa says.
'Nah, it must be about time for tai chi, isn't it, Mars?' Rocky asks.
'Yes, we could if you like,' Mars replies.
I get to thinking about our earlier conversation and how Maharani said that everyone has a talent to share. My mind starts to race. Talent?
I could um… no, maybe… nah, they'd just laugh, um… oh I know, I could… no. Oh cripes. I don't have a talent, there's nothing I do well. Except eat, maybe. I could teach them how to scoff your food so quick that you always get a second helping. No, maybe not. They'd just make fun of me.
I start to panic. What if they ask me what I'm gonna teach? What'll I do? Do I just admit that I don't have any talent? I start to break out in a sweat. I lick my paw and wipe behind my ear, more to make myself look busy than from any sense of vanity.
I hear footsteps and Miss Steph's now-familiar voice.
'Oh yes, it's very comfortable, and as you can see they're all very happy,' she explains as they approach Zsa Zsa's cage.
'Oh look darling, isn't she a beautiful girl, so elegant and self-assured,' a male deuxjamb says.
'Oh yes, she's not unlike our girl,' says the female deuxjamb. They linger a bit longer in front of Zsa Zsa's gate and then glance in at me.
'Oh look, what a fatty,' the strange she-deuxjamb squeals.
'Yes, she is,' says Miss Steph. 'She just came in this morning so I'm still getting to know her. Her name's Megsy, but I'm going to call her Fudgepuddle, because that's just what she looks like: a big puddle of fudge.'
Oh the ignominy of it all.
I turn to face them, plonk myself down, raise one leg and start licking my ooti. That's about what I think of them. They seem to get the message and keep going.
The talented Miss Fudgepuddle
As I'm sitting here taking in my surroundings, I start to feel sorry for the Russian Blue opposite. Nobody talks to her and she just keeps pacing and flinging herself around her pen. I still want to know what it is she's doing. I stand up and have a good stretch, arching my back like the Harbour Bridge and then saunter down the ramp and jump to the floor.
'Hey. Psst,' I try to attract her attention. I wave my arms around and stretch up and rattle the gate. She finally stops pacing and looks over at me.
'Nadia Comaneci?' I say. She shakes her head. Hmm, so obviously not a gymnast. 'Katarina Witt?'
'Nyet,' she replies.
'Hmm, so not an ice skater either.' I ponder a moment. 'Anna Pavlova?'
Her head flings up and a smile beams across her face as she nods. 'Da, da, Pavlova,' she nods animatedly and bats her paws together.
'Ah. So like Swan Lake, Nutcracker, Tchaikovsky?'
She starts to get really excited now and it seems I've found a way to communicate with her. She performs some snazzy move like an arabesque or pirouette or whatever you call it and finishes with her tail high in the air. I give her a clap and she curtsies for me.
'Spaseebo balshoye,' she says. I give her a squizzical. 'Spaseebo balshoye,' she repeats.
'Oh, I get it, you're with the Bolshoi Ballet.' I'm quite proud of myself for figuring that out. But my pride is short lived.
'I think you'll find, Juno,' the Colonel says, in what promises to be a patronising correction, 'that she's saying thankyou very much. I believe balshoye means very much.'
'Oh.'
'Vy gavareeteh pa ru-sky?' She asks, but I realise she's addressing the Colonel not me.
'Nyet. Pozhaluista. Ya ploha gavaru pa Ruski,' the Colonel answers.
I'm impressed, but then I remember his military background. Maybe he was a spy, a double agent even. But he quickly shatters my illusions.
'Sorry, but that's as much Russian as I know: no, please, and my Russian is bad,' the Colonel confesses.
The grey sits there looking confused and expectant like she wants to talk some more. I squint up at the card on her pen and can just make out her name.
'Leonora?' She nods excitedly, so I point to my chest and introduce myself. 'Juno,' and I point to her 'Leonora'. She nods and points to herself, 'Lara', and then points to me 'Fu…udgepuddle?'
'No, nyet; don't call me that, please don't call me that. It's Juno,' I emphasise. She nods and smiles in agreement.
'Hello Lara, I'm Christobel, but you can call me Zsa Zsa.' Lara nods and repeats 'Zsa Zsa; da Zsa Zsa.' Lara performs another curtsy-thing and indicates to us to copy.
'I think she's trying to give us a lesson, Zsa Zsa.'
'It would seem so,' Zsa Zsa replies.
I attempt to copy Lara's move and find myself off balance and flopping onto my side. Lara titters at me. Obviously comedy is comedy in any language. But I could have told her that ballet's really not my thing. I mean, you've got to be skinny but strong at the same time for that and something tells me I'm never gonna fit into either of those categories.
'I think I'm getting the hang of this,' Zsa Zsa comments, 'it's a bit tricky though because there really isn't enough room in here'. Suddenly I hear a bang on the other side of the wall right beside me. 'Oh darn, I've broken a nail.'
Now I'm aware of rustling and scratching noises; it sounds like someone having an argument with a newspaper.
'What's going on?' I ask.
'Rocky is making sure he gets noticed,' Zsa Zsa says.
'Gets noticed by whom?'
'By Miss Steph of course.'
'But what's he doing and why does he want to be noticed?'
'He seems to figure that if he makes a real mess with his kackapod, spreading it all over the place, that she'll spend more time in there with him and pay more attention to him,' Zsa Zsa explains.
'Sort of a negative move for a positive result isn't it?'
'Yeah, but so far it seems to work. She'll be in there for 15 or 20 minutes every morning berating him for being such a grot, but all the while she's patting him, stroking him, dopping heads and all.'
That's not so stupid then, I figure. Maybe I should try that myself. Besides, I haven't even checked out my kackapod yet.
I amble to the back of the pen and step into the blue plastic tray. I shuffle around in the grey pellets and then notice the white paper lining the bottom. Without being too obvious that I'm copying Rocky's idea, I start to fiddle with it, quietly.
I paw the pellets into one corner and then get my paw under another corner and lift it up, stepping onto the overlap to make a fold. Then I lift the other corner and quietly fold that too. I slide my back foot forward and curl a section of the paper up and sort of flop on it and then with my left elbow I scrunch the paper a bit. I get a folded bit between my front paws and stand up on my hind legs and bat it and fold it again, sort of like I'm trying to catch a flupperty but with my feet still on the other end of the paper. I stomp on the bit still in the kackapod and make a twisty movement as I fold it over the edge.
Then I accidentally put my foot on the side of the tray and it tips up, sending me unceremoniously onto my face with my ooti in the air. The tray flops back again but half the pellets are spread all over the floor and the paper wafts to the front of my pen.
'What are you doing?' Maharani asks.
'Huh?' I respond while trying to compose myself. 'Just playing, that's all.'
'So what's with the wimby?'
'Wimby? What wimby?'
'The paper wimby you just made,' she says pointing beside me.
I look at the mess I've just made and still can't figure out what she's going on about. 'What do you mean?' I ask blankly.
'You've just turned that bit of paper into a perfect wimby, from this angle it looks like maybe a salmon or trout.'
I change my position a bit so I'm looking from the same angle. She's right; it does look like a wimby, just like a much bigger version of the ones that swim around in the big glass at home. I shrug.
'That's really very clever,' Maharani says. 'You actually made something out of paper. I've only ever seen that sort of thing once before; but where? What is it?
'Oh, I know what it is,' she says, pointing at my wimby in excitement. 'It's, um, okinawa, no, organza, um no, salami; no, what do they call it? You know, the Japanese thing when they fold up paper. You should know Red or Mars.'
'We should remind you, Maharani, that we're Siamese, not Japanese, and there's a big, big difference,' Red and Mars say.
'Yeah, yeah, sorry. But don't you know what I mean?'
'Origami, we do believe.'
'Yes, yes, that's it. You should see what Juno's made. She's so clever. It's a really neat wimby; it looks just like a real one, and she just whipped it up out of her kackapod paper. It didn't take long, did it Juno? I'd love to learn how to do that, will you show me how?'
I start to puff my chest out and make a sweeping gesture with my head, sort of like a bow. So, I've made a wimby out of kackapod paper! Maybe I've got a talent after all. Quite accidentally.
But, uh-oh, can I do it again, let alone show someone else how to do it? Doubtful, and now I can't even try another one 'cos I haven't got any more paper.
'I've never given instructions before, Maharani,' I say, as if that's the only problem I have. 'But we can try. Grab your paper and I'll see if I can teach you how.'
I just hope to hell I can recall some of the moves and folds.
'I can't now, my paper's all wet. I'll have to wait until Miss Steph gives me another kackapod.'
'Oh, foop,' I say. Just when I'm all enthusiastic about something. Typical.
'We shouldn't have to wait too long; she'll be in with dinner soon,' Maharani says. I lick my lips at the mention of food.
'So what do we get for dinner?'
'Hmm, could be tinned delicacies, or mince, or queekee-fowl. What day is it?'
'Friday, Maharani.'
'Tuna-wimby then, it's tuna night. My favourite.'
Now I'm really starting to salivate. I flick my tongue out to collect the drool. Maybe if Miss Steph sees my masterpiece, she'll give me a second helping. Tit for tat, Tuna for Juno, give me some more, I'll be over the moono, I sing in my head. This place keeps getting better.
I just wish there was more paper around though. I'm keen to see if I can make something else. I'm still thinking that thought when something hits me lightly on the head.
I look down and see what looks like a paper floomee. I look all around trying to figure where it's come from.
'Did you get that Fudgie?' It's Raffles' squeaky voice.
'Yes thanks, right on the head. How did you-'
'My fuddy taught me. I make them at home all the time. Just a tip though, the paper the deuxjambs use in their kackapod room isn't any good. It's too floppy. You need nice crisp paper like this or they won't hold their shape. I had to aim that pretty carefully too to get it through the wire.'
I pick up the floomee and flick it through the wire in the gate. It flies gracefully across the aisle and straight into Lara's pen. She in turn picks it up, studies it for a moment and throws it towards Zsa Zsa. Before long it has made its way to the Colonel after a zigzag flight path with several landings and take-offs. I hear some rustling.
'I think a couple of minor modifications here, just tipping the nose down and altering the tail a bit, will make this fly all the better, young Raffles.'
I can't see what the Colonel's doing from here, but it sounds like he knows what he's talking about.
Well, at least I thought he did.
'Oops,' he says, 'looks like I might have overdone it.'
'What're we gonna do now?' Rabbit asks. 'I can't reach it. What about you Humbug, can you reach?'
I push my face right up to the wire of my gate and try to peer sideways down the building. I can just see a black and white paw sticking out of a pen further down and opposite. He's through the wire up to his armpit but he still can't reach the floomee. His face is also squashed into the wire, making him look really weird.
'Nah, can't get it, Colonel. What are we gonna do? Miss Steph's gonna be here any minute,' Humbug says.
'I don't know. Just try to look innocent, nonchalant, when she comes in. Maybe she'll think those deuxjambs dropped it,' the Colonel advises.
'That's silly, Colonel. How many deuxjambs do you know that walk around with paper floomees in their pockets,' Humbug says sarcatically.
'You may be right. But don't you think she'll think it's more obvious than the alternative?'
'Huh? Oh, yeah I guess so. Tell me how to look nonchalant.'
'Pussano, Humbug; just try a bit of pussano instead.'
Meanwhile, I take another look at my origami wimby and fiddle a bit to improve the fins.
'Hey you had better do something in your kackapod, or s
he mightn't change it,' Maharani suggests.
'Oh yeah,' I agree. I pace to the tray and scratch around a bit before squatting. 'Do you mind not watching?'
'Oh, sure,' says Maharani turning 'it's not like I haven't got better things to do'.
With that, Beethoven suddenly gives the signal so I quickly cover my zilly with some pellets and make my way up to the top shelf to assume pussano position. But…
My attention is totally diverted by a tiny queekee perched in the wire of my condo. I drop to a crouch and pop my head out the window. I'll sneak up on it. I flop into the feeliwalk. It doesn't even move. It just sits there, staring at me. Either it's blind, stupid or very quick. I stretch a paw out and still it doesn't move.
I surreptitiously slide along the feeliwalk, rolling onto my side as I go but never taking my eyes off it. I slowly raise my paw up behind my head. I'm virtually within striking distance. I'm like a stealth bomber zeroing in on its target. But I'm stuck; suddenly I can't move. My claw's stuck in the carpety stuff and the bloody queekee's still sitting there. It just looks at me and chirps.
Why do these things keep happening to me?
Humph, can't be bothered anyway. Why exert myself when there's tuna for dinner?
'What are you doing, Fudgepuddle?'
I nearly jump out of my skin, which at least has the desired effect of freeing my claw. I didn't even hear her sneaking up behind me.
'What a mess, what have you been doing?' Miss Steph says as she approaches. I try to see past her to nod at the floor to show off my masterpiece. I think she'll be pretty impressed; it might even be worth a second helping of dinner.
She moves aside a little and I see a flattened, squashed wimby. It's dead; she's stepped on it. I let out an audible tut and shake my head.
'Whatsa matter girl?' she asks.
What do you bloody think? I put all that effort in and you've just gone and stepped on it; squashed the life out of it.
'What a mess mucker,' she says, just to rub it in. She bends down and grabs the paper, scrunching it into a tight ball. I look over her shoulder at Maharani and Lara who are both shaking their heads in disgust.
'So much for that,' I call out.
